“Anomalies could be born at any time.” But there weren’t that many deer left on Samson. The Lord Proprietor had tried to build a park there for them after he moved the last of the residents off it fifty years before, but even the deer hadn’t wanted to live on the inhospitable scrap of land. They’d tried to wade to Tresco during low tide, and some of them had succeeded.

Enyon pursed his lips. “Definitely doesn’t move like a bird. Or a deer.”

“No. It doesn’t.” But it wasn’t moving like a person, either, to be a tourist or a local strolling about—not to mention that dusk was falling and no one would be over there at this time of day. Probably. “I saw a scrap of something white fluttering in nearly the same spot the other day. Rubbish, I assumed. Could be that, tangled on driftwood.”

“I’d have thought someone would have cleaned it up by now.” Enyon shifted, darted a glance at him. “You know what it looks like. . . .”

A ghost—something Enyon had claimed countless times over the years when they spotted something on a distant island shore that they couldn’t identify. And countless times over the years, the other lads had teased him about his rich imagination.

This time, Oliver just hummed and kept watching the slip of white. As he’d visited his parishioners over the last two days, more than one of the old-timers had been muttering about “Gibson’s tales coming to life.” And the tales his mother’s father favored were always the ones with specters. Or pirates. Or, better still, both.

Oliver braced one elbow on the opposite hand and tapped a finger to his cheek. “What did you say kept you awake Tuesday night?”

“Ah.” Enyon cleared his throat. “Noises. Coming from the direction of Piper’s Hole—not that I went to investigate. Didn’t sound like voices, nor like an animal, and it wasn’t a windy night. I know it was probably just youngsters causing a ruckus, but . . . but, well, it was enough to keep me awake. Especially worrying if it was youngsters, after . . .”

After Johnnie. “Have you heard them again?”

His friend shook his head. “But I was gone Thursday night, and last night I was dead to the world after getting home. Why?”

“I don’t know. Noises in the caves, something odd on Samson . . . Just makes me wonder if—”

“If all the old tales are true and it’s a lady in white over there? Singing a haunted lullaby to her lost babe in the caves?”

Oliver laughed again. “I was going to say that someone was up to something. Maybe someone decided to revive our long history of smuggling.”

“Hmph.” Enyon made a face. “You’re always so boring.”