And Oliver would do well to drop in for a visit with him later and beg him to stop it already. He enjoyed Tas-gwyn’s tales as much as the next person, but on the heels of Johnnie’s death, everyone was jumping at every shadow. Or wail of the wind in the caves. Or flutter of white on the shores of Samson. New tales of a White Lady haunting the cliffs had sprung up, and it was frightening enough that no one had dared venture to the island to collect that wisp of white, until Wearne had gone.

To his uncle he gave a nod. “Mrs. Dawe said she’d be making some fairings today. I imagine she’ll send some around for you and Aunt Prue.”

Uncle Mark grinned around his pipe. “Good woman, that Margie Dawe. We wouldn’t object.”

They said their farewells, and Oliver let himself out of the vicarage, into the bright June sunshine. That, aided by the joyful shouts of children nearby, eclipsed the worry at least momentarily and brought a smile to his face. He followed the sounds of laughter and small voices to the National School on the opposite side of St. Nicholas’s, where the children must have been enjoying their lunch hour—and no doubt wishing the third term would end.

He leaned against the stone fence around the schoolyard, watching the enthusiastic game of cricket underway. He’d played many a game there himself, a decade or two ago. Always with Enyon at his side. Always with Casek on the opposing team. Always keenly aware of the fact that Morgan wasn’t there at the local school with him but was home with a tutor. His mother, ever conscious of the “tarnish” she’d brought to the Tremayne name, had wanted to keep Oliver at home for his schooling too, saying the island’s state-run school would do him no favors.

How glad he was that his father had prevailed. He’d claimed it far more important that Oliver have a place among his neighbors—and he’d been right.

“I said stop it.” The voice cut through the ongoing game from somewhere nearby, though Oliver couldn’t see the owner. It sounded like one of the Grimsby boys, though he couldn’t be sure which one without seeing them. There were three, only a year between each, and when they ran in a line, one had the strangest feeling one was seeing the same person progressing through time.

“Aw, come on, Joseph. You’re not scared, are you?” That answered the question of who the first speaker had been—Joseph was the middle step of the Grimsby stairs. And the mocking voice was his best friend, Perry Hill, if Oliver wasn’t mistaken.

“Lay off him, Perry. No one wants to go down there. Not now. Not after Johnnie.”