“Well, I got one,” said Ben. “And it said that Sam’s coming home!”

Mercy still looked unconvinced, but he could see that she wanted to believe him.

“When?” she asked.

“Soon. A few days maybe.” Ben’s smile was so wide now it hurt.

“All right,” said Mercy. “I’ll speak to Albert. Ask him to keep an eye out for you until Sam gets back.”

Albert was Albert Skinner, a local police constable and an acquaintance of Mercy’s. And while Ben would rather not have anyone keep an eye out for him, least of all a policeman, he could see it was the only way Mercy would allow him to stay on the Sparrowhawk alone.

“Thanks,” he had said. “I’ll be sure to tell him if I need anything.”

And with that Mercy had been satisfied. She had left Great Barton that morning on the train, and now Ben was on his way to the Sparrowhawk.

Ben reached the edge of the meadow, ducked through a gap in the hedge onto the towpath, ran past the allotments and the bench near the railway bridge where ex-soldiers liked to drink and play cards, round a bend in the canal past a lonely cottage—and there she was, the Sparrowhawk. Not as bright as when Nathan had left, in need of a scrub and a lick of paint, but to Ben as welcoming as the most solid of houses.

He whistled for Elsie, who bounced toward him then stopped in her tracks, baring her teeth.

“What’s got into you, you daft dog? We’re home!”

Elsie growled, black fur hackling.

“Suit yourself.” Ben shrugged. “I’m going on board.”

He jumped onto the aft deck, put down his rucksack, pulled the key to the cabin hatch from its front pouch—and paused.

If the hatch stayed closed, he could pretend that behind it everything was as it should be. Nathan painting in the workshop, Sam reading on his berth. “Here’s trouble,” Nathan would say as Ben jumped down into the cabin, and then he would push a pile of neglected schoolbooks across the fold-down table. “Lessons aren’t going to learn themselves, lad.”

Ben leaned his head against the hatch and blinked hard. With a quiet thud and a click of claws, Elsie landed beside him on the deck. Ben gave himself a shake.

“You’re right,” he said, and put the key in the lock. “Let’s go in.”

He knew as soon as he pushed back the hatch that something was wrong. There was too much light in the cabin. It was only ever that bright if the door to Nathan’s workshop was open—and since Nathan had been gone, though Ben had visited the Sparrowhawk many times, he had only set foot in the workshop once, when the pain of missing Nathan had been so overwhelming that he had closed the door and never opened it again.

Ben’s mind raced.