“Uncle David?”
Both Rose and Mr.Sinclair froze as they glanced up to the opening in the floor above them. A young man about the age of nineteen stared down at them with an expression torn between befuddlement and worry.
“Yes, Young Thomas?” Mr.Craigie asked as he moved to stand within the adolescent’s line of sight.
“The mill is moving too fast. I think the wind’s picked up. A storm might be blowing in.”
Mr.Craigie let out a mild oath as he dashed outside to adjust the sails. Knowing that the wooden parts could break or even catch on fire if they spun too quickly, Rose stepped back to allow Thomas to clamber down the ladder to assist his uncle. Unfortunately, that allowed Mr.Sinclair to shepherd her out of the building ... except now itwasactually dangerous to be inside it.
While Mr.Craigie and Thomas pulled on the brake rope and folded back the canvas sails, Mr.Sinclair shut the door of the windmill. He positioned himself on the outside like a sentry. It was clear that the stubborn man wasn’t about to allow her back inside.
Rats.
As much as she hadn’t wanted to suspect the islanders, theydidappear to be hiding something. Spying on them was making Rose more uncomfortable than she’d anticipated. It had been easier in London, where everyone simply expected each other to have ulterior motives. Here, she felt more dishonest, but she had no choice except to press on.
Even if she couldn’t explore more of the windmill today, that didn’t mean her investigation was entirely thwarted. Young Thomas might be a bit easier to pry information from than the adults. Rose watched as he finished helping his uncle, and then she intercepted him before he could join Mr.Sinclair at the door.
“I’m Miss Van Etten,” Rose said. “I’m in the process of buying Muckle Skaill.”
The youth’s pale cheeks pinkened as he tugged on his flatcap in the way of a greeting. “Pleased to meet you, miss.”
Rose caught her first good look at his face, and her heart lurched at the hollowness in his blue-green eyes. She knew that look. It still stalked her nightmares. French. British. Belgian. American. It didn’t matter. This boy had spent time in the trenches, and it haunted him.
Rose almost backed away, to leave the fellow to his well-earned peace. But she didn’t. After all, if she failed in her mission, then there would be no amity for any of them.
“Do you help your uncle run the mill?” Rose quietly asked.
Thomas’s shy gaze didn’t quite meet hers. “I am until his son gets back home from the Royal Navy.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“He pays me well, and we need the money with Mum helping to take care of my other auntie—Widow Craigie—and Da losing his leg at the Somme.”
Rose had been doing jitney work in Paris then, and she’d gone to the station to meet trainfuls of the wounded from that battle. Volunteers would divide up the patients according to the severity and type of injuries and instruct the ambulance drivers where to take them. Those had been long, endless days that would always blur in Rose’s mind. But she couldn’t think of the past now. Shehadto focus on her present mission.
“You seem to know a lot about the operation of the windmill for just pitching in.” Flattery was always the best way to secure information.
“I helped Uncle during the war before I turned eighteen and signed up. There was a lot of work back then.”
“Oh?” Rose said, trying to sound mildly intrigued but not too interested. It wasn’t easy with her heart pounding. Had the mill been so busy because they were supplying flour and information to German U-boats?
“The navy had a standing order,” Young Thomas explained, “and then we also needed—”
“Young Thomas!” Mr.Sinclair’s voice boomed as he walked over and slung his arm around the slighter man’s shoulders. “I meant to talk to you at the sheep count yesterday but never had the chance to properly welcome you home.”
“Thank you, Sinclair.” Thomas’s face had now flushed with something that suspiciously looked like guilt. Whathadhe been about to reveal to her, and why did Mr.Sinclair appear to be at the center of all the secrets? Was the Viking the brains of the spy operations? He certainly seemed clever enough, but Rose had trouble imagining the honest man being a traitor. It felt wrong to her and maybe even oddly disappointing.
“Your mum must be over the moon having you back. Is she keeping you well stocked in bannocks?” Mr.Sinclair asked the young man.
Thomas laughed and rubbed his stomach. “Aye. It’ll make it hard to leave in July when herring season starts.”
“But the sea beckons you?” Rose asked.
Thomas made a face and shook his head. “I’ve always preferred the land to the ocean, especially now that Auntie’s a widow and needs my help on her croft too. But we can’t do without the coin I make on the herring boats.”
Emotion ripped through Rose as she thought about the horrors the nineteen-year-old had faced in the mud of war. He was barely out of childhood. He’d more than earned the right to stay home as long as he wanted instead of shipping out once again. But what choice did he have? Frest and Hamarray hardly offered much in the way of jobs. Just as the male islanders were returning from war to work the land, the sailors who’d provided a market for their produce were headed home.
“But it is only for a few months,” Thomas added with forced brightness. “I’ll be back home before I know it.”
