She laughed into the frigid mist, her brightly painted lips parted in delight. Water clung to her long black eyelashes, making her appear even more like a bonny mermaid intent on seducing mortal men. Her mirth exploded into a long battle cry worthy of a Valkyrie that seemed to call to something long forgotten inside Sinclair.
He was no stranger to the waters around Frest. He often spent the lengthy summer days on his boat trying to bring in a good catch that would not only feed his siblings but bring in some money. He would bob along, carried up and down by the swells, propelled by either the wind or the slow put-put of his boat’s motor. As the hours slipped away, he would become part of the North Sea, like a piece of driftwood carried along.
Miss Van Etten wasnot.
She skimmed along the surface, bursting through the waves, momentarily breaking them to her will. It was not just her machine that was marvelous; it was the woman herself. She remained in a state of constant vigilance like that of a great skua on the lookout for fish to snatch. Her eyes flicked over the waters, reading the way the current flowed. Without slacking her speed, she adroitly avoided skerries and shoals. The waters around the isles could be difficult to navigate, but despite being a newcomer, Miss Van Etten charged through them like a longtime resident. She showed no hesitation even as the rusting German dreadnoughts towered above them. She skirted through the monstruous vessels and their smaller brethren as if they were just part of a course set up for her pleasure.
The smaller German destroyers were in better repair than their larger ships, which matched the rumors Sinclair had heard about the massive vessels facing near mutiny and the sailors refusing most commands, including the orders meant to maintain the dreadnoughts. As Miss Van Etten and Sinclair sped along like a hornet among giants, he caught glimpses of wan faces staring down at him. Some looked envious. Some seemed enraged. But all had the stark hollowness of men worn down by a war they no longer wished to fight yet were now endless prisoners of.
“It’s spooky, isn’t it?” Miss Van Etten called over the roar of her motor. “Like a scene from a ghost story or a set from a scary film.”
The sky was a dull gray, the light low. The moored ships, operating with skeleton crews, did seem like empty hulks in a misty landscape—the last remnants of a terrible, bloody conflict and of a fleet, built at great expense, meant to challenge and defeat the might of the British Empire in one great Wagnerian Götterdämmerung at sea. Their failure to find that climactic battle had left the war to be mostly contested in the muck on land.
“It does send a chill up one’s spine,” Sinclair agreed.
They popped out from the maze of the defeated fleet and sped straight toward a British cruiser. The red ensign stood out boldly against the monochromatic sky. The figures on board bustled about their duties. The vessel’s guns were visible and clearly readied for any sudden movement by the interned Germans. Even the hull seemed to shine, the entire vessel bristling with life and action. Sinclair shielded his left eye as he stared up at the ship. He had grown accustomed to seeing these powerful boats inhabiting the water around his home. Although the war had brought hardship to so many, it had meant a degree of prosperity for Frest.
“Will you miss them when they’re gone?” Once again, Miss Van Etten surprised Sinclair with her astuteness. The woman missed little, whether on the water, over the land, or in the soul.
“I won’t mind seeing the last of the Germans, but it’ll be strange not to see a fleet on the horizon anymore. A lot of folks will feel their absence.”
“They brought you all plenty of customers.” Miss Van Etten somehow managed to make her voice soft despite the need to project it over the thunder of the speedboat’s engine.
“And a bit of the world to Orkney,” Sinclair added as he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Flotta. “They even built a movie theater on one of the naval bases. There were boxing matches that ten thousand would attend.”
“How would you feel about a plan that would continue to attract visitors, ones flush with cash and eager to spend it?”
Sinclair stiffened as a foreboding tingle slipped through his veins. Echoes of drunken guffaws followed, harbingers of memories best forgotten. Even out in the sea with the cool wind and spray slapping his cheeks, Sinclair felt a suffocating heat bearing down upon him.
Firmly, he forced the demons back in the recesses where they properly belonged. Miss Van Etten wasnotthe earl.
“What exactly are you thinking, Miss Van Etten?” Sinclair chose his words carefully, keeping his tone neutral.
“Your cousin Astrid inspired the idea, actually.”
“Astrid?” Sinclair had seen her briefly yesterday, and shehadseemed curiously pleased. But he hadn’t paid it much attention. Astrid was always good at keeping secrets.
“Yep. I ran into her and her bird-watchers—annoying fellows but with deep pockets.”
“Are you thinking about attracting more of them?” Sinclair asked, trying not to sound as dubious as he felt. Although Astrid had managed to collect a surprising number of clients over the years—even during the war—there were more convenient places in Scotland, including more populated Orcadian isles, for avian viewing.
“Not just them but all sorts of adventurers.”
Adventurers.The word reverberated through him like the haunting call of a calloo. More snide laughter whispered along the edges of his consciousness, demanding an entrance he did not wish to give. A gunshot. More pops. The cry of a wounded animal.
“Sportsmen.” He had no idea how he managed not to spit out the word.
“Perhaps,” Miss Van Etten said lightly, and her casual response landed upon his heart with a giant painful thud as he recalled other blithe, cavalier grins and the acrid smell of gunpowder.
“What about the sheep?” This time the bitterness soaked into his tone.
Miss Van Etten sent him a curious look before she glanced back at the waters before them. “Well, they might be an issue with increased traffic on the island, but I doubt it will interfere with any husbandry or crops,” Miss Van Etten said.
“What type of hunting are you considering?” Sinclair demanded.
“Hunting?” Miss Van Etten yanked on the wheel to avoid a fishing trawler making its way out to sea and clearly not used to such a swiftboat cutting across the Flow. “Is that what you think I’ve been talking about? I have no desire to have people traipsing about shooting things. I’ve never had much fondness for the sound of guns. Especially not now.”
Some relief trickled through Sinclair, but he didn’t allow his body to relax. Perhaps Miss Van Etten did not mean to turn Hamarray into a hunting estate, but he was still not fond of rich, self-entitled “outdoor enthusiasts” traipsing all over the connected isles. Their definition ofsportingand his own had never matched.
