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Trevik didn’t look back to see if he was followed.

He didn’t have time—time for his argument with Morvoren, time for Poppy’s heartache, time for his own heartache. He needed to get to the docks to see if his lugger—their one link to surviving that winter—was going up in flames.

Lightning streaked across the sky, breaking off in crooked lines, like branches of a tree alight with fire. Thunder clapped in succession, and rain blew in sheets with the gusting wind. Still, he ran forward, holding up his hand to ward off the rain pelting his eyes.

“Trevik!”

The shout came from up ahead, and he peered through the rain as Gryffyn ran toward him, waving his arms in the air. “It be the lugger!”

Trevik cursed, catching up to him. “’Ow bad?”

“The mainmast be struck,” Gryffyn said between panting breaths. He turned back around, racing down the mud-caked pathway with Trevik. “It still be standin’, but I don’t know for ’ow much longer.”

With no mainmast, the lugger could still sail—albeit much slower. Still, if anything happened to the other two masts…their winter, their future, would hang precariously in the balance.

As they passed the cellars, more men joined them—including Enyon Penna and the Cardys—their mothers, wives, and sisters straggling behind with a few children in tow. The ocean now covered the thin stretch of beach with crushing waves as dark as the clouds above, reaching close to their feet as they moved down the cobblestones.

“Collect the buckets!” Trevik shouted behind him. “Start an assembly line to douse the fire!”

The group splintered into two, most of the women sprinting to the cellars to collect the buckets. Trevik forged ahead with Gryffyn and the Cardys, the Roskelleys joining alongside them just as they rounded the ridge and the dock came into view.

Trevik’s heart wrenched at the sight. Black smoke plumed up from the lugger despite the pouring rain, and fire lapped at the rigging. Just as Gryffyn had said, the mainmast teetered dangerously upright, a large crack visible midway down.

“That mainmast needs securin’,” he shouted to his men as they raced forward. “It can’t withstand—”

A large gust of wind blasted into him, stealing the words from his lips as salt water sprayed across his face. His footsteps slowed as he was no longer able to see in what direction he ran.

Wiping the moisture from his eyes, he attempted to speak again, pushing back against the wind, but a great cracking split through the air, and his words ended. The lugger tossed back and forth, wave after wave lunging at the bulwark of the Pilferer until finally, the half-attached mainmast teetered back too far.

“No!” Trevik shouted.

But it was too late. Neither his word nor his will could stop the post as it fell, crashing into the mizzenmast and over the hull. The rigging snapped and cracked as it broke from mast to mast.

As if the weight of the structure had fallen directly upon his chest, Trevik skittered to a stop, his legs nearly giving way as he could no longer draw in a breath. He knew he needed to move forward, to secure the rest of the lugger, but his feet refused to move.

They couldn’t sail with a single mast, nor could they fish without sailing. They could hardly afford the repairs now required, either. So how was he to keep all of Tristwick fed through the winter without a lugger?

He squeezed his eyes closed. The time for worrying was gone. They still had one more mast standing, and he would not allow that to fall, too.

Forcing his feet to move, Trevik propelled forward, his crew right behind him. “We ’ave to stop the blaze,” he commanded. “Cut down the riggin’, toss anythin’ overboard that might catch fire.”

His men nodded at once, and together, they forged ahead, waves and wind and rain lashing upon them and the Pilferer as they finally boarded the lugger.

Trevik had known a split second of worry over his crew not listening to his commands. After all, the trust between them had been severed. But to his relief, they worked in unison, all in want of the same thing—to ensure the livelihood of the Pilferer.

The Roskelleys went straight to work at the foremast, removing the rigging and tossing it overboard to douse the flames in a flash. Trevik and Gryffyn ran about the fallen masts, cutting flaming ropes and flinging them into the waves as well, giving no care to the blazes that burned their hands.

The others removed the valuables from off of the deck—belongings, blankets, smaller hand nets, and spare leads—tossing them down to the assembly line that had formed across the beach.

Soon enough, buckets of water were brought toward the lugger next, each member of Tristwick performing their duty to ensure the security of their future.

Trevik’s fingers burned, his lungs weak from the smoke. Soot fell against him as he worked, but he wouldn’t stop. Doing so would only allow his thoughts to stray to the woman at the center of the assembly line. The woman who worked alongside as if one of them.

The woman who had broken his heart.

* * *

Morvoren quickly swiped at the rain streaming down her face, then accepted the next bucket of water before heaving it to Poppy, who retrieved it with swollen, red eyes. Morvoren couldn’t decipher if she cried still for the lieutenant or for the Pilferer now.