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Mrs. Honeysett delivered the next pail to her, and Morvoren passed it along. She longed to do more for the men, more for the lugger, but as the crew tossed flaming ropes overboard, swaying back and forth on the rocking boat, she knew she would only get in the way.

Lifting another bucket toward Poppy, Morvoren stole a glance at the lugger. She couldn’t believe the damage the boat had sustained so swiftly. How was Tristwick to survive the winter?

A few women who were not a part of the assembly line collected the items the men had dropped and carried them to the cellars for safe keeping. As they walked by, Morvoren overheard their conversation.

“Least the nets ’ad been taken out o’ the lugger ’fore,” one woman said.

“But what good be drift nets with no lugger to shoot ’em?” another responded. “The pilchards’ll be long gone ‘’fore any repairs’ll occur.”

More words of fear and dismay passed between them, and Morvoren listened until they moved out of earshot. She glanced around her, accepting another bucket as she noted older women standing by, unable to help with the assembly line as they peered up at the lugger, tears in their eyes.

Across the cove, others stood just outside of their homes, hands over their mouths in dismay, the small faces of their children pressed up against the windows as worry creased their young brows.

Another bucket was passed, then another. The wind died down, and the lightning lessened, the flames aboard the lugger no longer visible.

Finally, Morvoren glanced up at Trevik. Soot covered his weary face, and rainwater dripped from his cap. His brown jacket was soaked through due to the downpour and the waves slipping over the lugger.

“Be there nothin’ else we can do?” she asked Mrs. Honeysett, accepting another pail.

She merely delivered a sorrowful shake of her head. “Pray, dear. That be all we can do.”

Morvoren had never heard the woman so devoid of hope, the knowledge thoroughly crushing her heart.

But if praying was the only thing to be done, then pray, Morvoren would. And she prayed harder than she ever had before.

She prayed for the lugger’s deliverance, for the storm to soften and for the funds to be had for the lugger. She prayed for Trevik’s softened soul and understanding, for Poppy’s broken heart. Then she prayed for her own courage—the courage she needed to leave this family, this community, behind.

Minutes trickled by, and the assembly line ended. A few of the men left the lugger, trudging toward the women with heavy feet and heavy hearts, their faces and clothing soiled from the flames.

“Come,” Mrs. Honeysett said. “There’ll be many injured who be needin’ mendin’. We can see to ’em in’t lofts.”

Poppy followed her mother, but Morvoren remained behind, her eyes fixed on Trevik where he lingered on the dock, his back turned to her as he faced the Pilferer.

He removed his cap, ran both hands through his sopping hair, then dropped his arms limply at his sides.

Morvoren wanted to do nothing more than wrap her arms around his sunken shoulders and tell him that everything would be all right.

Instead, she remained where she was. She didn’t have the right to comfort him. Not anymore. Because to him, she wasn’t anything any longer.

CHAPTER FORTY

Trevik stared at the wreckage before him, the weight of Tristwick’s future upon his shoulders. The lightning had lessened, though the rain still bled from the clouds.

How could this have happened? How could his life have changed so swiftly? One minute he was arguing with Morvoren about Poppy, and the next, he was watching his life go up in flames.

Before long, Gryffyn left the lugger, coming to stand beside Trevik and peering up at the boat.

“What’ll we do, Gryff?” Trevik asked, shaking his head. His hands stung from where he’d gripped the burning rigging.

Gryffyn gripped Trevik’s shoulder. “We wait out the storm,” he said, his deep voice gruff. “Then we assess the damage and recoup when we can.”

“And if we can’t afford the repairs? Or the lugger can’t be fixed for months?”

A long pause preceded Gryffyn’s words. “Then we do what we must to survive. We’ve ’ad worse winters with little to no pilchards at all. We’ll survive again.”

Gryffyn’s words whispered logic to Trevik’s anxious spirit. But then, this winter wasn’t supposed to have been a battle. This winter was supposed to give them time away from their constant struggles, to bless them from the work they’d put in year-round.

“I just don’t see ’ow—”