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Morvoren smiled her gratitude as Mrs. Honeysett rested it on the table near the bed, then moved to stoke the fire next. “Are ye ’ungry?”

Only then did Morvoren become acutely aware of the empty chasm that was her stomach. “Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll be eatin’ soon, if ye can wait.” She straightened from the hearth, a few flames slipping up around the remaining logs. “And ’ow be your memory?”

Morvoren drew in a steadying breath. How she hated lying to this woman. “I still be strugglin’, but…” She pulled out the paper from her shawl. “I recognized the bag your son brought in yesterday as mine. I was lookin’ through it just now and found this.” She lifted the paper. “It be an address in Sennen.”

Mrs. Honeysett’s brow rose, accepting the paper Morvoren offered. “So that be where you’re from, then?”

“I be thinkin’ so.” Better to have them believe Sennen was her home than to ever make a connection to St. Ives. “I do know that be where me friends live, the Prouts.”

Mrs. Honeysett’s eyes remained on the paper, her lips remaining in a straight line. Surely if she believed Morvoren’s tale, she’d be more thrilled. “They must know ye be missin’, then,” she said softly.

Morvoren nodded, unable to say anything else to earn the woman’s trust, for she’d already forfeited such a luxury. Now she could only pray the woman would play along.

“Ye be certain?” Mrs. Honeysett pressed. She extended the scrap of paper back to Morvoren. “I want to be sure ye’ll be taken care of.”

Morvoren pulled her shawl closer to her person, Mrs. Honeysett’s words chipping away at her conscience. “Yes, we be the dearest of friends, see. They’ll take care of I, to be certain.”

In truth, Morvoren hadn’t heard a word from Zennor Prout since she’d married Mr. Prout more than a year before in St. Ives. Zennor was the daughter of a seining gentleman, and she and Morvoren had bonded over their shared dislike of the whole trade.

On the day of her wedding, Zennor had offered Morvoren a way out of her life with Uncle. “Come and stay with us in Sennen,” Zennor had said, scribbling the address on a piece of paper before thrusting it in Morvoren’s hands. “My Mr. Prout has a lovely apothecary shop. You can work there with us, earn a fine enough income, perhaps find a man of your own to marry. Anything to escape that uncle of yours.”

The offer had been in the back of Morvoren’s mind for months, and she’d kept the paper as a symbol—a reminder of her one chance for freedom. Only when Uncle presented his latest plans for Morvoren did she finally attempt to flee to the one friend she’d ever had. Sennen wouldn’t be her final destination, rather a stopping point for her to find another life in a place she could be free from her memories and free from Uncle.

Now she could only hope Zennor still considered Morvoren a friend.

“Well,” Mrs. Honeysett said, interrupting her thoughts, “they must be worried sick. Ye must wish to send a letter to ’em. Let ’em know ye be safe.”

Morvoren nodded. “I think that’d be for the best.” If only to provide Zennor with a bit of notice. Morvoren had been in too great a rush to have sent a letter to her before leaving Uncle’s. “And I’ll take the coach to Sennen when me foot be better.” She paused, tipping her head to the side to appear curious. “If ye can just tell me when the coach departs.”

Mrs. Honeysett grimaced, taking Morvoren’s bait. “I fear the coach only travels to Sennen on Mondays.”

Morvoren did her best to appear disappointed, though she didn’t have to try too hard, her frustration still lingering from the day before.

“But ne’er mind, dear. Ye know I already offered for ye to stay with us ’til ye be well.”

“Ye be certain I’m not puttin’ ye out?”

“Not at all. It be the least we can do.” Mrs. Honeysett patted Morvoren’s leg softly. “I just be glad ye remembered where ye were goin’. ’Twill ’elp folks ’round ’ere end their talkin’.”

She gave a small laugh, but Morvoren narrowed her eyes. “What do ye mean?”

“Oh, they just be sayin’ ye be from the sea,” Mrs. Honeysett clarified with another flippant laugh.

Morvoren gave a half-smile. Would that she could be a mermaid. She wouldn’t mind living in the sea, away from the troubles of this world.

“Now,” Mrs. Honeysett said, heading toward the door, “Poppy and I’ll be back soon from the cellars, then we can eat luncheon together. I’ve made a bit o’ cherry tarts for after, too.”

Morvoren nodded. “Thank ye, Mrs. Honeysett. For everythin’.”

Mrs. Honeysett nodded, sending a warm wink to Morvoren before leaving her alone once more.

Morvoren released a satisfied sigh. That had turned out better than she could have hoped. Now all she needed to do was survive a week in the Honeysetts’ home, pray no one connected her name to Uncle’s, and attempt to dodge Mr. Honeysett’s questionings.

That should be easy enough.

For now, however, she simply wanted to remove whoever’s chemise she’d been wearing and dress in her own clothing.