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“I do wonder ’ow ye can ’ave such an opinion when ye ’ave no memory,” he said.

“Trevik,” Mrs. Honeysett softly warned.

Morvoren’s cheeks warmed. “Per’aps one ne’er loses one’s memory about what be breakin’ the law and what ain’t.”

“Exactly right, dear,” Mrs. Honeysett said, patting Morvoren’s hand.

Mr. Honeysett shifted his gaze from his mother back to Morvoren. “So it be drifters you’re against, then.”

She needed to tread softly moving forward. Mrs. Honeysett may have encouraged her to speak her mind, but these people were still drifters.

“I be against anyone who ignores the needs of others and only focuses on their own gain,” she said.

“And ye think the drifters be more like that than the seiners?” He scoffed. “That sea water must’ve addled your brain more than we thought.”

Morvoren scowled at the man’s audacity.

“That be enough, Trevik,” Mrs. Honeysett stated firmly.

Mr. Honeysett lowered his eyes, seeming to take a calming breath. Morvoren should’ve done the same, but instead, she took the opportunity to speak again. “All I be sayin’ is that laws be set up for a reason.”

Mr. Honeysett shook his head, downing another gulp of his brandy before his voice lowered. “The law was set forth for the sake o’ seiners, so they catch their fish ’fore we drifters can. But tell me this, Miss ’Ollow.” He faced her, his brown eyes focused intently. “Do it make sense for us to follow that law when seiners don’t even fish in Tristwick?”

Morvoren clamped her mouth shut, Uncle’s words floating through her mind.

“The drifters always disrupt the shoals,” he’d grumbled every autumn. “They’re the worst sort of men.”

But she wouldn’t repeat them. She wasn’t on his side, nor was she on Mr. Honeysett’s. In her opinion, they both had inexcusable flaws.

Mr. Honeysett, however, took her silence as victory and leaned back in his chair with a raise of his chin. “One day, the men o’ this country’ll see that we drifters bring far more benefit to society as a whole than seiners e’er could.”

Her blood boiled at his confidence, his pride mirroring Uncle’s so greatly, she could no longer hold her tongue. “I can think of one very clear reason for ye not to fish near the shore.” He watched her expectantly. “And it be the very reason I be sittin’ here at your table with an injured foot.”

His look of pride vanished, his eyes clouding over, and satisfaction swelled within Morvoren’s chest. Oh, but she did enjoy winning an argument.

“Well,” Mrs. Honeysett said, standing from the table, “I think it be time for ’em cherry tarts.”

Morvoren glanced up at the woman, only then noting the look of discomfort on her brow.

All too swiftly, Morvoren’s own pride disappeared. She’d allowed herself to become wrapped up too greatly in the argument—an argument she shouldn’t even really care enough about to win.

“Would ye like a tart, Morvoren?” Mrs. Honeysett asked.

Overcome with a sudden exhaustion, Morvoren pushed herself away from the table. “Would ye mind very much if I return to me room? I feel a bit palchy.”

Mrs. Honeysett was at her side at once. “’Course, dear. Let me ’elp ye.”

Together, the two inched down the short corridor, Mrs. Honeysett depositing Morvoren on her bed before leaving the room with the door closed behind her.

Morvoren bowed her head, rubbing her palms against her eyes before hushed voices found their way toward her room.

“I don’t like when ye talk o’ them seinin’ companies, Trevik,” Mrs. Honeysett said. “They make ye all riled up.”

“’Course they do, Mother,” he returned. “’Ow could they not after what ’appened to Father.”

Morvoren looked toward the door, as if doing so might allow her to better hear their words. What had happened to his father? And in what way were the seiners involved?

“I know. But ye oughtn’t allow that to affect ’ow ye treat that poor woman.”