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They reached the deck, their conversation pausing as they nodded in greeting to Enyon Penna, who walked past them toward the lugger.

“Then what do ye suggest I do?” Trevik asked softly once they were alone again.

“Bring ’er to the gatherin’ on the beach tomorrow,” Gryffyn suggested. “Show ’em ’ow ’armless she be so they forget all about the Cardys’ gossip.”

Trevik hesitated. “I don’t know, Gryff. Bringin’ ’er ’round so many folks, givin’ ’er the chance to lie…Don’t seem smart.”

Gryffyn took a step toward the lugger. “Ye’ve got to make the decision yourself, Trevik. But sometimes, placin’ the truth directly in front o’ people be better than allowin’ their minds to run free with all manner o’ lies.”

Trevik gave a defeated sigh. The man’s logic could not be contested. “Ye be right, I s’pose.”

Gryffyn clasped Trevik’s shoulder with a strong hand. “I always be.”

Trevik shook his head amusedly as Gryffyn laughed at himself, then they walked together to join the others on the Pilferer.

Gryffyn was right. Bringing Miss Hollow before the others would be for the best. Besides, having her in front of a large group would give Trevik just the opportunity to observe her behavior unhindered. Perhaps then he’d be able to discover just what she was up to.

Because no one told lies for no reason, and he was determined to find out hers.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Morvoren clutched onto the cane with her right hand, her knuckles white as Mrs. Honeysett held her other arm.

“We can go as slowly as ye need,” Mrs. Honeysett said, leading her down the pathway to the beach. Poppy walked at Morvoren’s other side. “Just keep to the pace ye wish.”

Morvoren nodded, unable to form a response as she held her breath with each step of her injured foot against the dirt path. The swelling had fully dissipated, but her ankle was still too weak to hold much of her weight.

Mrs. Honeysett continued. “And if the journey be too much for ye, we can bring ye right back ’ome. Ye just say the word.”

As if Morvoren would dare suggest such a thing. The Honeysetts had all been adamant that she attend the evening’s bonfire, though Morvoren had heartily protested. Going out in public with a group of fishermen, all while risking a possible sighting of seiners, could hardly be wise. Even now, she scanned the cliffsides, fearing Uncle watched her from above.

And yet, Mrs. Honeysett had gone so above and beyond in her attempts to ensure Morvoren’s comfort that Morvoren couldn’t refuse. Not only had the woman reassured her that the guest list was small and controlled, but she’d even brought Dr. Kent back to ensure Morvoren’s foot wouldn’t regress because of the short walk to the beach.

“I see no reason for concern if you use the cane and remain off of your foot while upon the beach,” he’d said, then Mrs. Honeysett had sent him off with another pie.

The scent of salt and fish wafted toward Morvoren on the breeze, signaling their approach to the processing cellars. She couldn’t see beyond the towering, stone walls, but she knew what the courtyard within held—hundreds upon hundreds of pilchards.

She’d been forced to tour Uncle’s pilchard palace every year, and the stench exuding from the dead fish was unbearable. So much waste was had from the pilchards they didn’t cure, and the women and children were forced to work atrocious hours. Were Mrs. Honeysett and Poppy forced to do the same?

Being brought up in the lower class herself, Morvoren was not a stranger to the labor required of entire families, no matter the age or trade. She herself had strained alongside Mother and Father as they’d gardened, farmed, and spearfished daily.

But everything she’d seen with fishermen proved the trade took matters one step too far, especially in regard to her own family.

When Uncle moved from Mevagissey to St. Ives, drawing closer to Morvoren and her parents, he’d come with the promise of an easy fortune for Father. In the beginning, Father had maintained his growing wealth with humility, but soon enough, he’d become obsessed with the trade, investing in more seining companies and ignoring his own family. But what had that obsession given him apart from an early grave, a wife dead from sorrow, and a daughter in the hands of a despotic uncle?

With an embittered heart, Morvoren passed the cellars and walked down the cobbled pathway that led straight to the beach. It wasn’t a large stretch of sand, but with the departing tide, there was finally enough space for the gathering.

“Thank ’eavens,” Poppy breathed. “That seaweed’s finally gone out with the tide.” She turned to Morvoren. “There be so much of it ’fore that we couldn’t even reach the water.”

“And the smell was awful,” Mrs. Honeysett added.

Slowly, they progressed until the cobblestone merged with sand, and the beach became fully visible. To the north, the edge of the cliff piled out in a gradual layering of thick, brown stones stacked atop each other like dark, rich pound cakes. A group of people gathered on the sand nearby, circling round a modest fire with smiles and greetings for those slowly converging on the beach.

Morvoren swiftly searched the faces of those in attendance. She didn’t recognize any of them, and the humble dress on each of the fishermen and their families told her just what she needed to know—there were no seiners present.

Poppy ran forward to join a few girls her age, but Mrs. Honeysett remained by Morvoren’s side, leading her forward through the sand until they reached the group.

“Evenin’, Mabyn,” the first woman greeted. Her curious gaze fell instantly on Morvoren.