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“Your foot’ll ne’er be ’ealed otherwise, dear,” Mrs. Honeysett said.

“That be what I told ’er,” Mr. Honeysett added.

From her place on the bench, Morvoren could still see him in the kitchen, conversing with his mother about the cellars and the best way to utilize the new miners and maidens who’d agreed to work for them that winter.

He leaned against the table, his feet crossed at the end and arms folded with his shirtsleeves rolled up. She traced the ridges in his forearms, their presence coming as no surprise to her after he’d carried her across the entirety of the cove just a couple days before.

Since then, the two of them had had no opportunity to speak, but that could only be for the better. Morvoren had no wish to draw any closer to the Honeysetts than she already had.

She peered down at Poppy, who sat on the floor near the fire in the sitting room, a slab of wood and a pile of seashells before her.

“What are ye doin’ with those, Poppy?” she asked.

Poppy didn’t look up as she responded. “Just a bit o’ shellwork.” She ran her finger across the various shapes, sizes, and colors of shells spread out before her, ultimately selecting a small, white scallop shell. “I be tryin’ to create a wave’s crest.”

She replaced the scallop shell she’d chosen with an even smaller option, then moved it to the piece of wood. Rearranging the shells a bit more, she soon formulated the beginnings of a wave across the bottom of the slab.

“That’ll be beautiful,” Morvoren said. “Have ye done others of the like?”

“A bit. But I mostly paste ’em on frames and such.” She placed another shell onto the wood. “I’ve sold a few in town ’fore.”

“Have ye?”

She nodded matter-of-factly. “Most fine folk visitin’ from other counties and London buy ’em and bring ’em ’ome. I think they like feelin’ close to the sea when they leave. It don’t account for much money, but it be a nice way to pass the time.”

Morvoren watched her work in silence for a moment, impressed with her attention to detail with the design. “Ye be quite talented, Poppy.”

Poppy smiled, her freckled cheeks blushing. After a moment, she straightened her hunched-over back and faced Morvoren. “Are ye ready to leave tomorrow, then?”

Morvoren drew a deep breath, responding as she exhaled. “I am. ’Twill be good to see me friend again.”

Although, it had been so long since she’d seen Zennor, Morvoren was beginning to think she was better friends with Mrs. Honeysett and Poppy now.

The thought startled her, bringing a storm of confusion to cloud her mind. She had grown closer to the Honeysetts, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t longing for Sennen. The cove was only a stopping place, of course, just like Tristwick. But reaching there would mean it was one step closer to having the life she wanted.

“We’ll miss ye ‘ere,” Poppy continued, moving back to place another shell near the others.

The sentiment was kind and much appreciated, but surely the girl didn’t mean it. “I be certain ye won’t miss me takin’ o’er your room for so long.”

“Oh, I don’t mind sharin’ a room with me mother, though I be certain she be finished with my stayin’ with ’er. I keep ’er awake ’til all hours talkin’.”

“’Tis a shame we didn’t share a room, then. I don’t mind speakin’ through the night.”

Poppy looked up, her brow furrowed with disappointment. “I wish I would ’ave known such a thing. I spent most nights talkin’ to Mother without realizin’ she already be asleep.”

Morvoren smiled. She didn’t know a great deal about Poppy, but she couldn’t help but admire the girl’s spirited humor and ability to stand up to Mr. Honeysett.

She stole a glance toward the kitchen again, catching Mr. Honeysett’s eyes on her before he swiftly pulled away and responded to his mother.

Morvoren hid another smile, then glanced about the room with a contented sigh. She certainly would miss the charming nature of the Honeysetts’ home. It always felt warm within the walls, despite the bitter, autumn wind whistling against the cold glass of the windows.

She allowed her eyes to continue to travel about the room before they settled on the framed painting of the family she’d seen on her first day out of her room.

“Poppy,” she said softly, “can I ask what happened to your father?”

“’E died,” she responded, her voice lowering just a fraction. “Six years ago now.”

Morvoren had expected as much. But the knowledge that they, too, had lost their father made her heart ache. She could only hope he’d departed in better circumstances than her own father had.