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Of course. Morvoren should have recognized the thickset shoulders.

“The whole family be mad,” Poppy continued. “She ne’er married, see, raised Jowan on ’er own. ’Is father died at sea durin’ a storm ’fore she even discovered she be with child. ’Course ’er father, ol’ Edern, believed the storm to be brought on by a sea-maid.” She huffed out her cheeks. “Ridiculous, the lot of ’em. I’d love to believe in mermaids as much as they, but I’d ne’er condemn an innocent woman like they be doin’.”

A rustle of excitement moved at the front of the group, and the girls faced forward as they heard the call. “They be comin’!”

Morvoren strained her neck back and forth, searching for any sign of the lugger, but the mist hung heavily atop the sea, the grey water disappearing into the endless, impenetrable fog.

“It be straight ahead,” Poppy said.

Morvoren narrowed her eyes, focusing where she was told, then finally, the lugger’s sails crawled through the mist, emerging past the white clouds like a creature in the night.

Her heart thrummed at the sight, though she knew it wasn’t the lugger but who was on the lugger that caused such a reaction.

She had only seen Mr. Honey—Trevik a few times since they’d returned from Sennen two days before. She’d thought they’d parted that night on good terms, but since then, he’d fallen silent, and she couldn’t help but feel like her presence was the reason why. After all, she recalled his hesitance when sharing their given names. Did he not wish to be friends with her, then?

Surely seeing her there that morning, working at the cellars alongside his mother and sister, he’d be pleased. Surely then he would know she truly meant to earn her stay.

A few of the children cheered nearby, and Morvoren returned her attention to the present, watching the young boys and girls jumping up and down with excitement.

How could they be so cheerful so early in the morning, especially with the day they had before them? They certainly weren’t as thin as the children who’d worked in Uncle’s pilchard palace, but their happiness would not last through the day. No one’s good spirits could under such strain.

She focused again on the lugger drawing ever closer to the land, the men aboard the Pilferer just now beginning to stand out over the dark bulwark. Their shadowy figures roved across the deck, a few of the men raising their arms in greeting to those awaiting their arrival near the small harbor.

As they approached, Morvoren heard cheers from above, and she glanced up to the hovels on the cliffside as families gathered outside their doors, raising their hands to the lugger. Did they do this every morning?

She made to face the sea again, but a movement at the highest cliffside caught her eye. A man with a top hat and walking stick perched just above the Honeysetts’ home, standing as still as the statues in Uncle’s gardens. She couldn’t make out his features from the distance, but his clothing told her he was no fisherman.

She nudged Poppy softly with her elbow, her stomach churning. “Do ye know that man?”

Poppy glanced up, then shrugged. “Don’t believe so. ’E could be a seiner ’ere to observe the drifters’ work.”

A seiner, perhaps one who worked for Uncle?

Poppy didn’t seem concerned at all as she turned back to watch the lugger drawing ever closer, but Morvoren’s apprehension did not ease, especially when she looked back to the cliffside to find the man had seemingly vanished into thin air.

Would he come down to meet the drifters, spying Morvoren in the process?

She pulled her shawl over her thin bonnet to further shield her face, then forced herself to think logically. There was no possibility the man could have spotted Morvoren in the size of the crowd brimming near the harbor. More than likely, he was an unrelated seiner, just as Poppy had suggested.

Drawing in a deep, calming breath, she waited as the lugger made its final stretch into the cove. The Honeysetts would protect her. They’d promised, after all. But then, would Trevik help her despite his obvious reticence with her presence in his home?

When the lugger finally docked, a few men left the ship, greeting their wives and children with smiles and kisses before jumping straight back to work.

“Those be the gurries,” Poppy explained to Morvoren, pointing out the large, two-handled boxes the men carried back to the lugger. “They can ’old more than a thousand pilchards in each.”

Morvoren’s brow rose, watching as the gurries were deposited on the deck of the lugger, then filled with piles and piles of fish. Herring gulls landed on the bulwark, calling out their squeaking cries, anxious to partake in the fishermen’s haul.

Morvoren had expected Trevik to oversee the job, but he was right in the center, working alongside his men, his cap low over his head. The shoulders of his jacket were a darker brown than the rest of the fabric, no doubt due to the rain that had fallen the night before.

She stood a little taller, hoping to catch his eye, but he was too focused on his task.

As the first gurry was filled, two men held the long handles at either side, toting the box toward the land as the gulls took to circling right above them.

As much as Morvoren disapproved of the trade, she couldn’t help but admire the work ethic of these men, shooting nets all through the night and still having the energy to lug their catch to shore. At least they worked as hard as their wives and children. Did they ever take a moment to rest?

“Are ye comin’, Morvoren?”

Morvoren started at Poppy’s voice from somewhere behind her, only then realizing that the crowd now migrated toward the cellars.