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Trevik blanched. The very notion, the very idea…“I told ye already that she ain’t be nothin’ o’ the sort to I.”

But Edern had already turned away, leaving the lugger behind.

Trevik stared after him, shaking his head before he turned to the other three.

“Ain’t nothin’ I say ’is gonna change that man’s mind,” he said with a helpless shrug.

Jowan didn’t respond, merely going back to work filling the gurries full of fish, but the Roskelleys remained.

“We don’t like what this be doin’ to the crew,” Hedrek said. “We know Miss ’Ollow ain’t no sea-maid, but ye be right. Edern won’t be convinced otherwise.”

“Then what can I do?” Trevik asked.

“Ain’t nothin’ ye can do except prove ’im wrong ’bout the two of ye, I s’pose.”

Prove Edern wrong. That would be easy enough, as Trevik didn’t have feelings for Morvoren anyway, beyond that of compassion for her past and an inconsequential racing of his heart whenever she smiled up at him.

But he could stamp out such reactions in a moment, for he would not risk his crew breaking apart over a supposed sea-maid.

* * *

The stench of pilchards had been sneaking past Morvoren’s nose since they’d passed the cellars on their way to the docks, but she’d managed to ward off the smell by breathing mostly through her mouth.

Now, however, breathing through her mouth only seemed to make the smell worse as she entered the processing cellars of Tristwick. How was she to endure such a stink over the next few weeks, or even months?

But then, she knew how. She would simply dwell on the fact that smelling pilchards in the cellars here was better than smelling pilchards on Uncle or Mr. Foss.

“Ye’ll get used to the stench soon,” Poppy said with a reassuring smile.

Morvoren’s cheeks warmed. She thought she’d been hiding her disgust better.

As the group poured into the cellars, filing to their respective locations, the area before her cleared, and Morvoren was provided with a better view.

The cellars, which were not set in the ground as the name suggested, were made up of a central, cobblestoned courtyard with no roof. At the back of the space, a set of rickety stairs led up to the lofts that surrounded the entire courtyard, the bottom of the lofts open to provide shelter for the workers when needed.

When Morvoren had toured Uncle’s pilchard palace, she’d kept her gaze down and learned as little as possible, just to drive him mad. It had worked, as she’d been banned from his library for a fortnight. Of course, she’d just stolen the books anyway, hiding them in a loose board beneath her bed.

What she had remembered at his cellars were the piles of waste, the oil of fish running in streams down the cobblestones, and women comforting their crying children who begged to leave for home.

Tristwick’s cellars, however, were nothing like she’d imagined, nothing like she was used to. The grounds weren’t nearly as large as Uncle’s, and the wooden walls of the lofts were splintered and faded.

But instead of piles of fish parts, near the center of the courtyard stood a wall of pilchards about waist-high and four feet wide. Layers of whole fish were stacked between more layers of thick salt, the wall remaining upright with a wider bottom and a smaller top layer.

The men with the gurries moved forward, depositing the fish near the women who were already working to extend the wall of pilchards.

“Me ’usband, rest ’is soul, spent years savin’ to build this,” Mrs. Honeysett said beside her. “Men ’round St. Just donated buildin’ materials in exchange for fish in the winter. ’Tisn’t much to look at, but we be proud o’ the work we do ’ere.” She gave Morvoren a smile, then turned to Poppy. “Will ye show ’er ’round, Popp? Get ’er to work at the bulkin’ first?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mrs. Honeysett joined a group of women near the back of the cellars where strung-up nets dripped with moisture, but Morvoren followed Poppy instead to the gurries being unloaded.

Poppy reached in and retrieved a large handful, carrying them to the bottom, salt-covered layer of the wall. When she noted Morvoren standing and staring, she coaxed her closer. “Do ye know what to do?” she asked.

Morvoren shook her head, standing to the side as another woman passed her with an impatient glance and a handful of fish. The process seemed fairly straightforward, but her stomach churned as the pilchards’ ogling eyes stared up at her, wide and undaunted.

“Ye just reach in,” Poppy said, doing the very same as she spoke, “take a big ol’ ’andful, then put ’em in a single layer on the salt. That’ll dry ’em of any extra moisture in just a few weeks’ time.”

“And…if some of them still be alive?”