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Poppy gave a flippant shrug. “Put the creature out of its misery and move on, I s’pose.”

Morvoren cringed, though she drew a deep breath. She’d skinned, gutted, and eaten fish long before living with Uncle. But somewhere along the way, she’d begun to associate fish with the breaking apart of her family. After all, blaming something tangible was easier to do than casting blame on Father’s greed.

But many years had passed since then, and she’d eaten her fair share of fish over the years. Perhaps it was time to move on, to overcome such childhood fears.

Pushing all inhibitions aside, she plunged her hands into the pile of pilchards and pulled up a handful, their slippery scales and fins sliding along her fingertips. She held them out from her person, then walked toward the pile and gently lowered them upon the salt, releasing a slow breath as she arranged them more neatly across the layer of salt.

“There ye go,” Poppy said with an encouraging smile.

Despite the cold, slimy feel between her fingers and the briny smell of the pilchards, Morvoren returned Poppy’s smile.

As the morning progressed, rather than dwelling on the continuous looks from those around her—and the scowls from Katherine Cardy—Morvoren focused instead on how many pilchards she could grasp in a handful.

Before long, just as Poppy said, the smell around her also didn’t seem as pungent, the salt taking the edge off, as well as the steady wind slipping over the walls around the courtyard.

There was something else she noticed as the morning wore on, as well. Something she’d not anticipated. In fact, it was the last thing she’d expected.

The women, even some of the children, seemed to be actually enjoying themselves as they worked together. At Uncle’s cellars, they’d been miserable—red eyes, hollow cheekbones, sluggish movements, silent lips.

Here, however, though their faces were pink from exertion, the children giggled as they scared away the gulls from the fish, and the women watched on with amusement as they caught up with their neighbors and friends, occasionally breaking out in song together.

Morvoren couldn’t understand it. They were working, after all, and for what—a pittance of money? Or was it enough for them to know they were preparing for the future, all while enjoying the time with their family and friends?

Her questions were answered soon enough, though, as Poppy’s jolly nature and never-ending optimism brightened the time they spent together.

“Nearly there,” she said as she and Morvoren reached into the final gurry brought in by the fishermen.

“What’s to be done after the gurries be emptied?” Morvoren asked, stretching her aching back from side to side as she and Poppy piled the salt higher with the other women.

Poppy brushed her hands free of the salt, motioning to the upper end of the pilchard wall. “The fish that were bulked a few weeks ago’ll move to processin’. First pressin’, then preservin’ in barrels.”

“And do they go on to be sold, then? Abroad, per’aps?”

Poppy wiped a strand of hair from her brow with the back of her hand. “No. Father and Trevik did try that, but they received next to nothin’ after hirin’ a captain and a ship to deliver their catch.”

A fisherman motivated by money? How insipid. Morvoren shifted her gaze so Poppy wouldn’t see her knowing look. “So they sell them ’round St. Just instead?”

Poppy nodded. “They be sold for a fraction o’ the price to those who be less fortunate—miners and the like. ’Fore that, though, most o’ the barrels and the oil be shared amongst the fishermen and their families.”

Morvoren paused. “Ye just…share the fish free of charge?”

Poppy gave her a funny look. “Well, yes. We all work for it, so ’tis only fair. ’Sides, we need somethin’ to survive durin’ the winter months. We’ll be catchin’ herrin’ next, but January and February make for miserable months without no pilchards to feast on.”

Morvoren’s attention slipped. How could she not have considered that they simply shared their fish? Of course, she was conditioned to believe a fisherman’s actions ran on greed. But here, something else drove them forward—their livelihood, their welfare, the fact that they all worked hard because they knew they’d be given what was fair. Was that why they all seemed more than happy to be there in the cellars, handling pilchards all day long?

But surely not all the money was spent so responsibly. “What happens to the money earned from sellin’ to those ’round St. Just? Does the rest go straight to the fishermen?”

“No, Trevik splits it ’tween those who work ’ere and the men on the lugger.” She leaned closer to Morvoren, her voice lowered. “Though ’e gives more to them families who need a bit of ’elp, usually from ’is own pocket.”

Morvoren stifled a groan. That was not what she’d wanted to hear. She scrambled to keep hold of her prejudice, to fight the truth breaking down the walls around her heart, but the more Poppy spoke, the more the earth crumbled to sand beneath her defenses.

“’E’s always been generous, me brother,” Poppy said. “Though, mind, ’e did ’ave a mischievous streak as a boy—sneakin’ food, trespassin’, findin’ ways ’round deliverin’ the fishin’ tithes to the vicar.”

Morvoren couldn’t help but smile at the image her words evoked. “I s’pose no one can be perfect.”

“Indeed,” Poppy agreed, reaching for more fish. “But ’e more ’an made up for it all since. Do ye know, when me father died, Trevik could ’ave sold everythin’—the lugger, the nets, the cellars. We would’ve been set up nicely for years. But ’e chose to keep the business so the fishermen in Tristwick could work.”

Morvoren didn’t know what to say. She had nothing to say, for everything she thought would just reveal how unkind and ungenerous she had been in judging Trevik and his actions before she’d really come to know him.