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The world here turned so differently, so confusingly, that she felt as if she were spinning out of control—everything she’d ever known, her beliefs about greedy fishermen, unraveling.

“Are ye certain he chose not to sell ’cause the purchasers were seiners?” she guessed, piling another handful of fish onto the salt.

Poppy frowned. “’Eavens, no. The seiners don’t want no small lugger or cellar. ’Sides, they can’t fish ’ere since we don’t ’ave a big enough shore for their great seinin’ nets.”

Morvoren chewed on her lower lip. “Well surely the men ’ere could’ve found work with seiners ’round about.”

“They could ’ave,” Poppy agreed. “Some folks be fine workin’ for both drifters and seiners. But ’round Tristwick, ’specially after what me family ’as dealt with…” She wrinkled her nose. “’Tisn’t worth sullyin’ our souls workin’ for the devil.”

The breath rushed from Morvoren’s chest, and her whole face burned. Sullying their souls. Would Poppy and her family be thinking the very same about working alongside a seiner’s niece? What had caused their poor opinion of seiners, something in regard to the elder Mr. Honeysett?

She turned toward Poppy, wondering if she could ask the very question, but movement near the doorway of the cellars drew her attention away, and her heart jumped.

Gryffyn Bosanko walked across the courtyard first, carrying the front end of the large net rolled together in thick layers. Behind him, Jowan Cardy held up the middle, then finally, with the heavy netting propped up against his shoulder, Trevik entered the cellars.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The strain of the hemp weighing down upon the fishermen was evident to Morvoren by their focused gazes and red faces. Trevik no longer wore his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his kerchief loosened from around his neck.

He kept his gaze ahead of him as the men maneuvered to the back of the cellars, toward the stairs leading up to the lofts. Morvoren kept her eyes on him until he disappeared up the steps.

She didn’t need to make eye contact with the man to know in an instant that everything Poppy had said about him was true. How could Morvoren have been so foolish? Trevik was not greedy, nor was he selfish. He helped everyone around him every chance he received, his crew, his family—even Morvoren. And how had she repaid him? She’d tried to make trouble with those in Tristwick, criticized his fishing ability, coerced his family into taking a fruitless trek to Sennen.

And yet, even as remorse filled her, she could not forget her past.

Things were different in Tristwick. Trevik was different. But she couldn’t forget what Father had done nor how Uncle had treated her. People changed and greed grew steadily, no matter a person’s best intentions, but Morvoren would not be abandoned again. She could admire the Honeysetts and all of Tristwick for what they did, but this, life in the cellars, in Tristwick…it wasn’t for her. She wished for something more, something safer. Somewhere she didn’t have to worry about ever being hurt again.

“Morvoren, did ye ’ear I?”

Morvoren started, facing Poppy, who watched her expectantly. “We be ’eaded to do the pressin’ now,” she explained.

Morvoren nodded, setting aside her worrisome thoughts and following Poppy to the opposite, far end of the wall of pilchards. Mrs. Honeysett met them there with a bottle of brandy, allowing a few nips from Morvoren before sending the bottle around to the other women.

For the next hour, Morvoren did her best to set aside her thoughts of Trevik by following Poppy’s instructions. Carefully, she and Poppy packed the dried pilchards into the barrels in a tidy rose pattern, their tails facing the center. When the pilchards reached the brim, Poppy placed a buckler—a false lid smaller than the barrel—over the fish, then Morvoren helped her heave a heavy, granite boulder on top.

Moments later, a trickling of liquid sounded, and Morvoren shifted to the side to see the oil flowing slowly down makeshift, wooden gutters.

“That be the train pit,” Poppy explained. “That oil’ll be used for our lamps, though Trevik likes to use it for water-proofin’ the deck o’ the lugger. ’E claims it ’elps, but I just think it makes it stink.”

This was yet another way these fishermen were unlike Uncle—using every bit of the fish they could.

At Poppy’s mention of Trevik, Morvoren glanced once more to the stairs, though Trevik, again, did not appear. What was he doing up there in the lofts? And why was he taking so long to come down?

“Ready to fill the next barrel?” Poppy asked. “We’ll come back to this one when all ’em fish are nice and pressed. Then we can fit more inside.”

Morvoren nodded, shuffling to the side where a new barrel awaited its pilchards. As they worked, she did her best to listen to Poppy’s chatter about the new shellwork she was piecing together, though Morvoren’s eyes constantly strayed to the stairs.

She looked so frequently, in fact, that when brown boots finally did appear at the top step, her mind did not register the sight, and she looked back with an odd jolt of her stomach.

Trevik came down first, followed closely by the other men, who laughed about something Mr. Bosanko had said. Trevik’s lips remained in a straight line, though, his brow pursed as if he was deep in thought.

“Trevik!”

Morvoren jolted as Poppy shouted his name and waved him closer. He swiveled, his lips curving when he caught sight of his sister, but his smile slipped again when his gaze turned to Morvoren.

He glanced to the door of the cellars, as if contemplating leaving, but he bade farewell to Gryffyn and Jowan instead and made for Morvoren.

No, he made for Poppy, not Morvoren.