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In between working at the cellars, helping at Golowduyn, and pitching in with the chores at the Honeysetts’ home, Morvoren still found time to relax, sneaking in a few frigid swims with Poppy and taking walks along the cliffside at every opportunity.

Her freedom with the Honeysetts could not be contested, despite the work she was expected to do. No longer did she have to hide her accent, force a curtsy, or spend her days rotting away in a single room. In Tristwick, she could wear her hair in as simple a manner as she liked. She could walk across the cliffside unchaperoned. And she could admire the sunset every night, watching the fishing lugger float out to sea, white sails tinted purple, blue, or pink as the sun dozed off into the endless waves.

The only thing she wished she could do more of was spend time with the owner of the lugger. Trevik was busy—inordinately so. Fishing all evening, overseeing the processing, mending nets, holding meetings with his crew, taking trips to St. Just, paying the fishing tithe to the vicar, and countless other tasks.

Morvoren saw him throughout the day as he moved about the cellars, his eyes always finding hers across the courtyard. He’d send a small smile her way, then continue with his busy day. They were able to speak more over the evening meal, but as soon as he finished, he was off to board the Pilferer.

Spending so little time with him was really for the better. Leaving Mrs. Honeysett and Poppy would be difficult enough; having a relationship with Trevik would make it near impossible to leave.

One late afternoon, when most of the work had been completed, Poppy was with friends, and Trevik was meeting with Gryffyn about the sale of the extra oil, Morvoren darned stockings with Mrs. Honeysett in a comfortable silence in the sitting room.

She would miss moments like these, being productive but still relaxed, sharing moments with people she’d grown to love, hearing the ocean roaring just outside the door. Leaving would be difficult, but surely wherever she ended up would be just as wonderful—if not a little lonely.

She paused. Lonely? Before, she hadn’t minded being alone, but that was in comparison to being with Uncle. Now, however, the thought of isolation, the thought of never seeing the Honeysetts again, brought an emptiness to her chest she couldn’t begin to understand.

“Somethin’ on your mind, dear?”

Morvoren glanced up from her darning, blinking as she stared at Mrs. Honeysett. She hadn’t realized she’d been scowling until then.

Pulling on a smile, she shook her head. “Just…thinkin’ about the future.”

Mrs. Honeysett looked back down at the brown stocking she mended. “What about it?”

If Morvoren had learned anything in the last couple of weeks, it was that Mrs. Honeysett had a knack for getting a person to speak, no matter the topic.

“Nothing excitin’,” Morvoren responded. She shifted her stocking in her hands to focus on another hole. Standing on them all day long had swiftly worn out the soles and toes of the stocking. “I’m just wonderin’ what I’ll do when I leave.” That familiar hollowness once again filled her chest, but she pushed it aside. “I don’t ’ave much to offer anyone in the way of skills.”

“Ye ought to ’ave more faith in your abilities. Ye can do whate’er ye put your mind to. ’Sides, ye’ve found your talent for cookin’ again, ’aven’t ye?”

Morvoren nodded. Thank heavens for that. After the debacle of the pasties, she was just grateful Mrs. Honeysett had allowed her usage of her kitchen again—though Trevik had teased Morvoren by removing the salt from the kitchen altogether.

She smiled at the thought.

“Ye also know ’ow to sew, read, and write,” Mrs. Honeysett continued. Then she paused, thoughtful. “Ye know, Mrs. Kendricks’ll need more ’elp come winter. Poppy and I ’ave only been workin’ there since May, but ’twill be ’arder for us to travel there so often in poor weather. I do wonder if she might wish to pay for someone to stay there and work a few days at a time instead.”

Morvoren couldn’t deny the appeal of having a steady job at a lighthouse. She’d still have the view of the sea, still be close to the Honeysetts, and best of all, she’d be away from the trade that was so volatile, so uncertain, so…so close to everything that had ruined her life. Working at Golowduyn would be a temporary fix. A way to transition from spending all of her time with the Honeysetts to eventually having no attachment at all. That’s what she wanted, was it not?

“’Appen she does need ye,” Mrs. Honeysett continued, “ye could stay there, earn a better wage, be away from the smell o’ pilchards.” A somber smile stretched across her lips. “Though, we’d miss ye ’ere fiercely.”

The woman’s words were doing nothing to ease the sorrow that was now beginning to fill in the void in Morvoren’s chest. “I could visit,” she offered weakly.

Mrs. Honeysett reached forward, squeezing Morvoren’s hand. “Ye be exactly right. And I’d prefer ye live there than somewhere we’d ne’er see ye again.”

So Mrs. Honeysett thought she’d stay at Golowduyn indefinitely? Morvoren swallowed, squeezing her hand right back, for she couldn’t utter a word.

Mrs. Honeysett smiled. “I’ll speak with Mrs. Kendricks next we go to Golowduyn, then.”

The news should have brought relief to Morvoren, but all it did was weigh heavily on her mind and heart. If the mere thought of leaving made her feel this way—what would the actual departure do to her?

She glanced up as Mrs. Honeysett lowered the stocking she worked on, glancing back and forth around her feet.

“Did ye misplace somethin’?” Morvoren asked.

“I can’t find me sewin’ basket…” She paused, realization dawning in her eyes. “Oh, I left it back at the cellars.”

Morvoren nodded, only remembering then the women sitting together during one of the few breaks they were allotted, sharing a bottle of brandy as they mended spare bits of clothing.

“I’ll fetch it for ye,” she offered, jumping from her seat and setting her own supplies to the side of her.