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“Oh, ne’er ye mind. I need to start with dinner soon anyway.”

But Morvoren was already moving toward the door, snatching her shawl from the stand near the doorway. She needed a bit of fresh air to clear her mind. “I don’t mind at all.”

Without waiting for Mrs. Honeysett to protest again, Morvoren slipped from the house and closed the door behind her, breathing in the cold, salty air.

October had finally arrived, bringing with it her brisk, stormy winds. Many people despised the sea during the colder months, but that was when Morvoren thrived. A colder sea meant fewer people dotting the beaches. Furthermore, one could never go wrong with the gorgeous scenery—tempestuous, gray skies, crushing, thunderous waves, and faded cliffsides in muted shades of yellows and browns.

Meandering slowly down the cliffside, Morvoren tried not to focus on what her future held. After all, in Tristwick or away from it, with or without the Honeysetts, she was going to be desperately happier without Uncle and Mr. Foss involved.

“Afternoon, Miss ’Ollow.”

She pulled her focus away from the sea and spotted Gryffyn Bosanko walking toward her, no doubt headed for his home.

She nodded her head in greeting. “Lovely day out,” she said, motioning toward the swelling sea that promised of a storm that evening.

He gave her a look of amusement, tipped his cap, then continued on.

Morvoren had always liked Mr. Bosanko. He seemed a genuinely good man. Trevik seemed to like him, too. In fact, the two of them were more often than not seen together. So where was Trevik?

She reached the cellars shortly after, grateful for the shelter the walls provided as the cold began to slip through her shawl and dress.

She entered the empty courtyard, scanning past the barrels and the wall of pilchards to where a few benches were situated beneath the lofts. There, she finally spotted Mrs. Honeysett’s small basket.

As she walked, her boots thudded against the cobblestone, echoing softly around the space until she retrieved the basket from its spot and turned to leave.

When she heard a soft humming coming from up in the lofts, she paused, enjoying the deep, soothing lullaby.

“‘I brought ’er with me, to flowers so sweet. I ’ad ’er trust. I would ne’er mistreat.’”

Her heart stuttered. She’d never heard Trevik sing before—the group had been too loud that evening on the beach—but there was no mistaking his rich, smooth tone.

“‘But a strong wind blew and pulled ’er away, so I watched and waited as the sky grew grey.’”

Glancing back to the courtyard doors, she hesitated. She really ought to be getting back to Mrs. Honeysett, to deliver the sewing basket and to help with dinner. Besides, part of Morvoren wondered if Trevik was avoiding her again—especially after she’d so brazenly caressed his lips.

Her cheeks warmed. He’d been so kind that evening a week ago, forcing himself to eat the awful pasty she’d cooked, then making her find humor in a situation she had been horrified with only moments before.

She’d been so wrapped up in the joy of his attention that she hadn’t been able to pull her fingers away from his lips. Even now, the rush that had come from being so near to him filled her limbs.

Surely that was another reason to remain away from him. And yet, a simple greeting could hardly draw them closer. A short conversation either.

Needing no further convincing, she advanced up the stairs. She’d had the notion to soundlessly ascend them, but the rickety wood was a lost cause, and she creaked and cracked her way up them.

Trevik, curiously enough, did not stop his singing, though there was no possible way he hadn’t heard her.

“‘Grow strong, tykki duw. Fly far, tykki duw. Leave me ’ere, as we know ye must do.’”

When she reached the top step, she peered around the corner in silence. Trevik faced her, though his head was down as he hunched over a net stretched out before him, no one else in the room.

“That ye, Gryff?” he asked, pausing in his singing though he didn’t straighten. “Did ye forget somethin’?”

She smiled. “Do ye really think I look like Gryffyn?”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Trevik’s head darted up in surprise, Morvoren’s smile only growing. “Miss ’Ollow?”

Morvoren hesitated, just as she always did with his proper usage of her name. She’d given him permission again this week to use her first name, and still, he resorted to the formal option.