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Brushing aside any lingering concerns as to why, she continued. “I be highly offended if ye think I do look like Gryffyn.”

His lips tipped upward. “Ye do be a touch smaller ’round the shoulders and middle.”

“A touch?” she asked in mock offense.

He gave a small laugh, peering back down again at the netting he worked on. “Come to spy again?”

She smiled. She’d come to know Trevik’s mood with his teasing. He never seemed to do so when overwhelmed with work—which was more often than not—but whenever that mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes appeared, it never failed to pull a smile from Morvoren, especially with the attention that accompanied it.

He only ever seemed to tease Poppy in the same manner, and Morvoren couldn’t decide if it was because he was as comfortable with Morvoren as he was with Poppy…or if he considered Morvoren a sister, too.

She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of the latter.

“As much as I know ye’d like me to be spyin’ on ye,” she responded, “I only came to fetch your mother’s sewin’ basket.”

She raised the basket, but he didn’t look up at her. “Shame that.”

He focused his attention on the short piece of hemp he wound through a hole in the net, his lips pulled in slightly as he concentrated.

“What ye be doin’?” she asked.

“Just mendin’ these ’oles someone managed to tear in me net.” He gave her an accusatory look, but his brown eyes squinted slightly, as if hiding his smile.

She eyed the three spaces torn into the mesh. “How long ’til ye finish?”

“Not long. An ’alf hour or so.”

She watched him work for a moment, the cool light from outside shining through the cracks in the walls. Wind whistled through the spaces, and she tightened the shawl around her shoulders.

Trevik, however, wore no jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up and kerchief loosened. As he leaned closer to the net, his shoulders raised, and the braces over them caused the width to appear even broader.

“Ain’t ye cold up here?”

He shook his head. “Ye get used to it after a while.”

He said nothing further, and Morvoren hesitated. She knew she had to be disturbing his work. But if she spoke about his work, she wouldn’t be a distraction then. Right?

“Are ye the only one who mends the nets?”

“No, Gryff was up ’ere a moment ago, but I sent ’im ’ome to be with ’is family. We all learn to do the task, though, since we all own a bit o’ the fleet.”

She paused. “Fleet? Ye have more than one boat?”

“Ah, no. I was referrin’ to the sections o’ nettin’ all tied together. They be called a fleet.”

“Oh, I see.”

He moved down the line, tying up another section of the mesh.

“Can ye not hire out the work to a netmaker instead of doin’ the work yourselves?” she asked.

“We can, and many towns do. But we do it ’ere to save us a bit o’ money. ’Sides, we may as well do the work if we can.”

She placed Mrs. Honeysett’s sewing basket near the doorway and drew closer, watching his fingers tie the intricate pieces in a secure knot. The net was stretched out six feet across the room, held up by stands, while the rest of the material was rolled neatly together at the foot of the propped-up net.

“Are ye ’avin’ terrible memories o’ bein’ tied up in these?”

For a moment, she wondered if he was teasing, but his expression was sober. “At times I do,” she answered honestly. “In dreams, usually. And once when I swam with Poppy.” Her lungs would burn at the memory, and panic would steal her breath away before she eventually calmed down. “But those moments are comin’ fewer and further between.”