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Tears blurred her view of the fire, the orange and yellow flames softening as the wood shifted lower into the hearth. Mrs. Honeysett’s words had been exactly what Mother would have said—encouraging, uplifting, filled with sense.
But Morvoren could not disregard her fears so easily, and Trevik’s feelings for her—if he, indeed, had them—would never be strong enough to guarantee he wouldn’t change just as Father had.
She’d made the right decision. Leaving Tristwick would be best for all involved.
She could only hope that one day, she would be able to overcome the debilitating sense of loss that now consumed her soul at the mere thought of having to leave Tristwick and the Honeysetts—the one place she’d felt at home in years.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“What did ye say to ’er?”
Trevik blinked, coming out of a deep sleep—the sleep he only allowed himself on Saturdays when the lugger was docked through the night.
What time was it? He couldn’t have been sleeping for that long.
“What did ye say to ’er, Trevik?”
Groggily, he rolled over in his bed, looking to his open doorway where Mother stood, fists propped against her hips.
“What?” he mumbled. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked to the window. As he’d suspected, the sun was still shining, though not as brightly as before. Blast, he’d hoped to sleep through the night. “What time be it?”
“It be six in the evenin’ and time to answer me question.”
He looked back to his mother, surprised to see her lips pulled in a taut line, brow low over her dark eyes.
His insides twisted. “What question?”
“Don’t ye play daft with I, Trevik Locryn ’Oneysett. Ye know I be speakin’ o’ Morvoren. Now tell me what ye said to ’er to make ’er want to leave Tristwick for good.”
With a groan, he sat upright, an ache pulsing between his brows. He pinched the bridge of his nose. At least he’d be able to sleep that evening. Thank heavens he wouldn’t have to suffer with a headache all night aboard the lugger.
“Can’t we speak o’ this later?” he asked. Or never? He was already feeling terribly about his conversation with Morvoren, why did Mother have to make him feel worse about it?
“No, ye’ve avoided I for long enough. We’ll speak o’ this now, thank ye.”
She had a point. Four days had passed since his time with Miss Hollow at the docks. He’d attempted to speak with her twice since then, but the woman was apparently determined to never forgive him, brushing aside any attempt he’d made to speak with her and finding Poppy or Mrs. Honeysett to converse with instead.
Naturally, Trevik had then kept away from his mother, Poppy, and Morvoren alike—eating while they were out of the house, taking naps aboard the lugger, and always running late so no one had time to say more than a word to him. But he’d known Mother would catch up to him at some point.
He only wished it hadn’t been when he was trying to sleep for the first time in days. Apparently, his body was punishing him for what he’d done to Miss Hollow. He’d been unable to sleep soundly at all since Monday.
He motioned to the door. “Won’t she ’ear?” he asked quietly.
Mother shook her head. “She and Popp are out findin’ shells at Tregalwen. Now, out with it, son.”
He blew out another heavy breath. Mother was as stubborn as Trevik when it came to having her way.
He tossed his cover aside and moved to the pitcher and basin of water nearby. “I be seven and twenty, Mother. Ye don’t ’ave to scold I any longer.”
“Apparently, I do need to scold ye, for ye still be actin’ like that fool boy, gettin’ into all sorts o’ scrapes.”
“I ain’t gettin’ in no scrapes. I just asked when she thought she’d be leavin’ and suggested, per’aps, that she look beyond Tristwick for that work.”
He washed the cold water over his face, then dried it with a towel. The cool moisture did nothing to ease his burning cheeks as he considered his cruelty once again.
Mother shook her head in silence.
“I was only askin’ for the sake o’ me crew,” he defended weakly.
