see her face clearly. Before now, she’d seemed a figment of his imaginings—his fevered imaginings, apparently.
He’d thought he’d been dreaming. The Kittiwake’s cook had told him the local legend of a beautiful mermaid who’d lived in the estuary between the Atlantic and Padstow’s safe harbour. Centuries ago, a young man fell in love with her, but when she refused to marry him, he shot her in a jealous rage. In revenge for his vile act, the mermaid cursed the harbour by throwing sand into it, and ever since then, sailors had been dying on the sands of the Doom Bar.
In a haze of confusion, Alex had seen the blurred image of a red-haired woman bending over him, her windblown hair falling around her face, her eyes like amber pools. He’d thought the legend of the mermaid had invaded his dreams.
Now he knew the woman was real and had a name, although he’d already forgotten the whole. Laura something.
He ran a finger over the coins and another piece of memory returned. He’d used several coins to buy passage on a ship. And not only passage for himself, but for his closest friend. His heart began beating dully within him. Where was his friend now?
He wanted to blurt out all his questions and demand answers, but he refrained. He must tread carefully. He had not reached his hoped-for destination but had instead been cast ashore in unfamiliar territory. The woman had tried to reassure him, saying she was friend not foe. But loyalties, he knew, could change. It took only one glance at his stitches and rope-burned wrists to prove that fact. He would not trust again so easily.
After careful thought, he set the coins and watch on the side table. Then he took a deep breath and asked, “The other men?”
The young woman’s expression remained somber. “I am sorry to tell you they all died in the wreck. You were the only survivor.”
Waves of shock and grief washed over him, stronger than any gale. He felt a dozen vicious stab wounds, this time to his heart. No. God, no.
“We buried them in the churchyard,” she went on gently. “Everything was done properly, rest assured.”
She gazed at him, her golden brown eyes glimmering with compassion. “Were you . . . close to the others?”
He nodded, no longer seeing her, but rather Daniel’s face. He murmured, more to the departed man than to her, “My friend, my good friend . . .”
Then he looked at her again, an ember of hope flaring. “Are you certain?”
She hesitated. “What did your friend look like?”
He thought, then said, “Shorter than I am. Straight black hair. Dark eyes.”
She winced apologetically. “That is a fairly general description. Give me a few minutes, and I shall bring in my list.”
She soon returned and flipped through a bound journal until she reached a certain page and then began to read, “‘Man aged 40–45. Grey hair. Green eyes. Rotund. Still wearing apron.’ Perhaps the cook?” She glanced up at him for confirmation.
He nodded. “Yes.”
She continued, “‘Man aged 25–30. Black hair. Brown eyes. Strawberry birthmark on his left brow . . . ’”
Alexander’s heart deflated and his face crumpled in grief. “Yes. He had such a mark.” Oh, Daniel. I am sorry, my friend.
His eyes filled, and he turned his face away. Would she think less of him for weeping? At the moment, he did not care. He wiped his eyes with the napkin and held out his hands for the journal.
She handed it over, and he read through the rest of the list himself.
Initials T.O. inside his waistband and the collar of his shirt. Alex stilled, nerves prickling through him. Did she know what those initials meant?
He read further.
Boy aged 13–15. Red hair. Blue eyes. Freckles.
“Oh no.” He groaned. “The boy too?” Dear God, why the boy? So young . . .
He read on, recognizing descriptions of the captain and several others of the crew. There was one more description he’d expected to see. He turned the page, but nothing else was written.
“This is all?” he asked.
“Yes. We buried nine—eight men and a boy.”
“There was at least one more.” He flipped back and read through the list again. “Did one man have a scar on his left cheek, like a shepherd’s crook?”
He drew the shape on his own cheek.
“No. I would have noticed and written it down.” She reached over and tapped the page.
“Are you sure? He had long dark hair and fair eyes.”
She paused to consider. “I suppose it’s possible