He remembered he’d not locked up. The locks didn’t matter—everyone on Gull Skerrie knew everyone, and half of them murmured rumors about the strange silent tall man out on the edge of the wild—but he went back and did it anyway. Felt better. More balanced.
He adventured toward the village again. Over rocks. Along the thin grey finger of sea-scoured path. Overlooking the harbor and voiceless judgmental boats: a local or two that hadn’t gone with the fishing fleet, a swift sleek packet-boat from the south, the bobbing low familiarity of the mainland ferry.
More people would be coming on that ferry. So many more. He could hide from them all.
He did not think he could hide from his son. He’d done that already. For too many years.
Once upon a time he had wanted to be a father. Once upon a time he’d looked forward to the idea. Once, when Mirabel had been alive, when the world had still held color and promise and hope—