The sitting room faced the harbour, bathed in the soft, hazy light of a September morning. Nimue sat with her knees pulled up on the wooden bench, her chin resting on them as she watched the boats shift with the slow, steady pull of the tide.
Cinder lay across her feet, a warm weight through her socks. His russet ears were pressed flat and his nose pointed toward the kitchen door, twitching at the sounds of preparation. Saoirse was beside her, a ceramic cup of tea cooling between her palms and her dark hair still damp from a morning shower. The white streak in her aunt's hair looked like a sliver of silk against the darker strands.
"You are quiet, little bird," Saoirse said, her voice low and relaxed.
"I'm watching."
"The boats?"
Nimue nodded, her chin still resting on her knees. The white boat near the end of the quay had moved since breakfast; its bow now pointed out toward the open water instead of the weathered stone wall.
A man in a thick jumper was on the deck, his hands busy with heavy ropes. His movements were slow and sure, as if he had performed this exact sequence a thousand times before.
In the kitchen, the sounds of packing continued. Jack was wrapping a loaf of bread in crinkling wax paper, his movements methodical. Jane had a wicker basket on the table, carefully packing firm red apples, a generous chunk of hard cheese, and the remaining pieces of the morning's fougasse.
"Water?" Jane asked.
"In the bag," Jack replied, his voice muffled as he leaned over his task. "The metal bottle."
"The wine?"
"We are fishing, Jane. We don't need a vintage for that."
"We are on a boat. It's different."
Jack stopped wrapping the bread and looked at her. She was already placing the green glass bottle into the corner of the basket, her face perfectly calm and her hands steady. He shook his head with a quiet huff of amusement and went back to the bread.
Saoirse heard the distinctive, hollow pop of a cork being eased from the sitting room. "She packed the wine."
Nimue turned her head slightly. "Mama likes wine."
"Your mother likes wine anywhere, Nimue. On a boat, in a field, at the market. It isn't about the place for her. It's the principle."
The basket was full by the time Jane brought it out to the front room. Jack followed, carrying two fishing rods with worn cork handles and reels that smelled of fresh oil. He had borrowed them from the man with the dog the previous evening after a brief, quiet conversation at the garden gate. The man had disappeared into a cluttered shed and returned with the rods and a small tin of hooks.
The harbour was busier as they stepped outside. The sun was higher now, the shadows shorter and sharper against the cobblestones, and the light danced in brilliant white sparks on the water. A group of men stood near the fish market with their hands shoved deep into their pockets, their voices low and guttural in French. One of them looked up when they passed, his eyes tracking the rods Jack carried over his shoulder.
The boat was tied at the very end of the quay, a sturdy white hull with faded blue trim. A name had once been painted on the side, but salt and time had scrubbed the letters into illegibility.
A man stood on the deck with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his skin darkened to a deep mahogany by the sun. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a thick, pale scar that ran down his forearm like a split rope.
"Vous êtes les Anglais?" he asked. His voice was rough, like stones grinding together, and his accent was thick with the coast. (Are you the English?)
"Oui," Jack answered, stepping forward "Jack. Jane. Saoirse. Nimue."
The man looked at each of them in turn. His gaze stopped on Nimue, lingering on the stark white of her hair and the intensity of her green eyes. He didn't speak for a long moment; he simply held out a weathered, calloused hand toward Jack.
"Gilles."
Jack shook it firmly. Gilles didn't smile. He turned abruptly and pointed toward the middle of the boat.
"Montez. On part dans cinq minutes." (Get on. We leave in five minutes.)
The deck was wet and the grey wood felt slick underfoot. Ropes were coiled with military precision against the rail. Nimue stepped onto the boat carefully, her hand gripping Jack's arm as her trainers slipped slightly on the damp surface.
Cinder had stayed on the quay. He sat on the grey stone with his ears flat and his tail still, watching her with a focused intensity.
"Stay," she said, pointing a finger at him.
The fox's ears went even flatter, but he didn't move from his spot.
Gilles started the engine. The sound was a sudden, violent roar that vibrated through the wooden deck and into Nimue's legs. The boat pulled away from the quay, and the gap of green-grey water widened as the harbour opened up to the sea.
Nimue held the metal rail with both hands. The wind was cold out here, blowing her hair across her face in white streaks, and the taste of salt was sharp on her lips. She watched the shore shrink. The cottages looked like dollhouses and the green hills seemed to flatten as the sky grew wider and wider.
Gilles stood at the wooden wheel with his eyes fixed on the water ahead. He didn't look back at his passengers. He simply steered as the boat cut through the rising waves, sending a fine, cold spray over Nimue's arms.
The first spot was close to the shore, where the water turned from a muddy grey to a clear, dark green and the jagged rocks were visible just below the surface. Gilles cut the engine and let the boat drift into a quiet swell.
"Ici. On essaie." (Here. We try.)
Jack baited the hooks with small, silver fish. Their black eyes looked glassy and dead. Nimue watched his fingers push the sharp metal through the scales. The skin tore with a tiny sound, and the blood appeared thin and dark against the silver.
"You hold it like this, Nimue." He showed her the rod and the line. "Then you cast. Let the weight of the rod do the work for you."
He stood at the rail, pulled the rod back over his shoulder, and let go. The line sailed out in a long, easy arc, and the bait hit the water with a soft plop. He handed the rod to her.
"Now you try."
She took it, her fingers curling around the cork. The rod was much heavier than she had expected, the handle still warm from his grip. She pulled back the way he had shown her, her small arms shaking slightly with the effort, and let go.
The line went sideways. The bait hit the water far too close to the boat with a clumsy splash as the hook sank into the green depths.
"Again," Jack said, his voice encouraging.
She pulled back again, focusing all her strength into the movement. This time the line went straighter and farther, the bait landing where the water was darker and deeper.
"Good."
She held the rod with her hands tight on the handle, her eyes fixed on the surface. The boat rocked gently. The line moved with the slow current, and the bobber was a small white dot against the vast grey of the English Channel.
Jane was at the other rail with her own rod already in the water, her face calm and her eyes distant. Saoirse sat on the bench with her legs stretched out and her hat pulled low over her brow, holding a cup of tea. Gilles was at the wheel, smoking a fresh cigarette now, his eyes scanning the horizon.
The white bobber dipped. Nimue stared at it, holding her breath. It dipped again, lower this time, and the line snapped taut.
"Pull," Jack said, stepping closer. "Pull it up!"
She pulled with all her might. The rod bent into a sharp curve, the line went tight, and something heavy and frantic tugged back from the other end. She pulled harder, her feet braced against the deck and her arms shaking with the strain.
"Reel it in," Jack said. His hand came over hers, guiding her fingers and helping her turn the handle. "Keep the tip up. Don't let the line go slack."
The fish came out of the water in a flash of silver and green, its tail thrashing wildly. It was small, no bigger than her hand, its mouth opening and closing around the hook caught in its lip.
She held it up, the rod tip trembling. The line swung as the fish twisted, and droplets of cold water flew through the air.
Jack took the fish off the hook with a quick, practiced motion. He held it in his palm, watching the gills flare and the round, black eye. "Do you want to keep it?"
She looked at the fish. Its mouth opened and closed in a silent plea. The brilliant silver of its scales was already fading, turning to a dull, lifeless grey.
"No."
Jack leaned over the rail and let it go. The fish hung suspended in the water for a heartbeat, its tail moving slowly as it found its bearings, and then it vanished into the dark.
"You caught something," Jane said from the other rail. Her own line was perfectly still and her bobber didn't move.
"It was small."
"It was a fish, Nimue. That is the first one."
Gilles put his cigarette out on the rail and dropped the butt into his pocket. "On change de place." (We're changing places.)
The engine roared to life again. The boat turned, and the spray felt even colder now that they were heading further out. The shore was a distant smudge, and the water was a deep, bruised blue.
The second spot was farther out, where the waves were bigger and the boat rolled heavily. Gilles cut the engine, and the boat rocked heavily. The rail was wet with mist and the sky felt immense.
Nimue baited her own hook this time. The silver fish was cold in her hand and the skin felt slick and slimy, but the hook went in easier than she had expected. She cast the line. It went straight, and the bait landed in a patch of water that was almost black.
She waited.
The sun moved across the sky. The boat rocked with a heavy, rhythmic thud. Jane caught two fish, both small and wriggling, and threw them both back. Jack caught one that was significantly bigger, its body thick and its scales dark as lead. He held it up for Gilles to see. Gilles nodded once and said something in French that was too fast for Nimue to catch, and Jack placed the fish into a plastic bucket.
Saoirse hadn't touched her rod. She was sitting on the bench with her eyes closed and her face turned toward the sun, her empty cup sitting on the deck beside her.
"You aren't fishing," Nimue noted, looking over her shoulder.
"I'm supervising."
"You are sleeping."
"Same thing, little monster. Same thing."
Gilles moved them again. The third spot was far out, where the water was so deep that Nimue couldn't even imagine the bottom. It was just darkness, a place where the light didn't reach. He cut the engine and the boat drifted in the silence, the only sound being the water slapping against the hull and the gulls crying somewhere far behind them.
Nimue cast her line. It went far, and the bait hit the water with a sound she almost couldn't hear over the wind.
She held the rod. Her arms were tired and her hands felt sore, the cork handle warm from her constant grip. The sun was high now, the light sharp and the shadows very short.
The bobber dipped violently.
She pulled. The rod bent nearly double and the line went rigid with a heavy, living weight. She pulled harder, her feet braced against the deck and her arms shaking with the strain.
"Reel," Jack said. He was beside her instantly, his hand not touching hers but staying close, just being there in case she slipped.
She reeled. The handle turned slowly as the line came in, and the weight pulled back with powerful, rhythmic tugs. Her arms burned. Her hands slipped on the smooth metal of the handle.
"Keep going," Jack said softly. "You have it."
She kept going, her teeth gritted. The fish came up, dark and long with a wide, powerful tail. It broke the surface in a spray of foam, sending water flying everywhere, with the hook caught deep in its lip.
Jack reached over the side and pulled it in with a grunt. The fish was big, bigger than Nimue's arm, with dark green scales on its back and a pale, shimmering belly. It slapped against the wet deck with its mouth open and its gills working frantically.
Gilles walked over, his heavy boots loud on the wood. He looked at the fish, then down at Nimue. "Grosse," he said, and for the first time, his eyes seemed to crinkle. "Pour ce soir." (For tonight.)
He picked it up and put it in the bucket with the others.
Nimue stood there with her hands empty and the rod at her feet. Her arms were shaking from the exertion and her face was wet with the cold spray.
"You caught a big one," Jane said. She was smiling, the kind of smile that was small and real, the kind she didn't use for strangers.
Nimue looked at the bucket. The fish was at the top, its gills still moving and its black eye staring at nothing.
She didn't say anything. She picked up the rod and began to bait the hook again.
The sun was lower when they finally headed back toward the harbour. The light had turned to a liquid gold and the water had gone flat and calm. Gilles stood at the wheel with his face relaxed and his hands loose on the spokes. The bucket was full now, the fish packed tight with their scales catching the afternoon light.
Nimue sat on the bench with her back against the rail and her arms wrapped across her knees. Cinder would be waiting on the quay, his ears flat and his tail still, a small russet shape against the grey stone of the pier.
The harbour came closer. The cottages grew larger, their windows catching the golden light and the laundry on the lines hanging still and bright in the dying breeze. The man with the dog was standing on the quay. His dog's tail wagged as the man raised a hand in greeting.
Jack waved back.
Gilles cut the engine and let the boat drift into its slip. The bump against the stone quay was soft. He already had the ropes in his hands, tying them fast to the iron bollards.
Nimue stood up. Her legs were stiff and her arms felt heavy as lead. Her hands felt raw from the rod. She picked up the bag with the remains of the bread and cheese, the wax paper crumpled and the fougasse long gone.
Jane had the bucket. Jack had the rods. Saoirse carried her hat and the empty wine bottle, which she held like a trophy in the light.
Nimue stepped onto the quay. Cinder was there immediately, his body pressed against her legs and his tail wagging in a frantic, feathery sweep. She crouched and put her arms around him, burying her face in his soft fur.
"I caught a fish," she whispered.
His ears went forward and he licked her salt-crusted chin.
She stood up. The sun was lower now, the shadows long and thin, and the harbour was beginning to quiet. The man with the dog had gone and the fish market was closed for the day. The only sound was the water lapping against the boats and the gulls settling on the slate roofs.
She looked out at the water. The horizon had almost vanished, the pale sky and the dark sea bleeding into each other.
Jack's hand touched her shoulder. "Home."
She walked. Cinder stayed close, his shoulder rubbing against her leg and his ears catching every distant sound. The fish in the bucket swung with Jane's steady step, their scales catching the last of the light.
Nimue stopped at the gate and looked back. The water was dark, the sky was pale, and the boats rocked silently against the quay.
She went inside, and the door closed behind her.