Page 44 of The Runaway Duchess

The seiner would be as good as new. Not so the smaller boat, the dinghy Davy’s brothers had rode into the storm. Fragments were still washing up onshore, and the boys had been tasked with collecting the wreckage. They’d spent the afternoon scouting excitedly up and down the shoreline, dragging what they found across the sand to Davy, who’d eyed each splintered board, assessing its usefulness, before tossing it in one of two piles.

High-spirited lads that they were, they’d taken the day’s work more as a reward than a punishment.

Neal rose to help Davy with the last of it. As he did so, he looked again toward the young women. Emmeline saw him looking and nudged Muriel, who turned her head and gave him a cool wave. Then she marched into the pub, Emmeline on her heels.

Neal whistled. “I think they’re having a pint.”

Davy banged the bottom of the boat so hard it slid an inch on the blocks, and laughed. “Are they, now?”

The small panes of the pub windows were dark. No seeing through to the scene inside. Neal returned his attention to the boat.

“It’s anyone’s guess.”

Muriel and Emmeline had been popping up at every turn. When Neal had loped back up through the terraced houses of the village—for a stouter saw, a second caulking iron, more pitch—he’d passed them each time, coming and going. Once he’d seen them through the open door of the bakery, Muriel with her hands on her hips haggling loudly with Mrs. Wilmot. Once he’d seen them coming out of Mr. Barnett’s house, Mr. Barnett following with a grin as wide as a griddle, a spring in his step to match his springy gray hair. Once he’d seen them emerging from the footpath behind the vicarage, their arms filled with flowers.

Whenever they spotted him, they raised their eyebrows, smiled, waved, or shot each other mischievous glances, but they never stopped what they were doing long enough to exchange a greeting.

Thick as thieves, tearing about hell-for-leather. It could mean anything.

“That’s more than a pint they’ve got there.” Davy directed Neal’s attention.

Muriel and Emmeline had reappeared, each holding a jug of beer. They ducked into the alley.

Neal leaned his elbows on the boat, squinting after them. At last he gave up, reconciled himself to the mystery.

“We’ll figure it out when they want us to,” he said, and Davy laughed.

“That’s what I’m learning.” He grinned happily. “I’ll be prepared come September.”

When he married Loveday.

Neal grinned back at him. “I wouldn’t count on it, coz.”

A recalcitrant plank monopolized the next hour. When they finally started up to the quayside, Tomas halloed, bounding down to them.

“The house has been bewitched,” he called. “Come help a man disenchant his kingdom.”

The sight that greeted them in the Traymayne dining room was certainly a strange one.

“Where are the chairs?” asked Davy, circling the table.

“With the women, perhaps?” Tomas scratched his brow.

“Cold,” Davy pronounced, leaning over the table to squeeze a wedge of potato in a serving dish. He felt the tureens. “Everything’s cold.”

Neal poked his head into the kitchen. The empty kitchen. The air smelled sweet and gingery. The cups and dishes were missing from the sideboards.

“Kelyn?” Davy looked at Neal as he returned to the dining room. Neal shook his head.

“You can see why I turned around at once and went in search of reinforcements.” Tomas popped a wedge of potato into his mouth.

“You’ve done it now,” said Davy. “What if the pixies stole away your wife and children and put a spell on the food? You’re under their power.”

“In for a penny,” said Tomas, and filched a second potato.

“Footsteps.” Neal prowled to the staircase, Davy and Tomas behind him. Muriel was sailing down the stairs in a low-cut gown of red silk and white lace, making ushering gestures with her hands.

“Don’t stand there woolgathering,” she said. “You need to dress and dine and help carry the refreshments down to the guildhall. The ball starts promptly at nine.”