Mistress of the Storm (29 page)

Rafe laughed wryly. ‘All that way to learn that the place I sought was here in my home town.’

‘Many stories begin in Wellow,’ Miss Cameron replied impassively.

‘It must have seemed a terrible burden to Verity when I returned,’ Rafe said regretfully. ‘To be told that she was charged with avenging Ruby’s death; with killing Aure.’

‘She will understand when she finds out the truth,’ said Miss Cameron. ‘Look what she has helped to create: a story of love and friendship that can be repeated over and over again throughout the world.’

‘And now Aure is gone …’

Miss Cameron said nothing.

‘It was a neat trick,’ he went on admiringly. ‘Everyone knew the words of the Pledge –
that which gave you life shall destroy you
– but you turned them into a new story, a second story.’

‘I simply told a tale of protection.’ Miss Cameron ignored the compliment.

Rafe nodded. ‘One which told how, if the Mistress murdered another child to prolong her life …’

‘… the result would be her own death,’ finished Miss Cameron.

‘If she hadn’t tried to use the third daughter for sustenance she’d be here still.’

‘Perhaps so.’

‘Where is she now?’ Rafe asked hesitantly.

‘Alice saved her, I believe,’ said Miss Cameron. ‘Anyway, your story – the first story – is spoken. For every child like Verity, it is there. It is original, and it will happen again and again – the friends they need, and the love they deserve when they are alone or out of place. A fitting epitaph for Ruby.’

At six foot three, Abednego cut a lonely figure on the quarterdeck of the
Storm
. He stared silently at the bright green ocean.

The first mate approached warily. ‘Tide is turning, Cap’n,’ he said. ‘Time for us to make our way, I reckon.’

Abednego stared at him in confusion. ‘The Mistress of the Storm is gone,’ he said. ‘We no longer belong to her – you are all free to leave.’

‘You’re our captain,’ said the first mate simply. ‘Always have been, still are. Shall I give the order?’

Abednego watched as a solitary figure in a neatly pressed navy blue uniform with very shiny polished buttons rowed determinedly across the water. ‘Not yet,’ he said.

The walk to Soul Bay is beautiful on a fine day. But to reach it you must first make your way down a precarious set of wooden steps, put there who knows how long ago or by whom.

You step across the sweetly scented grass downs, through the ancient woods carpeted with dense ferns and damp rich moss. Finally you see a knotted rope strung across the last piece of muddy cliff. It stops all but the most determined from making their way to the warm shingled beach.

At the bottom is a small wooden bridge – more a set of planks really – perched over the trickling stream that eventually seeps into the sand long before it reaches the sea.

A young girl is sitting on the bridge. Tall for her age, she wears her long brown hair loose; it strays wildly in all directions. Her happy, shining face, with pink cheeks and dark, dark eyes, wavers constantly between pretty and very plain. Her feet are bare and her forehead has a smudge of dirt on it.

Next to her, a sturdy, sandy-haired young boy is hauling up a length of string tied around various scraps of meat and bone.
A crab is clinging for dear life to the end of the string. He extracts it and puts it in a bucket with the others they’ve collected. The girl is swinging her legs and laughing at something the boy has just said.

Not everything in life turns out as we would like. But things can change
.

A man stands at the top of the wooden steps. His once handsome face is lined and scored, but his blue eyes burn. He is watching the two children: it is as if he is trying to commit every last detail to memory. He seems consumed by conflicting emotions: pride, happiness, sorrow, loss.

A cloud of vanilla tobacco wafts through the air. The man smiles and turns round to greet the faithful friend approaching him.

‘It was well done, Rafe,’ says Isaac Tempest.

Rafe Gallant stares into the distance for a second. He says nothing. He seems unable to speak.

Isaac looks fondly at his companion. ‘A wise woman,’ he says, ‘once told me that to love is to act with purpose, for the happiness of all.’

Rafe nods.

‘Shall we go down?’ Isaac asks.

‘No,’ says Rafe thoughtfully. ‘Let them have their day in the sun.’

The two friends turn to leave. Above them the sky is a clear and vivid azure, save for one lone cloud – unnaturally dark for this weather – that scurries, scowling, across the blue.

I once read somewhere that being an author requires an unnatural level of single-mindedness. Certainly the process of writing this book involved securing the help of many other people whose time and effort I’m sure could have been spent far more enjoyably.

My heartfelt thanks therefore go to Victoria and Rachel for being my first readers. To Catherine and Claire for offering hope that it might be worth finishing the first draft. To Bella, Hannah and David for giving Verity a home, and a clearer voice. To Melissa and Georgie for reading the final draft. To Jim for checking that nothing very stupid had been written about sailing, ships or dinghies (any remaining errors are entirely my fault and not his). And to Jenny for allowing her gardening time to be interfered with. But finally, and most importantly of all, to the Wray boys – Lou, Joe and Ben – without whom there would be no reason to write.