towers of Lynn in the distance, she bit her lip.
"Where are you to leave me?" she asked, breaking the silence at last.
"Greenland public house."
He said no more. Olympia worked her cold fingers, watching the river widen and the traffic grow heavy. Fish's punt began to seem very small amid the boats and busy lighters and the heavy smell of the sea. When she saw the tall masts of the collier brigs and commercial shipping, she pressed her hands tightly together.
"He won't be here," she said with conviction. "How will I find him?"
"If he ain't here, I'll take you home."
She turned and looked at Fish, at his wind-roughened cheeks and graying beard in the shadow of his hat brim. He squinted at her and nodded once, then stood up and began poling them into one of the canal streets of the city. Olympia jumped out onto the quay and helped secure the punt alongside the customhouse.
No one took any note of them: a nondescript fenman with three sacks of plovers slung over his shoulder, and a short, stout young lad, muffled to his ears by a moth-eaten scarf, carrying the excess.
Fish sold the plovers to a butcher in King Street. They walked together to the whalers' public house, The Greenland Fishery. Olympia's feet slowed as her heartbeat increased. She kept her face down. If she hadn't been following at Fish's heels, forced to keep up in order not to lose him, her pace would have dwindled to a complete halt.
At the door of The Greenland, she looked up for a moment at the ancient half-timbered inn with its red tile roof and tipsy lean. This side of the door, she was still uncommitted; she could still tug at Fish's sleeve and nod back toward the river, and know that he would turn around without a word and take her back. On the other side…
She looked at Fish. He only looked back at her, awaiting her decision. She wondered if he felt the same grief at parting, if his heart lay like hers, lonely and aching already for the hours spent in silent companionship out on the empty washes.
His dark gaze moved over her face in the keen, subtle way it moved across the marsh. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small canvas bag. "There," he said. "That's yours, boy."
Olympia's fingers closed over the hard little rectangle of Fish's well-used harmonica. She opened her mouth to protest. Then she clutched it harder, unwilling to surrender one last tie with her friend. Tears threatened sharply. She wrinkled her nose, and remembered to wipe at it with her sleeve like a peasant boy.
She gave Fish one quick nod, hoping he saw all she could not say. He pushed open the old plank door.
Inside, he sat down in a chair near the fire. Olympia started to sit down next to him, but he jerked his head. "Over there, boy."
It startled her at first, the gruff note in his voice. But it dawned on her that in her part as a boy, she was due no special attention. It was Fish's courtesy to the house to relegate her to the coldest, least desirable seat. She sat down where he indicated, at the end of a table that suffered a draft from the door.
She'd never been in a public house before—most certainly not in one like this, filled with seamen and greasy smoke, the dim light tinged with green by the leaded glass window at her back. The air was thick with wet wool and fish and sweat and odors she could not even identify.
As often as she dared, she lifted her head from contemplating the table and snatched looks around at the booths and tables. She could not imagine Sir Sheridan in a place like this. The last time she'd seen him, he would have graced a palace. With a rise of panic, she wondered if Fish could have got the instructions wrong.
Fish drank his ale, tilting back his chair and staring into the fire. He offered nothing to Olympia, ignoring her and everyone else. She rubbed her fingers together in her lap, miserably watching him finish off his fourth pitcher. She dared not speak. She could only turn slightly every time the door opened and watch the feet of
"Where are you to leave me?" she asked, breaking the silence at last.
"Greenland public house."
He said no more. Olympia worked her cold fingers, watching the river widen and the traffic grow heavy. Fish's punt began to seem very small amid the boats and busy lighters and the heavy smell of the sea. When she saw the tall masts of the collier brigs and commercial shipping, she pressed her hands tightly together.
"He won't be here," she said with conviction. "How will I find him?"
"If he ain't here, I'll take you home."
She turned and looked at Fish, at his wind-roughened cheeks and graying beard in the shadow of his hat brim. He squinted at her and nodded once, then stood up and began poling them into one of the canal streets of the city. Olympia jumped out onto the quay and helped secure the punt alongside the customhouse.
No one took any note of them: a nondescript fenman with three sacks of plovers slung over his shoulder, and a short, stout young lad, muffled to his ears by a moth-eaten scarf, carrying the excess.
Fish sold the plovers to a butcher in King Street. They walked together to the whalers' public house, The Greenland Fishery. Olympia's feet slowed as her heartbeat increased. She kept her face down. If she hadn't been following at Fish's heels, forced to keep up in order not to lose him, her pace would have dwindled to a complete halt.
At the door of The Greenland, she looked up for a moment at the ancient half-timbered inn with its red tile roof and tipsy lean. This side of the door, she was still uncommitted; she could still tug at Fish's sleeve and nod back toward the river, and know that he would turn around without a word and take her back. On the other side…
She looked at Fish. He only looked back at her, awaiting her decision. She wondered if he felt the same grief at parting, if his heart lay like hers, lonely and aching already for the hours spent in silent companionship out on the empty washes.
His dark gaze moved over her face in the keen, subtle way it moved across the marsh. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small canvas bag. "There," he said. "That's yours, boy."
Olympia's fingers closed over the hard little rectangle of Fish's well-used harmonica. She opened her mouth to protest. Then she clutched it harder, unwilling to surrender one last tie with her friend. Tears threatened sharply. She wrinkled her nose, and remembered to wipe at it with her sleeve like a peasant boy.
She gave Fish one quick nod, hoping he saw all she could not say. He pushed open the old plank door.
Inside, he sat down in a chair near the fire. Olympia started to sit down next to him, but he jerked his head. "Over there, boy."
It startled her at first, the gruff note in his voice. But it dawned on her that in her part as a boy, she was due no special attention. It was Fish's courtesy to the house to relegate her to the coldest, least desirable seat. She sat down where he indicated, at the end of a table that suffered a draft from the door.
She'd never been in a public house before—most certainly not in one like this, filled with seamen and greasy smoke, the dim light tinged with green by the leaded glass window at her back. The air was thick with wet wool and fish and sweat and odors she could not even identify.
As often as she dared, she lifted her head from contemplating the table and snatched looks around at the booths and tables. She could not imagine Sir Sheridan in a place like this. The last time she'd seen him, he would have graced a palace. With a rise of panic, she wondered if Fish could have got the instructions wrong.
Fish drank his ale, tilting back his chair and staring into the fire. He offered nothing to Olympia, ignoring her and everyone else. She rubbed her fingers together in her lap, miserably watching him finish off his fourth pitcher. She dared not speak. She could only turn slightly every time the door opened and watch the feet of
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