The North Atlantic wind claws at the latch of the harbour master’s office, carrying the sharp, cold scent of kelp and crushed shell. Inside, the peat fire is a low, orange sulk against the grey light of a wet Harris dawn. Eilidh Ross stands by the heavy oak desk, her breath still misting in the damp air after the steep climb from the croft. Her copper hair is tucked tightly under an oatmeal scarf, though the salt spray has already found the pale curve of her cheekbones.
Mr MacCrimmon does not look up from the ledger immediately. He is a man of iron habits and weathered silences, his charcoal coat buttoned against the draft. In the corner, a tall man in a navy naval frock-coat stands with his right arm pinned in a linen sling, his face marked by the shadow of a recent grounding. He is Lieutenant James Calder, the survivor of the cutter currently canted on the rocks below. He watches Eilidh with deep-set, dark-blue eyes that seem to weigh the silver ring on her hand and the steady set of her shoulders.
“The manifest is sealed, Eilidh,” MacCrimmon says, his voice a gravelled rasp. “And the Admiralty does not like to wait on the tide.” He pauses, his gaze flickering toward the wounded officer before returning to hers. MacCrimmon’s hand reaches into his heavy wool coat, drawing out an oilskin pouch that is still dripping seawater.
