Hazel breathed through her nose, feeling the air fill her lungs. She smelled the lavender in the garden, and even from here, blocks from the harbor, the briny scent of the sea. Glancing toward the house she smelled the currant cake fresh from the oven.

“Ye must be hungry,” she said. “Maeve made a cake. We have fresh butter. She said ye wanted tea.”

Buck gazed at her. “It’s true I haven’t eaten in a while. And I confess I’m thirsty. Ye got any sugar?”

“We do,” she said.

She thought about the twice-a-day tirades in the chapel at the Cascades, enough sermons to last a lifetime. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him. Buck had been an infant once. A child. Maybe he was cast out, or betrayed, or beaten. Maybe he never had a chance. She didn’t know, would never know. All she knew was her own hard story. How easy it would’ve been to sow bitterness, the way he did. To nurture it until it bloomed like a noxious flower. “We believe in forgiveness here, Mr. Buck,” she said.

“Vengeance tastes better to me,” he said.

Ruby looked up, sensing a change in tone. “Mama?”

“That’s what she told ye?” Buck reached out and grabbed Ruby’s arm, yanking her to her feet. “She’s not your mama, little girl.”

Hazel couldn’t help it; she gasped.

Ruby made a small sound, a whimper.

Hazel had to fight the urge to lunge at him. She knew it would be foolhardy; there was too much at stake. “It’s all right, Ruby,” she said, her voice wobbling only slightly.

With the knife, Buck motioned toward the house. “Lead the way.”

Hazel raised her eyebrows at Maeve as they entered the gloamy kitchen. She saw Maeve taking it all in: Buck holding the knife, his other hand on Ruby’s arm.

The kettle was on a tripod over the hearth. The knives were in a drawer. The cast-iron skillet and pots were hanging from hooks on the other side of the room.

Buck looked back and forth between them. Gazing directly at Hazel over Ruby’s small head, he whispered, “Don’t even think about tryin’ anything. I’ll slit her throat as quick as I’d kill a lamb.”

Hazel was aware of each breath passing through her. Her eyes flitted over the knife in Buck’s hand, Maeve standing at the table, the green sprigs of mint behind her. “Maeve,” she sighed, “your eyesight has gotten so bad. Ye picked the wrong herb. The mint’s in a different part of the garden, remember?” She turned to Buck. “Ye asked for mint, yes? Not sage?”

Nodding slowly at her, Maeve slid the mint into her pocket. “Oh, dear. What was I thinking? Would you be an angel, Hazel, and get a few sprigs? I’ll put out the cake.”

“Nope,” Buck said. “She’s not leaving.”

Maeve set the currant cake and the slab of butter in front of him. He cut into the cake with the knife he still clutched in his hand, then roughly sliced a chunk of butter and smeared it on the cake. For a few moments the only sound was of him chewing. The click of his jaw.

“I don’t mean to blow me own trumpet, Mr. Buck, but I make a lovely pot of mint tea,” Maeve said.

“I’ll take water.”

“Cold water’s in the cistern in the shed. I have hot here. Boiled for tea.”

His mouth twitched. “Get the mint, then. You, not her.” He pointed the knife at Maeve, then Hazel. “Don’t even think about yellin’ for help.”

“She’s right, though. Me eyes aren’t what they used to be.” Maeve ran a hand back and forth in front of her face. “It’s all fuzzy. Mint looks like every other green herb to me, I’m afraid.”

“Let me do it, Mr. Buck. I know right where it is,” Hazel said. “You’ve got Ruby,” she added quietly. “Why would I try anything?”

Ruby gazed at her with her big brown eyes. Hazel gave her a tremulous smile.

Looking straight at Hazel, Buck held the knife near Ruby’s cheek, pointing the tip toward her temple. “Make it quick,” he said.

Hazel took a small earthenware bowl from the counter and went outside and down the steps. Bending over the herb patch, she collected several sprigs of mint with quaking fingers. Then she stood and turned back toward the house, toward the green bush with floppy leaves and pale pink, trumpet-shaped flowers that sat by the front door.

Maeve filled a cup from the teapot and handed it to Buck. “Sugar? Or honey?”

“Sugar.”

She pushed the pot of sugar in front of him. He added two heaping spoonfuls and stirred it. Ruby, beside him, asked, “May I have some?”

“Ye already had your tea,” Hazel said. “How about a piece of cake?”

Ruby nodded.

“Our mint is strong, Mr. Buck,” Maeve said. “Better with lots of sugar. There’s nothing nicer than sweet tea, is there?”

Buck added two more spoonfuls. He took a sip, then drank noisily. Sliced off another hunk of currant cake and ate it in gulps.

“Can I play with my dollhouse?” Ruby asked.

“She’s not leavin’,” Buck said.

“It’s only in the next room,” Hazel said.

“I want her where I can see her.”

Ruby shifted restlessly. “I’m tired of sitting here.”

“I know,” Hazel said. “Our friend will be leaving soon.”

Buck leaned back in his chair. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He lifted the knife in the air, ran a finger along the blade as if examining its sharpness.

Hazel looked at him, at his thin sandy hair and sunburnt lips, the tail of the red-and-black mermaid on his forearm disappearing into his sleeve.

Buck rubbed his eye with a finger and blinked a few times. “Ye got some meat? Long as it’s not kangaroo.” He grunted a laugh. “Too gamey for my taste.”

Maeve took the cured ham from the larder and he carved off two large slabs and ate them with his fingers. That’s right, Hazel thought, quench your thirst with salt.

He gulped a second cup of tea and asked for a third. When she handed it to him, he drained it and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I was thinking,” he said to Hazel, “we might finish what we started on the ship.”

She watched a bead of perspiration roll down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. “Ye were thinking that, were ye?”

He wagged his head toward the front of the house. Sweat dappled his upper lip. “One of them rooms would do fine.”

She watched him closely. He took a deep breath, then another. He rubbed the hair back from his scalp, and then, with curiosity, glanced at his hand. It was shiny wet. He stared, opening his eyes wide as if to allow in more light.

“The thing is, it’s too late for that, Mr. Buck.”

“What?” He took a gulp of air. “What in the . . .” He stood up fast, knocking over his chair. His legs buckled and he sagged against the table. “Don’t move,” he barked, holding the knife out like a sword.

“Mama?” Ruby looked up. “What’s wrong with the man?”

“He’s feeling poorly.”

Ruby nodded. It wasn’t unusual to see people in the house who felt poorly.

Turning to Maeve, Hazel said, “Take her out.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Buck shouted, choking oddly on the words.

“I don’t want to leave you alone with him,” Maeve said to Hazel. “He still has the knife.”

“Look at him. He can barely stand.” Hazel stepped closer to Buck. When she reached over and touched his wrist, he swung the blade at her wildly. Then he grimaced and sank sloppily onto a chair. The knife slid from his hand and clattered on the floor.

Buck shook his head as if trying to wake from a nap. “What—what’s happening?”

Hazel picked up the knife, watching him, and touched the blade. Sharp, indeed. She placed it on a shelf.

Maeve nodded. “All right.” Turning to Ruby, she said, “Let’s go to the harbor and see if we can spot some seals on the rocks.” She grasped the girl’s hand and led her out of the kitchen.

When they were alone, Hazel sat in the chair across from Buck. His pupils were huge and black, his shirt soaked through with perspiration. She reached for the earthenware bowl on the sideboard behind her. Inside it were some sprigs of mint and three long, pale pink flowers with pointed tips, elegant as bells. She set the bowl on the table.

“There’s a saying among healers and midwives, Mr. Buck. ‘Hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, mad as a hatter.’ Have ye heard it?”

He shook his head uncertainly.

“Well, it describes a set of symptoms. Starting with ‘hot as a hare.’ You’re feeling quite warm right now, aren’t ye?”

“It’s broilin’ in here.”

“No it isn’t. Your body temperature is rising. Next is ‘blind as a bat.’” She pointed at her own eyes. “Your pupils are dilated. Things are getting blurry, yes?”

He rubbed his eyes.

“Dry as a bone.” She touched her own throat. “You’re parched.”

He swallowed.

“You’re not quite as red as a beet, but your skin is awfully flushed. And ‘mad as a hatter,’ well . . .”