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The tide rolled in.

I stepped closer to the edge, drawn by the lick of salt on the breeze. In one breath, the wind tugged back my briny curls and swept blue into the black lung of the cliffs. Sea spray flecked my cheeks, and the knot in my chest tightened.

Down below, waves tossed a broken body against jagged rocks, leaching old blood into the tidepools. Another day, another dead.

Gods – don’t be him.

Villagers trudged the shoreline, fishermen in waterlogged slacks braving the shallows. They waded towards the homebound corpse, superstition snapping at their heels. My heart thrummed an anxious rhythm, waiting.

Their families hung back, a crowd gathering at the water’s edge. I watched from above, pretending I didn’t long to push my way past them, to feel the bite of the ocean through my worn boots. Safer up here, letting the wind whip my heart’s tug of longing into submission.

All I could see were the man’s thin arms and dark hair, a grimy shirt plastered to his pale flesh. I’d seen enough bodies in the past weeks not to fear the death in his hollow cheeks, but my pulse still raced. Terrified that the body the fishermen lugged between them belonged to my father. And if not today, then tomorrow.

Seawater scattered beneath wading boots as the villagers laid the body ashore. The crowd scrambled forward, their steps swallowed by sand. Still, I hung back. I’d have my answer soon.

Sure enough, a cry cut through the dusk.

I scanned the cluster of figures, spotting a woman as she sank to her knees, head cradled in her hands – as though they could hold the weight of her grief. She was the village blacksmith, her husband one of my father’s crew. One of the few who’d returned at all.

My fingernails bit into my palms, hot tears welling at the anguish that filled the air. It was getting harder and harder to cling to old hopes when each day presented a horrifying new truth. It would’ve taken a miracle for Father to leave those waters with his life.

I shut my stinging eyes and turned back to the sea, listening to the blacksmith’s cries echo through the bay like the call of a gull. Clouds descended to the clifftops, obsidian crags glistening with fading sunlight. I inhaled, smelling the brewing storm as it whispered through the forest towards us. Not long now.

‘Ria!’

I glanced over my shoulder. Aberdeen marched down the hill towards me, lilac skirts whipping about her legs. She halted at the edge of the dead grass, eyes sharp and quizzical.

Strangled sobs rose from the shoreline below and I saw a sigh of relief escape her. I didn’t need words to tell her what we both already knew.

‘Get inside,’ was all she said, her gaze flickering to the heavy horizon before she spun around and stalked back up to the house. Any slower and I might’ve caught a glimpse of fear in her moonstone eyes. But no, that wouldn’t be my sister.

I threw one last glance at the sea, bit down on my lip and hurried after her.

Aberdeen snaked up the path with brisk steps, her raven hair pulled back in a tight braid, safe from the wind as it swept twilight into the bay.

Our cottage sat in the crescent of two hills, its backyard spilling into the woodlands beyond. Gnarled ivy overtook the crumbling stone walls and little arched doorway, but gardening had long ago lost its place on our list of priorities.

‘How is she?’ I asked, stepping over the threshold.

Aberdeen shoved a lukewarm bowl of broth into my hands and ushered me towards the stairwell. ‘Take this up to her.’

I stared down at the bowl, its watery contents stirring the hunger in my belly. We lived on the stuff in winter, but the leaves had only just turned and our cupboards were near barren already.

Worry nipped at my stomach as I took the broth upstairs, nudging my way into our bedroom. The stale air hit my nose, the small room cloying with the scent of sickness. Felicie lay with the covers shoved down to her ankles, nightdress sticking to her pale skin.

My expression tipped softly into a smile. ‘Are you awake?’ I whispered, kneeling by the side of her bed.

My older sister’s eyes slid open and a returning smile tugged at her tired lips. ‘Hi.’

‘I brought your supper,’ I offered, gesturing for her to sit up. Felicie’s head wavered as she pulled herself upright and I settled the bowl into her lap, brushing a hand over her damp forehead. ‘Bad day?’

She nodded mutely, leaning into my touch. We’d passed countless hours this way, with me wiping her fever-ridden brow, whispering stories into her gold-spun hair. Being two years younger had never stopped me from trying to take care of her.

Felicie lifted the bowl to her mouth, taking a delicate sip. Then she frowned. ‘Did Aberdeen make this?’

I tried to swallow my laugh, but failed. ‘Yes.’