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here?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “May I come back, miss?”
    “Yes, I’d like that. But don’t let Wysteria or the Hounds see you. Neither favor strangers.”
    He smiled. “I’m as quick as a hare in the brush and twice the man besides.”
    “I hope so.” I started to leave and then turned back. The boy was still looking up at me. He took off his cap.
    “Thank you,” I said. “For bringing the kite back. It’s a special kite, you know?”
    “I know, miss, ’tis very special.”

    By the time I reached Wysteria, the bell was no longer ringing and I knew immediately she had no knowledge of Farley’s presence. She was in her own room, bent over in a chair, recovering from a bad fit of coughing. She could not yet speak but held out her hand to me. The hand was bony, the skin over it like tissue paper, harboring rivers of veins that rose up blue and magenta against the pale surface.
    As I waited for Wysteria to catch her breath, I stole a quick glance about the room. I was rarely allowed inside Wysteria’s bedchamber. She never rang for me from there, only from the great room, and her door was always locked. It was smaller than I had imagined, and modestly furnished except for the bed, a giant four-poster with curtains draped around it, an ornate nightstand cluttered with myriad bottles and small jars and, against the far wall, an enormous armoire, which held her many black dresses. Though Wysteria apparently had little love for her deceased husband, she had carried her mourning well past the usual duration, the captain having been gone now more than twenty years. Still she continued each day to dress in her widow’s weeds, which afforded her a certain status in town and provided her protection from any man interested in acquiring her assets.
    “I prefer black,” she always insisted. “It is neither boisterous nor plain and accompanies one anywhere with elegance.”
    “But do you not grow weary of wearing the same color?” I had asked once.
    “Never. It is a mark of distinction.” Wysteria’s nightgown was the only piece of clothing she owned that was not black but instead a crisp white linen.
    “Miranda,” she whispered, clutching at the nightdress and pressing her hand firmly upon her chest. “I can barely find my breath.” She looked up at me. Her eyes hollow and dark. I had never seen her in such a state, and it frightened me. As much as Wysteria bossed me about and kept me from the open air, she was the only semblance of family I had, and I could not possibly do without her. She collected and delivered the nets; she kept the Manor running. She was my only companion in that drafty house. As well, Wysteria, as long as I had known her, had always maintained a firm grasp on her own health, refusing to bow down to illness or surrender to infirmity. She wished never to appear weak in any regard or to cast a single doubt upon her ability to govern her affairs.
    “Should I steam some water and bring a towel?” I asked.
    “Yes,” she whispered. “Do that.”
    For the rest of the morning and well into the late afternoon, I brought bowls of hot water and made a tent over Wysteria’s head so she could take in the moist air. By the time her breathing finally eased, the sun was beginning to set and I left her to go light the lantern.
    As I struck the match and lit the wick, I noticed on the beach below a small fire built close to the cliffs. Although I strained my eyes, I could make out no figure beside it. Perhaps it was Farley or one of the fishermen who slept outside, for I had heard that some did in good weather, liberating themselves from the shacks on the pier. Wysteria had warned me never to traverse the beach at night for this very reason, for the men were often drunk and out of their heads and could bring harm upon a young girl. I am not sure why she told me this, as she knew I never left the Manor alone even in the daytime.
    Looking down upon the warm and glowing fire, I felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps