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asked quietly, “Are you really so very vexed with me?”
    “Not vexed. Certainly not with you.” Owen dropped her arm, pushed back his cap, and smiled—almost—as he tugged a long ringlet of her hair. “I am worried for the lad. He’s terribly afraid of something. I don’t know what.” Owen kicked a stone with his boot. “When I asked him to join us, he made up some cock-and-bull story about his old priest—a Father Boyd—forbidding him to step foot into a Protestant church. Said he’d called it a ‘den of vipers.’”
    “The idea!” The flush in Annie’s cheek rose, nearly as bright as the nosegay she carried.
    “He said ‘consorting with the devil church’ was the reason his mam had been excommunicated from the Holy Roman church—that, and for marrying a Scots-Irish Presbyterian.” He shrugged. “I can’t make him out, but I pity the lad.”
    Annie sighed. “I’m sorry for him, Owen—truly I am. But what more can you do? You’ve talked to Mr. Bealing. He’s agreed to give him a try in his nurseries.” She smoothed her skirt and looked away. “I do think the boy brings his sufferings on himself. You saw how he stood across the street from the church and stared at us. Even when you called him, he turned away—and on Easter Sunday! Beastly manners!”
    “Annie!” Owen said more sharply than was his habit. “You’re talking like Aunt Eleanor again.”
    Annie lifted her chin.
    “And what appears poor manners might be something more kindly explained.” Owen tipped his hat to a lady in passing. “You saw the anguish on his face. He refused to join us, but there’s something more behind it; I’m sure of it.”
    “I suppose. But, Owen, please let’s not quarrel. You promised we would spend the afternoon together.” Her moments with her brother were fleeing—an india-rubber ball racing downhill. She could not spare one in regret.
    Owen straightened and pushed his frown away. “I did, indeed. And so we shall.” He offered Annie his arm again. “May I introduce you to the town hall gardens and your brother’s handiwork, my lady?” He winked.
    She nodded eagerly, glad for Owen’s jest.
    “There’s a bench there. I’ll show you how to run your fingers beneath its seat and feel the carving of our names. No one else will know they’re there, but you will know.”
    He smiled so kindly Annie thought her heart might burst.
    “And when you touch our names, you’ll remember that I’m here with you in every way I can be. Visit the bench on your birthday—your fifteenth.” He smiled. “I’ll be thinking of you the same day. Let those carved letters be my promise to send for you the moment I’m able.”
    Annie nodded. She swallowed the burning in her throat and clung the tighter to Owen’s strong arm, determined not to cry outright. “I hold you to that promise, Brother.”

Michael spent Tuesday afternoon waiting and dreading the setting of the sun, waiting and dreading to meet Owen at the docks. One last job with the only friend he could claim before that friend sailed away. And what a fool he’d made of himself—refusing Owen’s invitation to Easter services with him and his sister, then spying on them from behind a lamppost. Michael clapped his cap against his knee and groaned aloud. A fool!
    He would have been fearful of running into his uncle by the quay, except that he knew the ship’s crew—certainly the stokers—would be drowning in ale as long as their fists could grasp a glass in local pubs that night. The “no drinking at sea” rule for crew members boosted the business of port pubs the night before a sailing. Still, just to be certain, Michael pulled up his jacket collar and tugged his cap down.
    Mule-drawn carts, loaded and heaping with pots and plants, trundled down the dock just before dusk, and Owen behind them.
    “Tim! You’re here, lad. I want you to meet Mr. Bealing.” Owen bent down to whisper, “Stand straight, Tim. This is your chance for a new