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her cloak and clutched the woollen shawl tighter at her throat, the savage wind determined to snatch it away. Her eyes watering from the sting of the cold air and the forward rush of speed, she peered out along the length of the bowsprit that pointed towards the grey blur of land several miles away.
    Behind her, in the sails and rigging, the wind was screaming as it tore past, canvas thundering under the strain, blocks and tackles clattering against spars and masts. The surf creamed away to each side of the keel as Sea Witch ploughed her way through wave after wave with a shrug of disdainful contempt; each great roller trundled beneath her, lifting her bow higher and higher, her stern sinking lower, until the sea, in turn, lifted her rear and her bow began its next downward plunge. The serpentine motion, rising and falling, her power and speed both exhilarating and frightening at once.
    Staring at the sea Tiola was mesmerised, the sound, feel, smell of the sea surrounding, entering and consuming her. She was aware of the men about their tasks; adjusting the sails, nurturing every inch of effort from the ship, but it was the sea that drew her attention, pulling her down into the white toss of bubbling agitation below the surface. Down, and down some more. Down through the swaying, clearer water into the secret depths, the light fading to a murk of darkened green. Down through the darting fishes and the trailing weeds. Down, and down, and down to the sand and the rocks, and the peaceful tranquillity. Down to the very depths of darkness where the sun could never penetrate, where there was silence, where there was…
    ~ Well come, my dear… ~ A voice in Tiola’s head that sounded like the hush of the sea, whispering alongside her own thoughts: Let go. Give in .
    All you have to do is let go.
    Let go.
    ~ Let go; come join me. Come join me for ever… ~
    With a gasp Tiola jerked her senses back to the awareness of reality. Such an effort to raise her head! She stared at the far off haze that edged the horizon. Land. Was it Cornwall or Devon? She had been born into this body in Cornwall, her eternal soul transposing into the child of a Wising Woman’s granddaughter – and a loathsome bastard of a father. He had been a man of the cloth, a Christian Reverend. Full of pious bigotry and lust for young girls. Her mother had been hanged for killing him, the bloodied knife used to protect her ninth child and only daughter all that was needed to condemn her. By law the execution should have been by burning, for the murder of a husband was petty treason, and treason was punished by fire. Except that the rain had been falling and everywhere so sodden that wood, faggots and reeds would not ignite. Outraged that a woman, the witch, could slay their parson the villagers had not cared to wait for more clement conditions. Tiola’s mother had been dragged to the yew tree in the churchyard and hanged, without trial and without mercy, to the jeers of derision and shouts of superstitious hatred. The irony? It was Tiola who was the witch, not her mother.
    The fear and grief of that afternoon trampled into her tired and confused mind. This while with Jesamiah she had almost forgotten that awful time. Hiding, scared, overnight the secret escape on a smuggler’s boat, all arranged by her beloved brother. And dear Jenna Pendeen, as loyal as a faithful hound. Jenna had packed a few belongings, managed to squirrel away some of her mistress’s jewels, and had endured the sea voyage to Cape Town and safety with Tiola. Refugees with a new identity, a new life and new beginnings on the far side of the world – and the chance meeting with Jesamiah.
    Only Jenna, too, was gone now and nothing, where souls were linked and locked to each other by the warp and weft of fate, was by chance. Tiola could not live without Jesamiah. Not now.
    He is not yours, Witch Woman. He is mine.
    That voice in her head, the sound of the sea filling her ears, mind and