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dwell. The saltwife grumbles and directs her to halfway along the tenements to a group of white cottages.
    â€˜It’s up there, by the sea mill.’
    It takes Maggie longer than she thinks to reach it. Nevertheless, when she reaches Watts Close she realises how close she is to the harbour.
    â€˜Maggie,’ a deep voice calls out.
    About half way down the wynd, Patrick waves to her. Silhouetted by the sunlit harbour, he stands by a small cottage, his stance tall and proud. Maggie squints into the sun and walks towards him, with every step she resists the urge to run, and soon she has a better view of the dwelling. It has large stores at ground level for a good catch, and fishing gear with living accommodation above. At the entrance, near a little wooden door is a hook for drying fish. Below, an abundance of fishing nets, creels, baskets and skulls are on hand for line and sea fishing. Near the steps, Patrick waits, his eyes never leaving her face as she walks towards him.
    â€˜You took your time.’ His forehead creases. ‘Why is your hair uncovered? Shouldn’t you have it under a cap or tied with a fillet?’
    Maggie pulls a face at him. ‘No, I like my hair like this,’ she smiles, tossing her locks to one side.
    â€˜I really think you should keep your head covered in future, it’s not fitting. Put it on now,’ he squeezes her hand and guides her up the steps.
    Maggie changes the subject. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was near the harbour?’
    â€˜I did,’ he says.
    â€˜Are you going to show me inside our new home or are we going to stay out here all day in the cold?’
    â€˜Aye, but no kisses, Maggie. My mother might arrive at any moment, says she wants to give this place a wee clean.’
    Maggie huffs. The last thing she wants is an interfering woman. ‘I can clean it myself.’
    The wind in Musselburgh is like no other, blustering, bitter and incessant. Hand in hand they ascend the stone steps that lead to the fisherman’s dwelling. The interior is surprisingly warm, fat walls keep out the cold wind and drown out all noise from outside. With bright eyes, Maggie skips around the dwelling to explore every nook and cranny, and to imagine hers and Patrick’s possessions positioned inside.
    â€˜Patrick. Look here, there is a small window.’
    â€˜Aye, I’ve seen it. The glass isn’t broken, it’s just dirty and needs a bit of spit on a clout to clean it. Your chore,’ he nods to her.
    â€˜More like your mother’s.’
    â€˜Less of that, Maggie, you should be grateful for the help.’
    â€˜I just want us to be left alone.’
    â€˜There’s no rush. Patience, my love.’
    Maggie presses her finger onto the grimy windowpane; it feels cold and smooth to the touch. She draws a star in the dirt; it makes a squeaking sound with every line. Happy with her handiwork she wipes her finger on her skirts and crosses the room to his extended hand. A delicious shiver shoots up her spine as he takes her hand in his own and presses it to his lips. In a trance, Maggie follows him out of the dwelling.
    â€˜Next time we come here, I’ll be carrying you over the threshold.’
    Maggie smiles and then turns a frown. ‘Aye, I can’t believe it.’

    ***

    Upon the ancient rocks at Joppa, Maggie observes white caps explode against rocks misshapen by a thundering sea. Is there a more beautiful place, she wonders? She fancies not. A solan goose circles above her head, and it seems to spread its wings like a majestic angel to a dying sun. For a while, she follows its progress and becomes lost in thought. A bitter taste fills her mouth – in a short while her husband will be her master and she must do his bidding. With a sickened heart Maggie stands to leave. Beyond the rocks she catches sight of a splendid ship on the horizon, its intricate rigging and a fine figurehead cutting through the wind.