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innkeeper from whom John Coachman had obtained directions to Foxeden—the man Tamsyn later identified as her father. The senior Mr Kessel was flanked by two young men who bore him a striking resemblance, one of whom must be Tamsyn’s fishing boat captain brother, Dickin.
    The curate laughed and joked with the men, much friendlier than Honoria would have expected a clergyman would be with individuals whose true occupation, she suspected, involved activities of more dubious legality than innkeeping or fishery.
    â€˜I wonder that the vicar is on such good terms with free-traders,’ she murmured to her aunt as they made their way down the aisle.
    Miss Foxe laughed. ‘A Welshman likes his brandy and spirits as well as the next man. You won’t find any hereabouts who don’t do business with free-traders. I’ve even heard there’s a smuggler’s tunnel that leads into the basement under the sacristy of this church.’
    â€˜Surely not!’ Honoria replied, properly shocked—as, from the twinkle in her aunt’s eye, that lady had meant her to be. Was it true? she wondered.
    They reached the vestibule, where her aunt’s attention was immediately claimed by the visiting bishop. Realizing that she would soon be introduced to him and probably a number of members of the local community, Honoria’s initial enthusiasm for the excursion vanished. Hoping to postpone the moment as long as possible, she turned aside, ostensibly to allow her aunt a moment of private conversation.
    Remote as Sennlack—and even Exeter—were from London, she suddenly felt sick with apprehension that the bishop might, upon being given her name, have heard about her disgrace.
    Her anxiety over how to counter that possibility was interrupted by a little girl tugging at her sleeve. Having claimed her attention, the child smiled, bobbed a curtsy and held out a handful of flowers that wafted up to her the delicious odour of primroses.
    â€˜For me?’ Honoria asked.
    The girl nodded. Thin, with ragged blonde hair and dressed in a worn, simple gown, she appeared to be about ten years old.
    As Honoria looked from the flowers to the child, she noticedwith a small shock that while the girl’s one blue eye stared directly at her, the other, grey in hue, seemed to be inspecting the distance beyond. The mismatched colour and wandering eye gave the child an unsettling, other-worldly look.
    â€˜How very kind of you…’ As she paused, waiting for the child to supply her name, a woman hurried over.
    â€˜Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean for her to bother you! Come with Mama, now, Eva,’ the woman coaxed.
    â€˜She’s no bother. It was sweet of her to give me flowers,’ Honoria replied.
    Pulling free of her mother, the girl wiggled her fingers like a flowing sea, then made a dog-paddling motion.
    â€˜She brought them because she thought you were so brave, trying to help the man who looked to drown,’ the mother explained.
    Giving Honoria a lopsided smile as slightly off-kilter as her eyes, the girl nodded.
    Honoria felt both charmed and embarrassed. ‘I’m not brave at all, but thank you, Eva. The primroses are lovely!’
    The little girl patted the skirt of Honoria’s gown and made another gesture, to which her mother nodded.
    â€˜She thinks you are lovely, too, miss.’
    When the mother’s fond smile abruptly vanished, Honoria glanced in the direction of the woman’s gaze. One of the innkeeper’s sons was bearing down on them, an angry scowl on his face.
    â€˜I thought you’d been warned not to bring her here,’ he snarled at the mother.
    â€˜Sorry, Mr John,’ the woman said, curtsying as she grabbed the girl’s hand. ‘We was just going.’
    Seeming content now that her errand was discharged, the child let her mother lead her off.
    Honoria watched them go, frowning.
    The innkeeper’s son shook his head. ‘Not