It was an ill storm that gathered on the heels of the fret. The townsfolk, familiar with the omens, stayed by their hearths during the day and, bolting their doors against the thickening dark, retired early to bed.

Outside, the wind rose, churning the sea to an oily foam; sickened, it threw all sorts up on the shore. Peaty timbers from some ancient shipwreck. A whale’s skull, barnacle-studded and garlanded all round with bladderwrack. A wooden leg. No soul abroad, to mark these leavings that would vanish on the returning tide. No sign of life in the whole town, save for a single flickering light in an upstairs window. Its invitation was well understood.

Dawn burst clear and fresh the next day. Relieved, the people rose and busied themselves, no one noticing two figures emerging from the widower’s cottage in the late morning. Not until the door to the inn swung open and old John entered – followed by Her. The salt-stiff swish of her skirts, the creak in every step. And everywhere, the dank stench of the sea.