For the winter months, today, the sea was as calm as a millpond, its mirror-like surface reflecting the faint rising sunlight in all directions, like straight beams of light hitting a glass prism on one face and emerging as shattered, colourful splinters from the other. At first light, Rainbaut and Domard pushed their rowing boat down the slipway and leapt aboard as it glided silently into the water of the port that was still asleep – they appeared to be the only two fishermen taking advantage of the high tide that morning. Sitting side by side on the central thwart, they lifted their oar into the rowlocks and began to row, soon settling into a steady rhythm and pulling away from the quayside.
“It’s a fine day,” Rainbaut offered, knowing he was unlikely to elicit other than a monosyllabic
