“We’re going for a walk, Bess.”
The sun emerged that March morning, with the Channel a kindly blue and the sails of coasters and fishing boats hungry for even a breath of wind. Even so, the air held a whiff of the previous night’s fire, with smoke acrid at the back of their throats.
Smith was silent for the first half-mile until they arrived as Spike Cove, with the gaunt skeleton of the Spike looming on the hill above and a hundred kittiwakes screaming from their nests on the cliff.
“The Channel,” Smith said as if Bess was unaware of where she was. “Home of sore heads and sore hearts.”
Bess looked at him, unsure of his mood. “The authorities will be looking for you,” she said. “You can’t escape them forever, and Sir Francis is a dangerous man to cross.”
“They’ll be looking for the man
