The sitting room overlooked the harbor, filled with the soft, hazy light of a September morning. Nimue sat on the wooden bench with her knees drawn up and her chin resting on them, watching the boats shift with the slow pull of the tide.
Cinder lay across her feet, his warm weight pressing against her socks. His russet ears were flattened, and his nose pointed toward the kitchen door, twitching at the sounds of breakfast preparations.
Saoirse sat beside her, holding a ceramic cup of tea between her palms. Her dark hair was still damp from her morning shower, and the white streak running through it looked like a thin strip of silk against the darker strands.
"You are quiet, little bird," Saoirse said, her voice low and relaxed.
"I'm watching."
"The boats?"
Nimue nodded, her chin still resting on her knees. The white boat near the end of the quay had moved since breakfast. Its bow now pointed toward the open water instead of the weathered stone wall.
A man in a thick jumper stood on its deck, working with the heavy ropes. His movements were slow and practiced, as though he had performed the same task thousands of times.
In the kitchen, the sounds of packing continued. Jack was wrapping a loaf of bread in wax paper, his movements methodical. Jane had set a wicker basket on the table and was carefully packing firm red apples, a generous piece of hard cheese, and the remaining fougasse from breakfast.
"Water?" Jane asked.
"In the bag," Jack replied, his voice muffled as he leaned over his work. "The metal bottle."
"The wine?"
"We are fishing, Jane. We don't need a vintage for that."
"We are on a boat. It's different."
Jack stopped wrapping the bread and looked at her. Jane was already placing the green glass bottle in the corner of the basket, her expression perfectly calm and her hands steady. He shook his head with a quiet huff of amusement before returning to the bread.
From the sitting room, Saoirse heard the distinctive hollow pop of a cork being eased out.
"She packed the wine."
Nimue turned her head slightly. "Maman likes wine."
"Your mother likes wine anywhere, Nimue. On a boat, in a field, at the market. It isn't about the place for her. It's the principle."
By the time Jane brought the basket into the sitting room, everything was packed. Jack followed, carrying two fishing rods with worn cork handles and reels that smelled of fresh oil.
He had borrowed them from the man with the dog the previous evening, after a brief conversation at the garden gate. The man had disappeared into a cluttered shed and returned with the rods and a small tin of hooks.
The harbor was busier when they stepped outside. The sun had climbed higher, casting shorter, sharper shadows across the cobblestones.
Brilliant white sparks of light danced on the water. A group of men stood near the fish market with their hands buried in their pockets, talking in low, rough voices in French. One of them looked up as they passed, his eyes following the rods over Jack's shoulder.
Their boat was tied at the very end of the quay. It had a sturdy white hull with faded blue trim. A name had once been painted on its side, but salt and time had worn the letters away until they were no longer readable.
A man stood on the deck, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin was darkened to a deep mahogany by years in the sun. A cigarette was tucked behind one ear, and a thick, pale scar ran down his forearm like a split rope.
« Vous êtes les Anglais ? » he asked. His voice was rough, with a strong coastal accent. (Are you the English?)
« Oui, » Jack answered, stepping forward. « Jack. Jane. Saoirse. Nimue. »
The man looked at each of them in turn. His gaze lingered on Nimue, taking in her stark white hair and striking green eyes. He didn't speak for a moment. Instead, he held out a weathered, calloused hand toward Jack.
« Gilles. »
Jack shook it firmly. Gilles didn't smile. He turned abruptly and pointed toward the middle of the boat.
« Montez. On part dans cinq minutes. » (Get on. We leave in five minutes.)
The deck was wet, and the gray wooden boards felt slippery beneath their feet. Ropes had been coiled neatly against the rail. Nimue stepped aboard carefully, gripping Jack's arm when her trainers slipped slightly on the damp surface.
Cinder had stayed on the quay. He sat on the gray stone with his ears flattened and his tail still, watching her intently.
"Stay," she told him, pointing a finger in his direction.
The fox flattened his ears even further but didn't move.
Gilles started the engine. Its sudden, violent roar vibrated through the wooden deck and into Nimue's legs. The boat pulled away from the quay, and the gap of green-gray water widened as they left the harbor behind.
Nimue gripped the metal rail with both hands. The wind was cold out here, blowing her white hair across her face. The taste of salt was sharp on her lips. She watched the shore grow smaller. The cottages began to look like dollhouses, and the green hills seemed to flatten as the sky stretched wider and wider around them.
Gilles stood at the wooden wheel, his eyes fixed on the water ahead. He didn't look back at his passengers. He simply steered as the boat cut through the rising waves, sending fine, cold spray over Nimue's arms.
Their first fishing spot was close to shore, where the water changed from muddy gray to clear, dark green. Jagged rocks were visible just beneath the surface. Gilles cut the engine and let the boat drift with the gentle swell.
« Ici. On essaie. » (Here. Let's try.)
Jack baited the hooks with small silver fish. Their black eyes looked glassy and lifeless. Nimue watched as he pushed the sharp metal through their scales. The skin tore with a tiny sound, and a thin line of dark blood appeared against the silver.
"You hold it like this, Nimue." Jack showed her the rod and line. "Then you cast. Let the weight of the rod do the work for you."
He stood by the rail, pulled the rod back over his shoulder, and cast. The line sailed out in a long, easy arc, and the bait landed in the water with a soft plop. He then handed the rod to her.
"Now you try."
Nimue took it, curling her fingers around the cork handle. The rod was much heavier than she had expected, and the handle was still warm from Jack's grip. She pulled it back as he had shown her. Her small arms trembled slightly with the effort before she let go.
The line veered sideways. The bait landed much too close to the boat with an awkward splash, and the hook sank into the green depths.
"Again," Jack encouraged.
She pulled back once more, concentrating all her strength on the movement. This time, the line went straighter and farther, and the bait landed where the water was darker and deeper.
"Good."
Nimue held the rod firmly, her eyes fixed on the surface. The boat rocked gently beneath her. The line moved with the slow current, and the bobber was a tiny white dot against the vast gray expanse of the English Channel.
The white bobber dipped.
Nimue stared at it, holding her breath. It dipped again, lower this time, and the line suddenly pulled taut.
"Pull," Jack said, stepping closer. "Pull it up!"
She pulled with all her might. The rod bent into a sharp curve, the line tightened, and something heavy and frantic tugged at the other end. She pulled harder, bracing her feet against the deck as her arms began to shake with the strain.
"Reel it in," Jack said. He placed his hand over hers, guiding her fingers as she turned the handle. "Keep the tip up. Don't let the line go slack."
The fish burst out of the water in a flash of silver and green, its tail thrashing wildly. It was small, no bigger than her hand, with its mouth opening and closing around the hook caught in its lip.
Nimue held it up, the tip of the rod trembling. The line swung as the fish twisted, sending droplets of cold water through the air.
Jack removed the hook with a quick, practiced motion. He held the fish in his palm, watching its gills flare and its round, black eye move.
"Do you want to keep it?"
Nimue looked at the fish. Its mouth opened and closed as it struggled to breathe. The brilliant silver of its scales was already fading, turning dull and gray.
"No."
Jack leaned over the rail and released it. The fish hung just beneath the surface for a moment, its tail moving slowly as it regained its bearings. Then it vanished into the dark water.
"You caught something," Jane said from the other rail. Her own line was perfectly still, and her bobber hadn't moved.
"It was small."
"It was a fish, Nimue. That was your first one."
Gilles put out his cigarette against the rail and tucked the butt into his pocket.
« On change de place. » (We are changing spots.)
The engine roared to life again. The boat turned, and the spray felt even colder as they headed farther out. The shore had become a distant smudge, and the water was now a deep, bruised blue.
Their second spot was farther from land, where the waves were bigger and the boat rolled more heavily. Gilles cut the engine, and the vessel rocked beneath them. The rail was wet with sea mist, and the sky seemed enormous.
This time, Nimue baited her own hook. The little silver fish was cold in her hand, its skin slick and slimy, but the hook went through more easily than she had expected. She cast the line. It flew straight, and the bait landed in a patch of water that was almost black.
She waited.
The sun moved across the sky, and the boat rocked with a heavy, rhythmic thud. Jane caught two fish, both small and wriggling, but she threw them back. Jack caught one that was considerably bigger, its body thick and its scales dark as lead. He held it up for Gilles to inspect. Gilles nodded once and said something in French, too quickly for Nimue to understand. Jack then placed the fish in a plastic bucket.
Saoirse hadn't touched her rod. She sat on the bench with her eyes closed and her face turned toward the sun. Her empty cup rested on the deck beside her.
"You aren't fishing," Nimue pointed out, glancing over her shoulder.
"I'm supervising."
"You are sleeping."
"Same thing, little monster. Same thing."
Gilles moved them again. Their third spot was far out, where the water was so deep that Nimue couldn't even imagine the bottom. It was nothing but darkness, a place where the light couldn't reach. Gilles cut the engine, and the boat drifted in silence. The only sounds were the water slapping against the hull and the distant cries of gulls somewhere behind them.
Nimue cast her line. It went far, and the bait struck the water with a soft splash that she could barely hear over the wind.
She held the rod. Her arms were tired, and her hands had begun to ache. The cork handle was warm from her constant grip. The sun was high now, the light sharp and the shadows very short.
The bobber suddenly dipped beneath the surface.
Nimue pulled. The rod bent almost double, and the line went rigid under the weight of something strong and alive. She pulled harder, bracing her feet against the deck as her arms shook with the effort.
"Reel," Jack said.
He was beside her at once. His hand didn't touch hers, but he stayed close, ready to help if she lost her balance.
Nimue turned the handle. It moved slowly as the line came in, while the fish pulled back with powerful, rhythmic tugs. Her arms burned, and her hands slipped against the smooth metal handle.
"Keep going," Jack said softly. "You have it."
She kept reeling, her teeth clenched. The fish rose toward the surface, dark and long, with a wide, powerful tail. It broke through the water in a spray of foam, sending droplets flying everywhere. The hook was caught deep in its lip.
Jack reached over the side and hauled it aboard with a grunt. The fish was big, longer than Nimue's arm, with dark green scales along its back and a pale, shimmering belly. It slapped against the wet deck, its mouth open and its gills working frantically.
Gilles walked over, his heavy boots thudding against the wood. He looked at the fish, then down at Nimue.
« Grosse, » he said. For the first time, the corners of his eyes crinkled. « Pour ce soir. » (Big. For tonight.)
He picked it up and placed it in the bucket with the others.
Nimue stood there with the rod at her feet and her hands empty. Her arms trembled from the effort, and her face was wet with cold spray.
"You caught a big one," Jane said. She was smiling, and it was a small but genuine smile, the kind she rarely showed to strangers.
Nimue looked at the bucket. Her fish lay near the top, its gills still moving and its black eye staring blankly.
Then she picked up the rod and began baiting the hook again.
. . .
The sun was lower by the time they finally headed back toward the harbor. The light had turned a rich gold, and the water had grown flat and calm. Gilles stood at the wheel with a relaxed expression, his hands resting loosely on the spokes. The bucket was full now, the fish packed tightly together, their scales catching the afternoon light.
Nimue sat on the bench with her back against the rail and her arms wrapped around her knees. Cinder would be waiting on the quay, his ears flattened and his tail still, a small russet shape against the gray stone of the pier.
The harbor gradually came closer. The cottages grew larger, their windows catching the golden light. Laundry hung motionless on the lines in the dying breeze. The man with the dog stood on the quay, his dog's tail wagging as he raised a hand in greeting.
Jack waved back.
Gilles cut the engine and allowed the boat to drift into its place along the quay. It bumped gently against the stone. He already had the ropes in his hands, securing them to the iron bollards.
Nimue stood up. Her legs were stiff, and her arms felt heavy as lead. Her hands were sore from gripping the rod. She picked up the bag containing what remained of the bread and cheese. The wax paper was crumpled, and the fougasse was long gone.
Jane carried the bucket. Jack had the fishing rods, while Saoirse carried her hat and the empty wine bottle, holding it like a trophy in the afternoon light.
Nimue stepped onto the quay. Cinder was beside her immediately, pressing his body against her legs as his tail swept back and forth in an excited blur. She crouched and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his soft fur.
"I caught a fish," she whispered.
His ears perked up, and he licked her salt-crusted chin.
She stood again. The sun was lower now, casting long, thin shadows across the harbor. The fish market had closed for the day, and the man with the dog had already left. The only sounds were the water lapping against the boats and the gulls settling on the slate rooftops.
Nimue looked out at the water. The horizon had almost disappeared, the pale sky and dark sea blending into each other.
Jack rested a hand on her shoulder.
"Home."
She started walking. Cinder stayed close, his shoulder brushing against her leg and his ears alert to every distant sound. The fish bucket swung with Jane's steady steps, its contents catching the last of the sunlight.
Nimue stopped at the gate and looked back one more time. The water was dark, the sky was pale, and the boats rocked quietly against the quay.
Then she went inside, and the door closed behind her.
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