Agathe Brune Misses the Boat

Agathe Brune had heard the Antswarm’s bell from the net-loft and done the sum every woman at Weir’s End had learned this Book: four long darks in a short run, so the next boat would be an hour off at least. She went down the ladder for her second bundle of mended nets, the ones owed to a buyer across the water, and took her time with the knots.

She was back on the Tide House quay in under a minute. The boat was already in. Maudry Kell’s lamp had caught almost on the Antswarm’s heels, and the stern was packed with grey cloaks, a whole band of them crossing as one, so tight that Gaspard Thew had given up chalking the hull and simply waved them aboard. Three thousand souls and more had gone on that link. Hers was not one of them.

“Two drops and a half a span, near enough,” Gaspard called. “Next boat, if you want it. Same again, maybe worse.”

Agathe looked at the nets on her shoulder and at the price, and thought of the buyer, who paid late and complained about the mesh. Up on the headland the Tide House stokers were already banking the tarred shed’s fire for the next try, every lamp lit, as Maudry kept them.

“He can come over for them,” she said, and sat down on the quay with her needle. “Let him pay the oil.”