Caul looked down at the sleeping city nestled in the curve of the island’s southern shore. Then he turned his back on it, raised his lantern, and switched it on and off three times. He’s gone mad, thought Wren, and then, No—he’s signaling to someone, just like the wicked headmaster in Milly Crisp and the Twelfth Tier Mystery.

And sure enough, down among the empty, rocky bays of the north shore, another light flashed back an answer.

Caul moved on, and Wren began to follow him again, dropping down the steep northern flank of the island, out of sight of the city. Maybe he and Miss Freya had got back together and were too afraid of gossip to let anyone know? It was a romantic thought, and it made Wren smile to herself as she tracked Caul down the last precipitous stretch of sheep track, through a stand of birch trees, and out onto a beach between two headlands.

Miss Freya was not waiting for him. But someone was. A man was standing at the water’s edge, watching as Caul went crunching toward him down the shingle. Even from a distance, in the faint light of the Aurora, Wren could tell that he was someone she had never seen before.

At first she could not believe it. There were no strangers in Vineland. The only people here were those who had come here aboard Anchorage or been born here since, and Wren knew all of them. But the man on the shore was a stranger to her, and his voice, when he spoke, was a voice she had never heard.

“Caul, my old shipmate! Good to see you again.”

“Gargle,” said Caul, sounding uneasy, and not taking the hand that the stranger held out for him to shake.

They said more, but Wren was too busy wondering about the newcomer to listen. Who could he be? How had he come here? What did he want?

When the answer hit her, it was one she didn’t like.