Noddall busied himself at the table with his wine cooler.

Bolitho watched him, recognizing every movement. Noddall was small, like a little rodent. Even his hands, which when not in use he held in front of his body, were like paws. But he was a good and willing servant, and like some of the others had come to the ship from Bolitho’s Undine.

Herrick stood up, his head clear of the deck beams as evidence of Tempest’s generous proportions, and raised his goblet.

He said, “To you, sir, and your birthday.” He grinned. “I know it was yesterday in fact, but it took me a day to discover the wine.”

They continued almost in silence, their long pipes lit, their glasses readily refilled by the watchful Noddall.

Overhead, through the skylight, they could see the stars, very large and close, and hear the regular footsteps of a master’s mate as he paced back and forth on watch, the occasional shuffle of boots from the marine sentry beyond the bulkhead. Bolitho said, “It will be late autumn in Cornwall now.” He did not know why he had said it. Maybe he had been thinking of Sayer. But he could see it all the same. Gold and brown leaves, a keener edge to each dawn. But still fresh and bright. It always held off the winter in Cornwall. He tried to recall the ordinary sounds. The ring of chipping hammers as the farm workers used their time building or repairing the characteristic stone and slate walls which separated their fields and houses. Cattle and sheep, the fishermen tramping up from Falmouth to one of a dozen tiny hamlets at the end of the day.

He thought of his own house below Pendennis Castle. Square and grey, the home of the Bolithos for generations. Now, apart from Ferguson, his steward, and the servants, there was nobody. All gone, either dead or, like his two sisters, married and living their separate lives.