There she discovered Whit had undermined her dinner menu by bringing in a fish the size and shape of a platter, which he said was fresh from the sea and which he’d bought off a sailboat a ways down the row.

Fawn stared at it in horror as he proudly held it out. “Whit, that fish has two eyes!”

“All fish do.”

“Not on the same side! Whit, those fellows spotted you for an upcountry boy and foisted off some defective fish on you.”

“No, this kind is supposed to look like that”—he studied it in some doubt himself—“they said. But the important thing is, I got us a ride down to the shore tomorrow morning in their boat. They go out every day the weather allows to do their fishing, see. They’ll drop us off on the beach in the morning and pick us up again on their way back. We can take a picnic!”

A picnic, in the heart of winter? Well, why not? In West Blue, a foot of snow would have fallen by now. Here, it was merely cloudy and chilly.

Bo vouched for the two-eyed fish, which didn’t exactly reassure Fawn, especially after his tale about the rolling hoop snakes used for cart wheels, but so did Berry, so she cooked it up as best she could. Dag ate it without hesitation, but, well, patrollers. Fawn, conscious of his crinkling eyes on her, eventually broke down and nibbled. It was alarmingly delicious.

So it was she found herself packing a big basket with food and another with blankets by lantern-light the next morning, as the laggard sun would not be up for another hour. Berry and Whit undertook to bring Hawthorn; Fawn supposed she and Dag would trail Remo and Barr behind them in a not-dissimilar fashion.

Hod elected to stay with the still-convalescing Bo, and not just due to the tales about the people-eating sea fish with giant teeth and the things with tentacles sporting suckers that popped blood from your skin. The two—parentless Hod and childless Bo—seemed in a fair way to adopting each other. They’d all come a long way from Oleana, Fawn thought, but Hod especially. He’d become a competent boat hand, and more. He was not so skinny, not so shy, and was a good two inches taller, partly from her cooking but mostly from not carrying himself so S-shaped. They’d be in Graymouth some weeks yet; when Bo felt better, she would make sure Hod found his chance to visit the shore.

Fawn had never ridden in a sailboat before. The creaking of its lines and tilting of its deck as the patched and discolored sails caught the faint dawn breeze made her nervous, but Dag was watching her closely, so she raised her chin and tried to sit bravely. The four fellows who ran the boat—two brothers and a couple of their half-grown sons—did appear to know what they were doing, and were glad to show the curious Whit, too. After a bit, even Barr and Remo unbent and horned in on the deal. Dag seemed content to lean back with his arm around Fawn.

Dawn over the marshes was gold and gray, a severe winter beauty all its own. Birds swarmed up to greet the light, though their cries seemed strange and sad in the misty air. From time to time along the channel Fawn could spot the decaying remains of flatboats amongst the other wrack, wrecked and washed down in a flood, or else simply abandoned and allowed to drift out to sea. Half in fear and half in hope, Fawn made out every drowned log to be a lurking swamp lizard, but Dag said not, though he promised to find her one later, an offer for which she thanked him politely but unencouragingly.

“One good thing about this time of year,” Whit called, slapping his neck. “Hardly any mosquitoes.”

“True enough,” Dag agreed amiably. “Come high summer, these southern mosquitoes carry off small children to feed to their young.”

“They do not!” Hawthorn cried indignantly, which made the fishermen grin. “You shouldn’t ought to tell such tales to Whit, he’s bound to believe you ’cause on account as you’re tent-brothers.”

The corners of Dag’s mouth tucked up. He murmured, “Ah, you never met my Luthlian tent-brothers. Those Wolverine boys trained me out of that right quick.”

The boat bore left at the next split in the channel, and in a half-hour more, a line of dun-colored sand dunes rippled across the flat horizon. The ascending sun began to draw up the mist, so that the far distance seemed to be veiled by a gilded gauze curtain shifting in a gentle draft. The boat scrunched bow-first into the sandy shore just behind the dunes, and the fellows jumped out, took the baskets, carried Fawn, Hawthorn, and Berry dry-shod across the last stretch of water, and united to help give the sailboat a good shove back out into the channel.

Fawn watched it drift away. So, if the boat sank out there on the big sea, would they ever be able to get back to Graymouth? Far up the channel, a faded red sail loomed, so perhaps they would be able to hail another fisherman, and not be stranded. On that reassuring thought, she took Dag’s proffered hand, warm in the cool light, and scrambled up the dune, sand shifting under her sliding feet, which made her laugh breathlessly. Dag watched her profile anxiously as she pressed to the crest, and the world’s rim opened before her astonished eyes.

The vast expanse of water gleamed like steel, blending in a muted, distant, silvery-gold line with the equally vast, lavender-edged sky. It was like being inside a great bowl of liquid light. On the strand, stretching away like wool rolled for spinning, waves broke and murmured. The damp, strange-smelling air caressed Fawn’s flushed cheeks as she stared and stared. The smell seemed to be some stronger cousin to that of a riverbank or creek bed, but with a tang all its own like nothing she’d smelled before. She took in a huge breath of it. “Oh. My.”

Hawthorn whooped and ran down the sand dune; Berry, laughing, called him to slow down and slid after, Whit on her heels. Remo and Barr, with a wild look at each other, followed.

Dag scanned the horizon, brows pinched. “It was all warm and blue, first time I was down here,” he muttered. “Which was fifty or a hundred miles west of here, though.”

“That was late spring, too, you said. ’Course it was warmer,” said Fawn.

He cast her a grave look, and swallowed. “This isn’t…this wasn’t the wedding trip I’d promised you, I’m afraid.”

“You promised to show me the sea. That there is it, isn’t it?” Most amazingly the sea. Fawn tossed her head.

“I didn’t anticipate Crane, nor river bandits, nor exposing you to all those horrors.” With a hesitant finger, he traced her neck where Crane’s knife had lain. He added after a moment, “Nor making you cook for a boatload of folks the whole way.”

Blight Crane. “I don’t think we anticipated the Fetch at all, nor Berry, nor Bo and Hawthorn and Chicory and Wain and all those others, but I’m glad to have met them. Even Remo and Barr turned out pretty good, in the end. I’ve learned so many new things I’ve lost count, which I wouldn’t want to give back nohow.” She hesitated, searching for the right words to ease his misplaced fear of disappointing her, without pretending that the cave hadn’t mattered. “Mama used to say to me, when I was young and pining for my birthday or some other treat to come quick, right now, Don’t go wishing your life away.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “Don’t you go wishing my life away, either.”

He smiled a little, although she was afraid it was half for amusement at that when I was young part. “There’s a point, Spark.”

“You’d best believe it.” Firmly, she pulled him down the slope.

Hawthorn already had his shoes and socks stripped off and trouser legs rolled up, and was prancing about in the foam that bubbled and hissed around his feet. Barr and Remo watched him rather enviously. They set down their baskets beside a likely-looking mess of driftwood and all walked up the beach together. Everyone including Dag bent to collect seashells and marvel at the strange shapes and colors. Fawn was especially taken with the round, hollow ones, like sugar cookies with flower patterns pressed in the center, trying to imagine what wondrous creatures had made them or lived in them.