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Maggie continued to watch him but her eyes were concentrated on something far away, as if she had no need to focus anymore to know what she would see.

She still gripped the dish tightly, and Emily watched her chest rise and fall and the pulse beat in her throat.

Emily went back to bed briefly, this time falling asleep immediately. She woke to find Susannah beside her with a tray of tea and two slices of toast. She set it down on the small table and drew the curtains wide. The wind was moaning and rattling, but there were large patches of blue in the sky.

“I sent Maggie home for a little sleep,” Susannah said with a smile as she poured the tea, a cup for each of them. “The toast is for you,” she added. “Daniel has eaten some more, and gone back to sleep again, but when I looked in on him he was disturbed. I’m sure he must be having nightmares.”

“I imagine he will for years.” Emily sipped her tea and picked up a slice of the crisp hot-buttered toast. “Now I see why everyone so dreaded the storm.”

Susannah looked up quickly, then smiled and said nothing.

“Do they come like this often?” Emily went on.

Susannah turned away. “No, not often at all. Do you feel well enough to go to the store and get some more food? There are a few things we will need, with an extra person here.”

“Of course,” Emily agreed. “But he won’t stay long, will he?”

“I don’t know. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

But later, as she was walking along the sea front towards the village, Emily wondered why Susannah had thought the young man would stay. Surely as soon as he had rested sufficiently, he would want to be on his way to Galway, to contact his family, and the people who owned his ship. His memory would return with a little more rest, and he would be eager to leave.

She came over the slight rise towards the shore and looked out at the troubled sea, wracks of white spume spread across it, the waves, uncrested now in the falling wind, but still mountainous, roaring far up the shore and into the grass with frightening speed, gouging out the sand, consuming it into itself. It was the shadowless gray of molten lead, and it looked as solid.

At the shop she found Mary O’Donnell and the woman who had introduced herself as Kathleen. They stopped talking the moment Emily walked in.

“How are you, then?” Kathleen asked with a smile, as if now that Emily had endured the storm she was part of the village.

Mary gave her a quick, almost guarded look, then as if it had been only a trick of the light, she turned to Emily also. “You must be tired, after last night. How’s the young sailor, poor soul?”

“Exhausted,” Emily replied. “But he had some breakfast, and I expect by tomorrow he’ll be recovering well. At least physically, of course. He’ll be a long time before he forgets the fear, and the grief.”

“So he’s not badly hurt, then?” Kathleen asked.

“Bruised, so far as I know,” Emily told her.

“And who is he?” Mary said softly.

There was a sudden silence in the shop. Mr. Yorke was in the doorway, but he stood motionless. He looked at Kathleen, then at Mary. Neither of them looked at him.

“Daniel,” Emily replied. “He seems to have forgotten the rest of his name, just for the moment.”

The jar of pickles in Mary O’Donnell’s hands slipped and fell to the floor, bursting open in splintered glass. No one moved.

Mr. Yorke came in the door and walked over to it. “Can I help you?” he offered.

Mary came to life. “Oh! How stupid. I’m so sorry.” She bent to help Mr. Yorke, bumping into him in her fluster. “What a mess!”

Emily waited; there was nothing she could do to help. When the mess was all swept and mopped up, the pickles and broken glass were put in the bin, and there was no more to mark the accident than a wet patch on the floor and a smell of vinegar in the air. Mary filled Emily’s list for her and put it all in her bag. No one mentioned the young man from the sea again. Emily thanked them and went out into the wind. She looked back once, and saw them