They arrived back at the boathouse as the sun crested the horizon.
The crying gull masked the sound of their return to the Waeshenbach’s shelter. The boat with provisions was untouched from the night before, and continued to bob gracefully.
Eryn was sweating with exertion and Boen lay comatose in a pool of seawater on the floor of the dinghy, rasping for breath.
As the boat came in to moor, Eryn nudged him awake. He groaned, and she hushed him. ‘Quiet!’ she whispered. ‘We don’t want to your pa to hear us!’
Boen, with a head filled with cast-iron bells, clambered shakily to the pier and tied the dinghy to a heavy, rusted ring.
He helped Eryn out of the boat – and without exchanging words they slipped away from one another, both disappointed their forbidden excursion had been an ultimate, and dangerous, waste of time. Boen would have watched her go, always taking the opportunity to catch a glimpse of her lithe behind, but his lids were heavy and it took all his effort to stop from collapsing in the grass.
The garden seemed a mile long as Boen meandered towards the house, and as he got to the front door, he fell forward – hitting his head hard on the kitchen floor. He blinked, not sure what had happened, and then felt a hand on his shoulder, grasping tightly.
‘Get up you thief!’ A hard voice growled.
‘Pa!’ Boen blurted, before retching bile on the tiles.
‘You dirty bastard! Get up, get out!’
His head spinning and his throat burning, Boen was dragged into the garden and punched hard in the face. He fell, clasping his head as he looked up. His father was standing over him, coiling his belt around his knuckles, his face contorted in a lour of ferocity.