Chapter 23: The Wedding on the Quay

The first frost came to Willowmere in the second week of December.

I woke before dawn to an empty bed and the sound of someone swearing, softly, on the quay.

I put on my father's coat and went down to look.

The king of the wolves was sitting on an upturned crate at the end of the pier with a fishing net across his knees.

He had tangled it around both feet.

The nephew with the broken tooth stood over him, arms folded, wearing a grin he was not trying to hide.

"Majesty," he said. "That's the fourth time this week."

"I'm aware."

"You don't loop it. You throw it out flat and let it fall."

"I am throwing it flat."

"You're throwing it at the gulls."

A gull stood on a post three feet away, eyeing him.

I leaned on the bollard and watched Alaric pick at a knot with his bandaged fingers.

The scar on his palm was new and pink.

The grey in his temples was new too, and he was thinner in the face.

He looked happier than I had ever seen him.

"Do you need rescuing?" I said.

"No."

"Good."

He looked up at me, and the dawn caught his eyes.

"I might," he said.

I untangled the net from his ankles myself.

He took my hand in both of his and kissed my knuckles.

The nephew, the gull and half the harbour watched him do it.

"I'm told the cook's making fish pie," he said.

"It's seven in the morning."

"She says the pie is for tonight."

"What's tonight?"

He smiled and said nothing.

I knew, of course.

The whole island knew.

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