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Nell doesn’t answer. She looks at the frayed rope still tied to the ring, where the Mara used to sit every winter.

She watches his knuckles go white on the rail and sees, for the first time, how much they look like their father’s.

“Who to?” Her voice is steadier than she is. He names a man from Kinsale, and she is already turning toward the harbour.

Nell turns and walks back down the pier without a word. Halfway, she stops, and asks the one question she came for.

Out past the breakwater a riding light comes on. Nell knows that hull. Whoever bought the Mara has brought her home tonight.

“I never kept the money,” he says. “Every penny went to you, Nell. You thought it was the insurance.”