A Christmas Grace by Anne Perry Page B

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.
    â€œHow 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?”
    â€œExhausted,” 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.”
    â€œSo he’s not badly hurt, then?” Kathleen asked.
    â€œBruised, so far as I know,” Emily told her.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œDaniel,” 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 standing together, staring after her, faces white.
    She walked back along the edge of the shore. The tide was receding and there was a strip of hard, wet sand, here and there strewn with weed torn from the bottom of the ocean and thrown there by the waves. She saw pieces of wood, broken, jagged-ended, and found herself cold inside. She did not know if they were from the ship that had gone down, but they were from something man-made that had been broken and drowned. She knew there were no more bodies. Either they had been carried out to sea and lost forever, or they were cast up on some other shore, perhaps the rocks out by the point. She could not bear to think of them battered there, torn apart and exposed.
    In spite of the wild, clean air, the sunlight slanting through the clouds, she felt a sense of desolation settle over her, like a chill in the bones.
    She did not hear the steps behind her. The sand was soft, and the sound of the waves consumed everything else.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Radley.”
    She stopped and twisted round, clasping the bag closer to her. Father Tyndale was only a couple of yards away, hatless, the wind blowing his hair and making his dark jacket flap like the wings of a wounded crow.
    â€œGood morning, Father,” she said with a sense of relief that surprised her. Who had she been expecting? “You…you haven’t found anyone else, have you?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not.” His face was sad, as if he too were bruised.
    â€œDo you think they could have survived? Perhaps the ship didn’t go down? Maybe Daniel was washed overboard?” she suggested.
    â€œPerhaps.” There was no belief in his voice. “Can I carry your shopping for