Natasha’s POV

Westbay, Southwest England.

“Natasha Hastings, get down from that mast this instant!”

My mother’s voice carried clear across the harbor, shrill with that particular mix of exasperation and resignation I’d been hearing my whole life. I pretended not to hear, shinning up the last few feet to check the rigging. The view from up here was worth the lecture—all of Westbay spread below, the autumn sun turning the sea to molten copper.

“Let the girl be, Mary,” Father called from the deck. “She’s got a better eye for loose lines than half my crew.”

“She’s not a girl, she’s a menace!” Mother stood on the dock, arms crossed, face red. “Look at her—dressed like a ragamuffin boy, climbing around like some monkey. She’s seventeen, John! Seventeen! She should be learning to keep house, not—whatever this is!”

I slid down with practiced ease, landing soft on the deck. My worn sailor’s trousers were tar-stained, my loose shirt two sizes too big—borrowed from my older brothers before they’d left for the merchant ships—and my short brown-black curls stuck out from under my cap at odd angles. I looked more like a scruffy twelve-year-old boy than a marriageable young woman.

Perfect.

“I was checking the forestay, Mother,” I said cheerfully. “Another week and Father could’ve lost the whole sail in a storm.”

“Your sister doesn’t climb masts.” Mother’s anger was deflating slightly. “Your sister knows how to behave like a proper young lady.”

“Davelina is perfect,” I agreed, because it was true. At twenty, my older sister was everything I wasn’t—graceful, beautiful, with golden-brown hair she kept in intricate braids. Half the young men in Westbay were in love with her. “But Davelina gets seasick just looking at boats, so somebody has to help Father.”

“I don’t get seasick,” came my sister’s voice from the dock. She’d appeared beside Mother, basket of mending on her hip, trying not to smile. “I just prefer solid ground.”

“Like a sensible person,” Mother said pointedly.

Father laughed, his weathered face crinkling. “If I’d had another son after the boys left, Mary, this is exactly what I’d want. Since God gave us only daughters, I’ll take what I can get.” He ruffled my hair. “My little sea beaver. Can climb anything, fix anything, not afraid of hard work.”

“‘Little sea beaver,'” Mother muttered. “That’s what the whole village calls her now. Not ‘Natasha,’ not ‘Miss Hastings,’ but ‘little sea beaver,’ like she’s some harbor mascot!”

“Could be worse,” I said. “Old Thomas calls Jimmy ‘the fish that walks.'”

“This isn’t funny!” But Mother’s lips were twitching. She could never stay angry long. “The baker’s son asked after you last week. I had to explain my daughter was out hauling crab pots. He looked at me like I was mad.”

“The baker’s son is boring. All he talks about is flour grades.”

“He’s respectable. He has prospects.”

“He has a face like an unbaked dumpling.”

“Natasha!”

Davelina laughed outright, earning a glare. “Don’t encourage her. You’re supposed to be a good influence.”

“Someone has to make sure she doesn’t fall off any masts,” Davelina said diplomatically. “Are you finished, or do you have more rigging to inspect?”

I glanced at the sky. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting everything amber and gold. “Finished. Why?”

“Because Father said we could have the evening free.” Davelina’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m thinking about hitting the Dolphin’s Song tonight.”

“You want to go to a tavern?” I stared at my perfect, proper sister. “Mother will kill us both.”

“Mother doesn’t have to know,” Davelina said serenely. “I’ll say we’re visiting the vicar’s wife for a pattern book. You can say you’re mending nets.”

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