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gazed at it, so calm now despite the raging storm that had brought me here. I saw debris scattered over the shoreline—clothing, fluttering papers, damaged books, broken bits of crockery, and incongruously, a brass-buckled shoe gleaming in the sun. About a dozen women, heads down, skirts tucked up, picked through the flotsam, their aprons bulging with their finds. I peered intently, realizing it was the wreckage from sunken ships Gerard had described—perhaps even my own. I had taken few possessions with me, but if I could get away, I would try to search the beach to see if any of them had washed ashore.
    As I looked out at the horizon, I saw a flash of light winking at the line where the sky met the sea, and frowned. Even as I squinted at it and tried to make out what it might be, it disappeared.
    “Did you see that, Mrs. Jones?”
    “What, ma’am?” She looked at me politely.
    “Hmm…” There was nothing there to see. “Never mind.” I turned to observe our approach to the main road. We passed a small picturesque graveyard along the road, the moss-covered headstones standing at canted angles to the ground.
    I noticed as we drew abreast, however, a section of the cemetery stood apart from the rest. It was newer, or perhaps better tended. It had a brightly painted white-picket fence surrounding it, the gate standing ajar. Inside were rows of tiny crosses carefully lined up side by side. There were dozens of them, and I wondered what they signified. We passed quickly, the horses’ ears pressed back and twitching when we drew abreast. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Jones about it on the way back. For now, I wished to know more about Ynys Nos .
    I turned to my companion. “How large is this island?”
    She folded her hands in front of her. “Well, from tip to tip, it is fifteen miles, or thereabouts. At its widest, about eight. We are traveling along the shoreline, as ye can see, heading northeast. That’s Alexander’s Bay behind ye,” she indicated with a nod of her head in the direction we had just come, “where ye washed ashore.” She looked at me, and in her eyes, I could see my presence here still astounded her. “Praise be to God.”
    Considering the fate of my companions, praise be to Him, indeed. “And the population? How many live on the island? And do they all live in the village or serve at Alexander Hall?”
    “There are less than five hundred souls here, most in the village, the rest scattered about the island in farms and cottages. We all serve the master, yes.”
    “Do you know most of the people here well?”
    “Every face.”
    “And what of you? Is there a Mr. Jones? Or children?”
    Her eyes shuttered and she turned away, staring toward the receding churchyard. “No. Mr. Jones died long ago. We were never blessed with children.”
    An old pain lanced through me with a sharpness that surprised me to this day, even after seven years. I traced the cameo nestled between my breasts with my fingertip. “Perhaps, in a way, that is a blessing in itself,” I murmured.
    Mrs. Jones gave me a queer look but did not inquire as to my meaning. I forced my mind away from Eliza, my lost child, and back to the matter at hand.
    “Gerard—that is, your master—said there were industries on the island? Men of trades and such?”
    “We have learned to provide for each other’s needs.”
    “But no doctor?” I mused. “What do you do when someone becomes ill?”
    Her glance flickered away again. “Oh, ’tis a rare thing, that. Injury is more a cause of concern than illness. A broken bone, a serious cut—those can be very painful and lingering.”
    Perhaps, if I was forced to stay longer than a few days, I might contribute my knowledge of medicine for the benefit of the village. I was no physician, but I had treated my share of serious injuries and aided many a doctor. “I could be of assistance in that area. I am a nurse. I can organize a lecture series while I am here for those who show an