Artemis

Her lodgings were a tiny room in Southsea. She put down her hat and began to comb her hair before the hinged mirror. Kydd watched the familiar ritual fondly, the brush going swit-swit in regular strokes to her waist. He caught her eyes in the mirror and smiled. Quickly she averted hers and stared woodenly ahead, the brush continuing its monotonous rhythm. Taken aback Kydd wondered what he had said. Then he saw her eyes glisten. Stubbornly she stared into the mirror, the brush smoothing her hair in long strokes, and then the tears came. He held her as emotion shook her small frame, frightening him with its sudden onset. 'It wasn't so bad,

Cec,' he mouthed softly, 'it was over in an hour or two, I swear.'

She didn't answer and he held her away from him, searching her face. 'It's not that, is it?' he said, a cold dread beginning. 'It's Mother, isn't it?'

'No,' she choked.

'Papa?' he said.

'No, Tom, all are well,' she said, her voice muffled. She dried her eyes and turned on the stool to face him. 'I am a silly billy,' she croaked. 'Please forgive me, Thomas.' She tried a smile and Kydd laughed quietly.

'The twins have breeched, you know,' she said, in a stronger voice. 'And Mrs Mulder is to wed again in the autumn.' She hesitated. 'It's only been half a year — does it seem long to you, Thomas?'

Kydd thought of the incredible events and changes that he had endured. 'Er, yes, I suppose it does.'

She surveyed him at length. It was nothing short of magical, the change in him. The pale, earnest perruquier had metamorphosed into this strong, oaken-visaged sailor with the ready smile and lean body, fitting his colourful seaman's dress as though born to it.

'We didn't get your letter until March,' she said, omitting the details about the frantic worry that had preceded it, 'and that short one came in May.'

Kydd remembered the scrap of letter he had dashed off to his mother at sea in a battleship, forty miles off the French coast on the day before he was due to go ashore with the doomed landing party. Apparently another two letters were still on their way, but at least they had had word of his transfer.

'We didn't understand the bit about a frigate, but Lady Onslow was so sweet about it’ she said. Sir Richard was himself at sea at that very time, Rear Admiral of the White.

So they would have known about his transfer to Artemis, and therefore would have been horrified when news of her dreadful battle had become known.

Cecilia flopped on to the bed like the child she so recently had been, and looked up at him with shining eyes. 'Tell me, what's it like to be a sailor? Really, Tom, no gammon.'

Kydd felt a wave of affection break over him, her childish glee touching his heart. He told her of the sea, his lofty world of perils and adventure, skill and honour; the first sight of a sea-tossed dawn, the deep experience of feeling a deck heave, a comber bursting against the bow in a sheet of rainbow spray. He spoke of his friends — his shipmates, and their rough, simple gendeness.

She listened speechless, carried by his words but never gulled into underestimation by their simplicity. 'Oh, Tom, who would have thought it?'

Kydd had never experienced hero-worship from his sister, and reddened. 'When I spoke with the King, he remembered Guildford, Cec—'

'The King!' she squealed. 'Never! You never did!'

'And with a beautiful princess - a real one, mind you.'

Her speechless admiration made him feel a poltroon. Guiltily he glanced around. 'What o'clock is it, sis? We mustn't be adrift for Nicholas.'

The dancing light faded from her eyes. She looked away, her body sagging.

Kydd felt the cold dread returning. 'What is it, Cec?' he said softly.

'Oh, Tom, I - I feel so dreadful!'

He put his arms around her shoulder. 'Tell me.'

She looked deeply into his eyes as if to spare him what she could. 'It's Father,' she said carefully. 'His eyes are failing.' He sat back, confused.

Brokenly she murmured, 'Tom — how can you . . .' Her hands twisted together. 'When I looked up at that great big ship and saw you there, my heart nearly broke. You looked so — right as a sailor. So handsome! My big brother!' Her eyes filled. 'And now we are asking you to give it all up — Tom, he is making mistakes, the customers are complaining. If the shop fails . . .'

They were asking him to return home, to resume his place behind the counter of the old shop, talking wigs with customers. He gulped, and looked sightlessly out into the night and past the celebrations. His sister gripped his hands in hers until it hurt. Renzi and he would part, he would no longer know his dear friend, who would go on to better things in another world.

'Tom . . .'

It was not her fault: it must have taken real courage to make the journey alone to this notorious naval town, but only now was she understanding the true cost of her appeal. He got heavily to his feet, and balled his fists in silent agony. There was no decision to make. Without him, the family would slide into destitution, the debtor's prison and worse.

'This war, Tom, it's ruinous for the business. Everyone is asking for bob wigs only, and some are even refusing to wear any. It's a new fashion.'

Kydd remembered his father's endless but near-sighted primping and sewing of horsehair at the carcass of full-bottomed wigs, and his retort died before it was uttered. He took a deep breath. 'I have prize money,' he said, but Cecilia cut him off quickly.