Spray slapped her face as another wave rocked the storm-lashed rowing boat, obscuring the sailor as he struggled to hold the oars. Above her, the night sky arched blackly, the shore a distant hope.
Shivering and soaked, her scream lost in the howling gale, she hugged the baby to her night-shift, praying they would be delivered safely to shore…
Lyra awoke, entwined in the bed sheets she had tossed and turned in, just as if she really was braving a storm-battered sea.
Her heart beat wildly. She was glad of thick curtains at her bedchamber window, shutting out the world beyond. It must still be dark, since dawn would bring the usual London hue and cry, the calls of hawkers and clatter of hooves in the street below.
It was also still too early for her maid Maria to come and light the fire in the room, so Lyra lay there, trapped in the lingering memory of her nightmare.
It was several weeks since news had reached her of the terrible fate of her beloved niece Ann.
She’d read the first account in a news-sheet that came to the house, the story proclaiming Dreadful disaster at sea, all souls feared to have perished!
The date of that news story – 5th of March in the year of our Lord 1784 – was branded into her soul. The ship had been caught in a storm near the Isles of Scilly in late February, but it had taken several days for details.
