Chapter 69: Melissa - The Ferry Crossing

It is still drizzling when I finish clearing the jetty. I stow my tools in a spare locker on the launch. The tractor and trailer are already parked nearby. The three White cats are busy unloading luggage with practised efficiency.

Kirsty is checking the launch’s ropes, tugging each knot twice. She doesn’t look up when she speaks.

“Help them board, Melissa. I’ll look after stowing the luggage.”

“Yes, Madame Kirsty.”

Kirsty winces at my calling her ‘Madame’. She stubbornly wears the blue lettered necklace of the former Lady caste, and she’s unhappy about her nominal elevation to a Black cat. Fortunately, she doesn’t insist that I drop the ‘Madame’ honorific.

The departing members gather at the edge of the jetty, some nervous, some impatient. The lake is still choppy, the surface broken into restless silver ridges that slap against the hull.

I step onto the launch first, steadying myself, then turn to help the passengers across the gap.

“One at a time, ladies,” I say gently, dropping their titles now that they are no longer residents on the island. “Hold the rail. Watch your footing.”

They listen in the way people do when someone sounds calm. Once they’re aboard, I guide them to their seats, making sure everyone has a handhold nearby. Two of the women already look pale; the kind of pale that means trouble once we are away from the jetty.

Kirsty finishes securing the luggage in the covered stern compartment, then gives me a nod.

“Ready?”

“As ready as we can be, Madame.”

She starts the engine. The launch shudders, then pushes off from the jetty, cutting into the choppy water.

The lake is worse than it looked from shore. Waves slap the hull hard enough to spray the windows. The launch pitches and rolls, and the two pale passengers grip their seats with white knuckles. I kneel beside them.

“Breathe slowly,” I say. “Look at the horizon, not the water.”

One shakes her head. “I think I’m going to...”

I grab the small bucket from under the seat and place it in her hands just in time. She retches miserably. The woman beside her squeezes her eyes shut, swallowing hard.

“It’s all right,” I say softly. “We’ll be there soon.”

I stay with them for most of the journey, bracing myself against the seat backs, offering water, steadying hands, quiet reassurance. The rest of the passengers sit stiffly, pretending not to notice.

Kirsty keeps the launch angled carefully, avoiding the worst of the chop. She’s good, but even she can’t smooth out a lake that hasn’t finished arguing with the storm.

When the dam jetty finally comes into view, I feel everyone relax.

The jetty here is smaller, older, and more exposed than the one on the island. Wind has blown branches and leaves across the landing area, and a few loose twigs rattle against the metal railing of the jetty.

Kirsty cuts the engine and tosses me the mooring rope. I leap onto the jetty, boots slipping slightly on the wet wood, and secure the rope around the post.

“Careful,” Kirsty calls.

“I’m fine, Madame.”

I grab the brush and quickly sweep the debris aside, clearing a safe path for the passengers. A few larger branches will need the hatchet. It’s nothing difficult, just awkward to do in the wind.

By the time Kirsty has the launch securely moored, and the passengers start to disembark, the jetty looks almost respectable again.

Kirsty heads toward the old vehicle shed ... a leftover from the dam’s construction days ... and rolls up the door. The twentyseater minibus sits inside, dry and waiting. Kirsty quickly prepares the vehicle for the journey to Cordwell.

“Melissa,” she calls. “Help them with the luggage.”