Mione is the one who remembers, and at half past five she sits on the floor of a stone house and writes it all down in the back of the deed.

MioneTwo rooms. A door that locks. Nobody angry in the next room. Nine minutes of the sea pretending to be a house and a girl sitting in it with her hands over her face.

It takes four sides of a 1911 dock deed and the ink runs where the window has been wet, and it is the only record of what the covenant is.

MioneEighty-seven years of this and not one harbour-master wrote it down. That is the crime. The sea was never the problem.