“It is a first,” he laughed, all affected congenial charm. “My maid is …” he paused, “entering the next chapter of a fisherwoman’s life?” he mused. “They do it a bit different in these parts, but I am hardly here year-round.”

Summers, mostly, but he used to be as close to year-round as his schedule had allowed when Simon was still breathing.

Zechariah drew forth his leather pocketbook, taking out a two-bob bit.

“This is all I have on hand,” he commented lackadaisically. “When might I come back for the other two dozen?”