A sudden shout rose from the harbor below. A hired rowing skiff, cut loose from its mooring or badly tied, had drifted farther out than it should have. It rocked in the swell, empty, but moving toward the same dark patch where the pale line seemed to end.
People spilled onto the quay and cliff path almost at once, still pulling on jackets, waving uselessly toward the water. Someone yelled for the lifeboat. Someone else said it had chosen a target. Nora hated how quickly panic made the village slip back into the language of superstition.