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“I’d be a fool not to like him in every way.” Ponsonby’s eyes began to shine. “I’ve snogged chaps. Not since school. Not sober, anyway. And not since Nelly. But he’s…There’s no one quite so…He’s truly…”

As he listened to Ponsonby stutter, Kit folded his arms. His smile was so enormous it hurt his lips.

“You’ve got it bad,” he observed.

“I didn’t realize until we went to the lighthouse.” Ponsonby was smiling now too. “Grenfell took us. He’s a huer. That’s Cornish for craggy-looking bloke on the clifftop who watches for fish. He was a little too eager to skive off and row us out there. I could sense something about him, an intention. I thought he was after James, and it made me bloody wild. I wanted to hurl him out of the boat. But James would have done something brave and useful to save him, and I couldn’t have that. So I heckled Grenfell a bit, to see if he’d hurl me out of the boat.”

“Because then you would be the recipient of Raleigh’s brave and tender ministrations?” Kit groaned. “Ponsonby.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I ended up provoking James far more than I provoked Grenfell. He almost hurled himself out of the boat, he was so aggravated.”

“I suppose then you could have saved him. Except…” Sudden doubt surfaced. “Can you swim?”

“In a shallow fountain, if I’m drunk enough on champagne. Otherwise, I sink like a stone.” Ponsonby winced. “But no one had to swim. And I couldn’t have been more wrong. Grenfell was after the lighthouse keeper. As soon as we reached the island, the two of them skipped off, to check the lobster traps. Have you heard that one? Check the lobster traps?” He snickered.

Kit raised his brows.

“Anyway,” said Ponsonby. “I was left to explain my appalling behavior to James. And there was really only one way to do it.”

“You snogged him?” Kit pounced on the answer, laughing with delight at Ponsonby’s expression. “Well done.”

Ponsonby cocked his head proudly. “It was an inspired moment.”

“I’m inspired. This is a painting.” Kit took a step back. “You look like the Green Man, with all that foliage around your face.”

“You want to paint me?” Twigs snapped boisterously as Ponsonby bounded from the hedge. “As a pagan god? Would you give it to James?” He shook leaves from his shoulders, then went still, eyes widening. “Wait. Griff. Are you painting again?”

“I seem to be.” He affected nonchalance. The alternative was too embarrassing. Frolicsome leaps through the garden, like a baby goat. “I took Lucy, Gwen, and Nelly to the harbor. Lucy brought a paint box and a few boards, and we…”

Shouting punctured the background hum. It started far away, at the circuslike fringes, and swept up to the house.

Kit started running before he could think. He reached the drive and glimpsed the source of the excitement.

A cyclist, pedaling madly, hair blowing about in glorious disarray. Sparks from the rockets floated above, showering the dusk.

“Pendrake!” The man who hollered it must have bet good money. The name was a victorious roar.

Ponsonby took it up, sprinting past Kit. “Pendrake!”

Kit shook himself and sprang again into motion, but now the going was slower. The crowd had flowed onto the drive. He could hear Muriel yelling but couldn’t make out the words.

He shouldered his way forward.

“She’s calling for a doctor,” someone said.

“Blimey!” The exclamation sounded right in Kit’s ear. “Deighton took a cropper!”

“Knocked his lights out!”

“Oh, but here he comes! Look!”

Bugle calls added to the cacophony.

Finally, Kit pushed to the front. Bicycles were scattered on the gravel, and all the riders were on their feet, except for Deighton, who sat dazedly with Raleigh crouched beside him.

“Mrs. Pendrake finished the run, and she finished first.” Hawkings was speaking loudly, soliciting comment from the spectators. “Who expected it?”

He jotted down responses, a barrage of largely untruthful affirmations intermixed with sniffs of moral opprobrium and sour grapes.