Granddad spread out a map on the table. Ned and I shifted our glasses of juice.

“Right. Britain,” Granddad said. “Where are we?”

Portland was in front of Ned, at the far south. I had the west. Granddad the east. Ned’s finger squashed our island.

“Yep.” Granddad nodded. “You can point to where it is. Now tell me where it is.”

Even though Granddad mostly told us stories, it seemed to me that he was a good teacher.

“It’s on the south coast,” I said.

“It’s near Weymouth,” Ned said.

“It’s between Southampton and Exeter.”

“It’s in Dorset.”

Granddad nodded. “OK. Let’s go west,” he said.

Ned traced the curve of Chesil Beach round to West Bay then west through coastal towns we knew and on to Exeter.

“Exeter,” Granddad said, “is in Devon. That’s the next county west.”

Ned’s finger followed the coast south through Torquay and Dartmouth and round west again to Plymouth.

“There it is,” Granddad said.

Plymouth had been home to Granddad once upon a time. It was where Dad was born when Granddad was away at sea. It was where Grandma was buried before Ned and I were born.

“What’s that river there?” Granddad pointed to the west of Plymouth.

I was closest and squinted at the tiny text. “The Tamar,” I said.

“T-A-M-A-R. Pronounced Tay-mar,” Granddad said.

We nodded. I mouthed, “Tay-mar.”

“That’s it. That’s a border between Devon and Cornwall, the farthest county west. Keep going.”

I took over from Ned and ran my finger across the shiny map. The towns had strange names now. Almost foreign. Polperro. Mevagissey. Landewednack. Cornwall kept going, west and west and west till we hit Land’s End.

“That is the very farthest west you can go,” Granddad said, “before you have to take to the sea. The place we are looking for is a little farther round. Can you find Zennor, Jamie?”

We continued our journey, heading round the coast and back east. Zennor was not far. A tiny village. A dot on the map.

“Here we are then,” Granddad said. “I’ve got another mermaid story for you. Happened right there, in Zennor. Do you remember Gin?”

We’d never met him, but we remembered Gin. He was first mate on Granddad’s first captaincy after leaving Long Ben in Manila, on a fishing boat out of Plymouth.

“Well, he had a story for me once. Said it was about his great, great, great-grandfather’s brother or some such. A man by the name of Mathew Trewella.

“You wouldn’t have heard of him, Gin said. But in Zennor and round abouts, his was a famous name. Even more famous in his day. It’s said that Mathew had the most beautiful voice imaginable. He sang wherever he went, through the village and about his work as a carpenter, always singing. Every Sunday he sang in the church in Zennor. Everyone stopped to listen when he sang.

“But they say that his voice changed. Over the course of a year, his joyful singing became a sad dirge. Still beautiful. But now, instead of bringing a smile, it brought tears.

“People started saying that Mathew was bedeviled. They whispered that he’d been seen on the cliffs around the village with a mysterious lady in black. They muttered about witchcraft and wondered whether it was right to have the man sing in their church.

“Mathew had a brother—Gin’s great, great, great-grandfather, older than Mathew—living in another village. When this older brother heard these whispers, he returned to Zennor and found Mathew on the quayside, singing to the sea. He barely recognized Mathew’s pale face, it was so ghostly.

“Mathew laughed at the idea of sorcery, his cheeks forming deep hollows. ‘I’m not bewitched,’ he told his brother. ‘I’m sick.’

“Mathew took his brother back to his home where his carpentry tools sat unused and the unwashed smell of sickness filled the air. The older brother aired the house, cleaned and cooked a clear fish soup.

“As the two brothers went to sleep, Mathew on his bed, the older brother below the table, the singer whispered, ‘Don’t worry, brother. I think I’ve found a way to be well again.’

“The next day was a church day. Mathew stood and sang a song that no one in Zennor had heard before. Or perhaps they’d heard it all their lives, ’cause in that song was the wash of the sea, the roar of the wind and the gulls’ call. Mathew sang up a storm in that tiny church. And when the last note fell, no one moved, apart from Mathew. He walked down the aisle to a lady who had slipped into the back row as the young man sang, a tiny lady dressed all in black.

“Mathew walked out of the building, following that mysterious woman, who left the church with three long, floating bounds. He was never seen again. All his brother found was the woman’s black shawl, discarded on the rocky shore.

“They say in Zennor that you can hear Mathew still. On a calm night, when the sky is clear, his sweet voice rings over the village, filled with pure joy again. They whisper of mermaids living beneath the waves, watching the town. They mutter, when men go away to sea, of the foolish dream of seeking Mathew’s maid.”

Ned nodded as the story ended.

I frowned. “The mermaid took him?”

“Well, Gin called the story ‘Mathew’s Choice,’ ” Granddad said. “I think he went with the mermaid willingly. I think he went to live a…different kind of life.”

Ned nodded again. My brother’s face spoke of understanding.

I frowned.

—

Still I told my heart that Leonard was there to fix my brother. I told my heart that was the story we were in.

My heart told me I lied. My heart felt an ending coming that no one could control.