Cave of Secrets by Morgan Llywelyn

hunt and fish to feed himself nor gather firewood to keep himself warm. He had different suits of clothes in different colours, and some stockings of silk and others of wool, and more than one pair of shoes. With silver buckles on them.
    Setting the basket aside, Donal lifted one of his feet and turned it over in his hands. He examined the thickly calloused sole. The leather soles of Tom’s buckled shoes were thicker. No sharp bit of broken seashell could stab throughthem and leave a boy’s foot bleeding and sore.
    Tom Flynn had a fireplace in his bed-chamber. A fireplace with a hearth he did not have to share with anyone. He could sit there and soak up all the warmth himself. And he had a large bowl he called a ‘chamber pot’ that he could make water in during the night so he did not have to go out into the weather.
    Donal wondered if any of the Flynn women lay awake all night coughing.
    He put his foot down again and picked up the basket. He could smell rain on the wind. Summer would be over soon.
    * * *
    ‘Summer will be over soon,’ Caroline Flynn reminded her mother. ‘When is Father coming home?’
    Catherine Flynn looked up from the sewing in her lap. ‘I shall not know until he sends me a letter.’
    ‘You should have had one by now,’ Virginia said testily. ‘Has Simon called to the village to see if the coach has come down from Dublin?’
    ‘He has called several times. There is never any post from your father.’
    ‘Perhaps he is sending it another way, then. An uncommon number of riders are passing by on the road. One of them may bring his letter.’
    ‘A number of riders, dear?’ Mrs Flynn tried to hide the sudden anxiety she felt. ‘Why have you been going out to the road?’
    ‘I like to watch people passing by. I try to guess where they are going and what will happen to them when they get there. Some of them will see towns and cities and go on ships and–’
    ‘Enough, enough!’ her mother exclaimed with a nervous laugh. ‘Come sit here by me, both of you. We can work on your sister’s trousseau together.’
    Caroline looked at the pile of sewing with distaste. She loved to wear pretty clothes but did not like to make them. ‘Why bother now?’ she asked her mother. ‘Wait until Father returns from Dublin. No doubt he will bring bales of beautiful fabric for her frocks.’
    Mrs Flynn shook her head. ‘I do not think so, not this time.’
    ‘Of course he will,’ Caroline contradicted. ‘Father has bags of money and he loves to spend it on us. I can hardly wait to see what he brings us this time.’ With her head full of silks and satins, William Flynn’s youngest daughter flitted from the room.
    She moves as lightly as a sunbeam, her mother thought to herself. I used to move like that once.
    * * *
    The second time Tom joined the smugglers was very different from the first. It started out much the same, with the pinprick of light sending its welcome signal, and the eager run to the cliffs. Séamus was waiting as before. This time he was not alone. He was in a large currach with two other men. One of these was Fergal. The other was a brawny fellow Tom had never met, but who had the familiar sea eagle features. He held aloft a small lantern that was burning pilchard oil. This was a by-product of pressing pilchards for salting, and though it burned well the oil gave off a dreadful smell. No pilchard oil was ever used at Roaringwater House.
    ‘So this is the lad,’ the man said to Séamus. His English, Tom noted, was quite good.
    ‘This is the lad,’ Séamus agreed.
    The man lifted the lantern higher so he could study Tom’s face. ‘Are you old enough to do a man’s work?’
    Tom said in his deepest voice – which was not as deep as he wanted – ‘I can do anything you ask of me.’
    He expected laughter at this boast. The man merely said, ‘You will need that courage soon, and all the strength you have.’ He turned towards Séamus. ‘It is a worry to me that your brother