The green hull came up out of the dark below her a rung at a time, and she went down the ladder favouring the bad knee, because there was no one on the slip to see her do it.
Whatever the harbour had agreed to say about that night, the boat had not agreed to anything. Boats do not.
She found the first of it under the thwart: a line of rope, cut rather than parted, the cut clean enough to have been made with something kept sharp for the purpose.
She sat back on her heels with the end of it in her hand and let herself understand, for a moment, exactly what she was holding.