"That pattern. Columnar lightning, lateral fractures at regular intervals, a storm that fed itself instead of moving through." Rafe turned to look at him. "I've seen that before.Northern coast, four years back. Three fishing boats went over. Village weather was wrong for a week."
Rowan met his eyes and said nothing.
"You know what causes it," Rafe said.
"What makes you think I do?"
"Because you ran down that dock in a gale to save my ship, and now you're standing here being very careful about every word out of your mouth. That's not casual concern. That's management."
Rowan had a flash of guilt briefly cross his face. "There's a resident," he said finally. "Western edge of town. She's been here about a year."
She.
He looked at the western bank again. The scent was still there, had been, he realized, since the moment the first strike went up. Carried across the lake on the same wind that had driven the storm into him. Wild rain and silver. He now noticed how still his wolf had gone.
He knew what stormcallers were. He knew the way anyone who'd spent years on water near fae territory knew it. Specifically, personally, with the details that stuck. The northern coast. The Ardenmere fleet losses. The Solent Reach lighthouse account. Rare didn't mean safe. It meant the damage was concentrated.
"She put my ship into the dock," Rafe said. "She destroyed a week of contracted cargo. She's costing me money I've already spent and time I don't have."
"She didn't mean to."
"No." Rafe gazed over to the split bow rail, the limp rigging, the hold open to the night air. "They never do."
Rowan didn't answer that. He picked up the rope coil and walked toward the mast and Rafe let him go, turning back to the water, the scent, his wolf pointing west with intensity.
A storm fae. Living on the edge of a town he'd been stopping at for three years, losing control of weather that had just cost him a week of his life and a contract he couldn't afford to renegotiate. He was stranded here until Rowan and a smith and a week of clear weather said otherwise.
He let out a low growl and turned back to assess the damage and started making a list.
4
ISLA
She went into town because she needed salt, dried sage, and a new whetstone for the kitchen knives, and because staying in the cottage one more hour would have driven her sideways.
The walk helped. The path from the western edge into Hollow Oak wound through birch trees and past the beekeeper's field, and by the time the cobblestones of the square appeared through the tree line, the pressure in her chest had dropped, or was at least dismissable. The town was moving through its morning in the way it always did, with Twyla's café steaming from every window, the Mercantile door propped open with a brick, someone hammering on the far side of the square near the forge. Ordinary. She liked ordinary. She had built her life here specifically around ordinary.
She pulled her jacket closer and crossed toward the Mercantile.
Rufus Tansley was at the counter when she pushed inside, and he looked up from whatever he was cataloguing with the expression that a majority of anyone who dealt in over-water trade. Isla wouldn’t call unfriendly, just annoyed at thecautiousness they felt when she was around. Especially after a storm.
"Isla." He set down his ledger. "Heard it was rough out there last night."
"Just a set-back but a manageable one. But that’s why I’m out there." She laughed nervously, trying to sound more confident then she felt. “I’m handling it,” she offered, in a more apologetic tone. She liked Rufus and felt guilting for brushing last night’s… episode off.
"I know you are." He reached under the counter without her asking and set a paper bag on the surface. "Salt's in there. Edgar put your sage order together this morning. Figured you'd be in."
I didn't send a note."
"No." He went back to his ledger.
She paid him and moved to the far shelves to find the whetstone, scanning the rows of labeled jars and wrapped bundles with half her attention while the other half was doing what it always did in town; reading the room and the quality of attention directed at her from the three other people currently there. Normal attention. The glances of people who knew who she was and had made their peace with it, or hadn't, but either way had better things to do than stare.
But when she let the alertness shirk off, she felt an intensesomething. Irritation?
It wasn’t from the shop, though. She turned her head the street, through the propped-open door, a weight of attention so deliberate it landed on the back of her neck like a hand. She found the whetstone, set it on the counter, and looked up through the Mercantile window.
He was across the square near the dock road, talking to the harbourmaster's man in the orange vest, and he was not looking at her. He was looking over at the square in general in the way that people did when they were talking about something else.But she'd felt that look a moment ago and the feeling hadn't left, and she watched him for three seconds while Rufus wrote up her total.
