Then Twyla appeared in the doorway with a cup already in her hand.
"Sit," she said. Not a question. She held the door open with her hip, that wheat-colored hair loose over her shoulders, those light brown eyes with their flecks of brightness fixed on Isla's face. "You look like you've been arguing with the lake again."
"I haven't been arguing with anything."
"Then you won't mind sitting down and proving it."
Isla took a dramatic sigh before following Twyla in.
The café was warm and half full, the afternoon crowd settled into their usual spots. Two women she recognized from theseasonal market were sharing a pot of something that smelled like ginger near the window. A man she'd seen working the forge with Silas ut fully entering.was reading a folded newspaper at the counter. The whole room hummed with the kind of low, comfortable noise that Isla had spent a year circling.
Twyla set the cup in front of her. Chamomile and honey, the blend she always made without asking, as if Isla's preferences had been logged somewhere in that ageless fae brain.
"My niece is here this week," Twyla said, sliding into the chair across from her. "Lira. She's in the back pretending to learn how to make scones but mostly she's eating the batter."
"How old is she?"
"Old enough to know better and young enough not to care." Twyla picked up her own cup. "She's fae on her mother's side. My much younger cousin's girl. Comes to visit every spring, stays until she gets bored or falls in love with a local, whichever comes first."
As if summoned, a young woman came through the kitchen door carrying a tray of something golden and uneven. She had Twyla's coloring but sharper features, dark brows over clever hazel eyes, flour on both sleeves. She set the tray on the counter, spotted Isla, and grinned.
"You're the weather woman," Lira said.
"Lira." Twyla's voice carried a warning.
"What? Everybody knows. It's not a secret." She wiped her hands on her apron. "I think it's brilliant. My aunt controls who falls in love in this town and you control the sky. Between the two of you, the men don't stand a chance."
"I don't control who falls in love," Twyla said.
"You absolutely do."
"I facilitate natural connections."
"She meddles," Lira told Isla. "Professionally."
Isla found herself smiling. It came easier than she expected. Lira had the particular energy of someone who hadn't yet learned to be careful, and it was refreshing in a town where careful was the default setting.
"The scones look good," Isla said.
"They're terrible. Don't eat them." Lira disappeared back into the kitchen and Twyla shook her head slowly, but she was smiling too, the soft one that made her look closer to the age she appeared rather than she actually was.
"She's a force," Isla said.
"She's twenty-three and thinks the world is a toy. Give her time." Twyla sipped her tea. "How are you, Isla? And I mean actually. Not the version you give Rufus."
"I'm alright."
"Try again."
Isla looked at her cup. The honey had settled to the bottom in a golden layer. She stirred it with the small spoon Twyla always provided.
"I'm confused," she said. "But less afraid than I've been in a while."
"Those two things often go together." Twyla set her cup down. "The confusion comes from something specific, or is it general?"
"Specific."
"The captain."
