“Only enough to order a drink, I’m afraid,” Edwyn responded.

“That’ll do,” Runa grumbled, dragging Tadg by the sleeve of his sweater and motioning for Edwyn to follow.

After they left to walk down the pier, Barclay stared miserably out at the water. Maybe if he had controlled his Lore better, he could’ve changed Knunx’s mind about Lore Keepers. But Dullshire had banished Barclay despite knowing him all his life. His dreams were probably a lost cause.

“Oh, don’t be so sullen,” Viola told him. “The Elsies here would never have thanked you, no matter what you did.”

“I thought your Lore was very impressive,” Yasha told him seriously. “Have you been an apprentice for a while?”

“Only since Midwinter,” Viola answered for him, which was fine with Barclay, who was in no mood for chitchat. “What about you?”

“For about a year. Started when I was eleven.”

“Oh! I’ve been an apprentice for that long…” Viola stopped herself and cleared her throat awkwardly. Before she’d been Runa’s apprentice, she’d had a different teacher—Cyril Harlow, Runa’s famous archnemesis. But Cyril had fired Viola as a student, and Viola never liked to talk about that. “I mean, you’re probably way ahead of us, then. I’m Viola, by the way. Viola Dumont. And this is Barclay Thorne—”

“Dumont, like Leopold Dumont? The Grand Keeper?”

Viola looked sheepish. “He’s my dad, yeah.”

“I’ve heard that he has three Mythic class Beasts,” said Yasha, sounding skeptical. “Is that true?”

Barclay wondered if Yasha had even caught his name, and he tried not to feel snubbed. He couldn’t help that Viola was far more interesting. Her father was head of the Lore Keeper world, and Barclay was just a boy from the Elsewheres who could barely use his powers without destroying everything in sight.

Leaving them to their happy conversation, Barclay slumped across the beach. More than anything, he wished he could go running with Root—to run so fast that they became the wind and his problems were left far behind them. But Knunx had had enough of a fright for one day.

Then a woman tapped his shoulder. She was very old, her wrinkles like ripples left on the sand. Her floppy knitted hat reminded him of Mrs. Havener from Dullshire.

Barclay stiffened, expecting her to yell at him like everyone else had.

Instead, she held out a shell. It was a conch, like what the fisherman had clutched earlier.

“I’m sorry. I—I only wanted to help,” Barclay told her, uncertain if she could understand him.

She smiled and placed the conch shell in his hand. Barclay realized it was a gift.

“Thank you,” he told her, even though he knew the charm was worthless, just like his skunk charm had been. But it was a gift of thanks from someone in a town so much like Dullshire. And that made it precious.