But humans changed. They had changed enough that while once they’d been easy prey for the Each-uisge, now they had to be avoided because they’d become so dangerous. They’d devised aeroplanes that could fly in defiance of nature, they’d created weapons that could kill from far away, and they’d built stronger houses that could resist most storms.

What had her father said about humans, all those years ago? The same father whose presence Hæra could sense now? I find much to admire in them.

The sea was so near. It was the source of Hæra’s strength and the place to which she sought to return. And for the first time in six years, she thought: Why?

She’d spent as much time as she could in isolation from the rest of the herd, and the rest of the time trying to prove herself. Her only dream had been one that would let her break with generations’ worth of precedence.

Suppose she was allowed to return without being executed. If she couldn’t become a Stormhorse, her fate would be a cycle of mating with one so he could breed her for centuries. Each pregnancy lasted roughly ten years, and only one foal was born at a time, which was why her kind’s numbers were so few in spite of their long lifespan. Why in the Great Mare’s name would she risk that for the slim chance at a dream?

“Are you okay?”

Madeleine was looking up at Hæra with wide eyes; she wore an expression of concern, of caring. Because Madeleine cared about Hæra. As did Jonathan. People here on land cared about Hæra, while her own family had attempted to kill her. Why go back?

Because you have no choice, she told herself. Because you aren’t human, no matter what you look like. The only land creature who understands you is an underground trow.

“Hæra?” Madeleine prompted. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re a thousand miles away.”

A thousand leagues underwater, perhaps. Hæra should say nothing was wrong: a human custom that had been easy to pick up.

“This place reminds me of my father,” she heard herself say instead.

Madeleine blinked, and then her face softened. “You don’t mean Jonathan, right? You mean the man who raised you.”

“The one who raised me, yes.” Hæra looked restlessly over the pits and the swarm of tourists. “I can imagine him here.”

“He liked this kind of thing? Archaeology, history?”

“Yes.” As Hæra said it, she realized it was true. Her father had taught her much of the history of the sea, the herd, and humans too. Beathag had approved of the first two, but not the last.