That…might be love. No, it must be. One sort of love, anyway. Hæra had learned, during her time here, that there were supposed to be different sorts of love that meant different things. It hadn’t occurred to her to apply that idea to herself.

“And you? Can you love?” Madeleine sounded—and looked—desperate as she voiced the question in Hæra’s mind. “That is, I know you can. But what do you love?”

Hæra held back the most obvious answer—the word “you” that Madeleine wouldn’t believe. She felt unsteady inside as she pondered the question and sought easy answers that wouldn’t frighten either Madeleine or herself. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind Madeleine’s ear, and thought she would say, Rainbows, or hunting, or the power of the storm.

She heard herself say, “Jonathan.”

Her breath caught in shock, but Madeleine didn’t look shocked at all. In fact, her face softened, and some of the distress left her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly, as if it were obvious.

It was the farthest thing from obvious. Hæra thought, I didn’t know that. I didn’t know.

But she loved Jonathan’s patience, his persistence, and his kindness. She loved how he’d set out the salt for her tea on the second time she’d visited. She loved how he’d put a pillow and duvet on the sofa for her on the night he’d brought her home, battered and grieving. She loved his white beard. She loved how he loved her too, because he must, he must, it was the only explanation for what they were to one another. All told, that added up to loving…

“Jonathan,” Hæra repeated numbly. “I love him.”

“And he loves you.” Madeleine’s voice was full of certainty now.

Certainty must be nice. Hæra looked toward the sea again, where her kin were, where Jonathan was not. Where there was no farm, or sunlight, or rainbows, or Madeleine. Once, she had meant to drag Madeleine with her under the waves. Now that wouldn’t happen either.

She squeezed her eyes shut before she could begin to cry too. Maybe Madeleine had felt like this when she’d realized she was attracted to other females. Something out of the order she’d been taught to believe in, and something that couldn’t be changed.

Madeleine’s hand touched her cheek, brushing over it with the back of her knuckles. “Hey. Are you okay?”

The self-recrimination was gone from her voice, replaced with soft concern. Hæra already knew how kind her eyes would be, if she looked at them.