The feeling crept in everywhere. At night, Madeleine’s cottage seemed chillier than it had when Hæra and Jonathan had lived there. Hæra didn’t mind the fireplace so much now, and holding Madeleine close always helped. Madeleine herself didn’t seem to notice, which was strange, since she was more sensitive to cold.

On two occasions, outside the cottage while Madeleine slept, Hæra could have sworn she heard whistling. The second time, she’d slipped out of bed, dressed, and gone to investigate. By the time she’d made it outside, there was nothing. No footprints either. Then again, there was less mud around the cottage and more grass, where it was harder to see indentations.

Of course Madeleine, Jonathan, and the farmhands had all told Hæra it must have been the wind. Nobody else seemed to think anything was wrong, although Jonathan had refused to look directly at her when he said the wind was responsible.

What else could it have been? Hæra knew how unnerving the wind could be. Until she’d started taking human lessons, spending more time on land, she’d never heard how it sounded away from the sea. Now she knew it could moan and hum in the night. And whistle too.

Maybe the trow was up to mischief. Trows were known for that sort of thing: it was all fun and games until they crept into your house to steal a baby from its cradle, though Ætlaquoy didn’t have any babies. Perhaps the trow was bored and had forgotten what Hæra could do to him? Perhaps, when she’d told him she might be leaving soon, he’d decided she was no longer a threat. He would learn otherwise, before this got out of hand.

She needed no shotgun to deal with him. Or anything else. Her own teeth would suffice.

And so, early one morning, when Hæra brought his breakfast, she intended to give him a piece of her mind. However, when she set the food and beer bottle on the ground near his door, he did not appear.

She waited. And waited. She waited over ten minutes, until she was grinding her back teeth. She eventually called out, “I want to speak to you!”

The trow did not emerge. The pasty and beer stayed right where it was.

“Are you causing this mischief? Something’s wrong. I know it is.”

Silence.

“If it’s you, then leave off!” Hæra snapped. Why was she shivering? It was July, and she didn’t even feel the cold in January. Nevertheless, she hugged herself against a chill. “I’ve found a wee bit of joy, and you can leave me to it, can’t you? Just for a while!”

Silence.

“Do you even know what joy is? Have you never—” The wind cut into her, and she gasped. “Never loved a thing and wanted to keep it close?”

No answer.