Hæra had just protested she’d never hurt Madeleine. Her eyes had been wild, her hand extended in a plea. I love you, she’d cried—screamed—with more desperation than Madeleine had ever heard in anyone’s voice. I know you love me. She’d cried that too.

“It’s not love,” Madeleine choked, her eyes still closed. “You don’t know how to love. Oh lord Jesus, forgive me. I went so far astray. Blessed Virgin, pray for me.” She hunched her shoulders. “Help me, please—just some help, some guidance, please⁠—”

A huge, crashing sound drowned the last word.

Madeleine’s eyes flew open. That had sounded like a giant wave striking nearby—but the ruins were atop a great cliff face. No wave could reach this far up, not even pushed by the hurricanes Madeleine had known in New Orleans. It was too dark to see, but she smelled the water, as if a surge of seaweed and salt had landed a short distance away.

The clouds split open to reveal the bright curve of the half moon overhead. Everyone talked about the unnerving quality of full moons, but Madeleine had always found half moons to be eerier—the even split between light and dark.

The half moon granted just enough light to show another great surge of water splashing over the edge of the cliff. The water did not, however, fall to the ground. Instead it rose higher, and higher still, and began to arch forward through the air in a graceful curve tipped with foam.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t natural, and she’d had enough of the supernatural to last her for eternity. She had to get up, turn tail, and run again. “Anywhere but here” seemed like a fine destination.

But there was no time to run. She only managed to brace her feet and tense her thighs before the water coalesced before her, spinning like a tornado. Her face caught salty, misty spray from its edges. As Madeleine wiped the spray from her stinging eyes, the spinning water expanded into a dreadfully familiar shape.

Another horse. One made not of flesh or blood but of the sea. It stood higher than the cliff, a surging giant. Its head alone seemed as large as her entire body.

As it floated in the air, water defined its form, rippling and reflecting the moonlight. Seacap foam curled around its front hooves. And also around the fins of its massive, fish-shaped tail.

Madeleine, frozen on the ground, gaped up at it. Maybe she’d fallen asleep at the foot of the stones and was having a terrible dream. Or a beautiful one. The creature was both. Its eyes were pits of darkness, like the bottom of an abyss.

And it was looking straight back at her.

“I am the Great Mare,” said the leviathan. “And you are very small.”

In sleep, Hæra dreamed. In dreams, the witch found her again.