After a moment, the trow poked his little head out. His face was sharp and suspicious, his eyes dark, his skin gray.

Hæra nodded in greeting. “For you, friend. Thanks for your protection from the storm. May the farm continue to enjoy your favor instead of your mischief.”

The trow smirked. Without a word, he snatched the bottle and bag and returned into the mound, quick as a wink.

Five years of daily offerings, and Hæra had yet to learn his name. She would certainly never see his underground home, which—if he was like most trows—would be full of treasure. And empty beer bottles, presumably. The little mischief-makers had dwelled in Orkney and Shetland for thousands of years, myths to men, facts to other unseen creatures. And if you got on their good side, they’d bless the land where they dwelled.

Hæra and the trow had a satisfactory bargain. She brought him food and drink and paid him respect. Moreover, she didn’t tear him to pieces, even though rumor said he’d be delicious. Hard to tell which he appreciated more. In return, the farm enjoyed unnatural immunity to poor weather, animal disease, and even the overabundance of geese that plagued Orkney during the winters.

Jonathan had named the farm “Ætlaquoy.” He’d said they had to call it something, said it translated to “Fated Farm,” and what with Hæra’s insistence on her and Sister Madeleine’s destiny, and how he, Jonathan, had always wanted his own farm—well, it sounded nice, didn’t it? A bit posh, even if folk fussed about the spelling.

The trow had never fussed. As far as he must be concerned, this land had never had a name and never would.

Hæra brushed her palms together and returned to the Gator. Brodie remained with the flock. Were there any stragglers? Best to drive round and make certain.

The ground bumped and threw up mud on her jeans and rain jacket. She hated mud. In the ocean, there was no need to wash things or do a lot of other nonsense. Humans had to work so much, all the time.

At first, Hæra had despaired. Her life in the ocean hadn’t prepared her to go outside at a certain time of day, throw herself into hard labor, and then rest, only to get up and do it all over again. Even inland, her human form hadn’t tired easily, but her mind had, along with what Sister Madeleine would have called her soul. She’d lost everything familiar to her. Now she was trapped in a strange world she had to navigate while hiding who she was.