On the third night, she’d sat on the edge of Jonathan’s couch, where she’d stayed in those days. Her eyes suddenly stung with salty water. Mucus lined her throat and nose, while heat gathered in her chest. She’d thought of the sea, and how she dared not approach it, and strange noises had begun to come out of her. That night, she’d learned what it was to weep.

Since then, she’d never cried. Too unpleasant. Instead, she’d thrown herself into her human studies and joined Jonathan in starting the sheep farm. Why not? She had nothing else to do, and besides, she’d given him the money for it.

Brodie barked up ahead as he chased a couple of stray sheep back into the fold. Hæra looked at the flock as she drove. The lambs were fattening up well. Ætlaquoy would have another good year. According to Jonathan, it was doing much better than most farms did in their first few years. Its livestock was hardy, its grass good. The Texel and Cheviot sheep, already known for the quality of their meat, sold well.

Hæra had told Jonathan about placating the trow so it would bless the farm. He was more willing to believe it than most humans would be. By now, he knew about Hæra’s whole herd too—it had been impossible to keep it from him after what had happened—but humans didn’t need every secret of the unseen creatures.

For example, Jonathan knew what Stormhorses were, but not how an Each-uisge became one. He’d just take that the wrong way. It might even change how he saw Hæra, and as it stood, they had nobody but each other. The thought of disappointing him, or worse, was…unpleasant.

She braked and looked around. Everything looked all right. She turned off the motor, ready to enjoy some time to herself. Now that he wasn’t worried about the storm’s aftermath, Jonathan would be making his usual fry-up. Once the ground was drier, she’d join him and a couple of other farmhands in cutting the grass to make the silage that would feed the sheep during winter. Hæra liked doing that too. You got to drive even bigger vehicles, which had beautiful sharp blades.

That was an hour or so off, though. She had time to sit by herself on a chilly morning and read. She was nearly done with a book about the history of sheep.

At first, to help her learn reading, Jonathan had given her books for children. But all too often, the books featured things that didn’t exist in the world around her. It was hard enough to learn about how life really worked on land; if she had to read made-up stories, she didn’t want them to pretend they were about modern life.