She and Jonathan had begun the farm nearly six months after Hæra had washed up on shore. By then, they’d settled into a life together, and her physical strength and endurance could make up for his lack of the same. Jonathan handled the business; Hæra watched instructional YouTube videos (remarkable things) and got to work mucking out land and mending fences. They’d hired men to repair the barn and convert the cow shed. Two of the hires, Jim and Connor, had stayed on as farmhands; others returned seasonally when extra help was needed.

Hæra parked the Gator by the office building. It was actually a house, and the front room served as the office. Jonathan and Hæra lived in the back, where there were two bedrooms, one bath, a sitting room, and a small kitchen. Jonathan’s old cottage lay on the edge of the land; he let it to Jim, one of the year-round farmhands.

Time to go in. At the back door, she knocked the mud off her boots and headed into the kitchen. Jonathan was washing dishes. He didn’t look up from the sink as he said, “Morning, lass. How’d you rest after that storm?”

He never asked her how she slept, since Hæra didn’t sleep. She slowed her metabolic system—so she had learned it was called—while remaining alert to danger. Back home, the herd took turns resting and keeping watch over one another. Here, she simply got into bed. No need to close her eyes if she didn’t want to.

She could rest standing up too, but Jonathan found that unnerving, so she lay down instead.

“Well enough,” Hæra replied. “Yourself?”

“I couldn’t, thanks to worrying. Your lot made a dog’s dinner all over the islands. Saw it on Facebook. People are going to wonder how we’ve escaped again and again.”

Hæra shrugged and washed her hands when Jonathan stepped away from the sink. “Let them wonder. They won’t guess the truth.”

“You mean about your…little friend.” As always when discussing the unseen world, Jonathan sounded hesitant.

“Little friend, big magic. Hang on, you’ve got a bit of...” A baked bean was stuck to his shirt, left over from breakfast. She picked it off with a paper towel. “All sorted.”

He smiled. His life had not accustomed him to small kindnesses, she knew, any more than her own had. It was…not unpleasant to perform such things. From time to time. “Ah, thanks. Bit of a mess, am I? Anyway, I still can’t believe we buy him off with a bit of pastry.”

That, and I could eat him, Hæra thought. She also hadn’t told Jonathan about giving the trow beer, thanks to his desire to stay away from alcohol. She tossed the towel into the bin. “A little respect goes a long way. Don’t trouble yourself.”