“I can’t help it. I lay awake last night listening to the thunder, and kept thinking.”

He shuffled past Hæra toward the sitting room, where an overstuffed armchair and his tatty sofa faced a television he refused to replace. Jonathan had adapted to computers as necessary, but said his telly had done for him for years and there was no need to change it.

Fine with Hæra, who disliked television anyway. Too confusing. Better to watch real things happen instead of complain about the BBC, shout at footballers, or fall asleep, as Jonathan did.

“Thinking about what?” she asked.

“Among other things, letting the cottage. Jim’s moving out since he’s getting married.” Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t like it sitting empty.”

“I’m sure you’ll find somebody. Perhaps a tourist, at least for the season. Isn’t there a housing shortage?”

“Tourists!” Jonathan gave an exaggerated shudder. “What tourist would want to set up near sheep dag instead of the ocean? Even if they did...” He paused. “I’d rather a Jorsayian. Someone who won’t ask questions.”

Indeed. For several months after her arrival, Hæra had assumed all humans were as incurious as Jorsay’s residents, who didn’t seem interested in looking too closely at her situation. Then, outsiders from a bank had come to look into the farm sale; they asked her about her “role in the business” and were visibly bemused when she said she’d brought some treasure. They’d asked more questions. Jonathan had called them nosy parkers and gone to talk to a different bank.

It had been a valuable lesson. You couldn’t take discretion for granted, and no matter how much the islanders might talk about others behind closed doors, they didn’t poke about into their affairs.

Jonathan looked out of the window toward the pastures that stretched beyond, rolling gently over the few hills that Orkney landscapes tended to boast. Hills that it was hell to herd sheep over. “I didn’t tell you about running into Harry Duggan at the Cliffside Store a few days ago.”

Hæra winced. Harry Duggan was the exception to Jorsay’s discretion rule. He was gossipy enough to make up for the rest of the island.

Jonathan continued, “He said give you his greetings, and then asked, ‘Now how old is she again? I’d swear the lass is blessed with eternal youth.’”

“What did you tell him?”

“What could I, except do the math? We told everyone you were twenty-six when you got here. So now you’re thirty-one, and not a change on your face.” Jonathan crossed his arms. “We can get away with it for now, but not forever. Bad enough when you washed ashore and Sue Kilbright said you healed fast. Eventually, folk won’t be able to ignore you’re different, and then what do we do?”