The jagged coast bent into deep rocky inlets sheltered from crashing waves, then opened onto stretches of pebble beach. Shellfish massed along the shore, growing in heaps near the warm zones. Even if Luce spent the whole winter here there would definitely be plenty to eat. When she dove down to inspect the crevices where the hot water gushed, she found spiky, pink-legged, lobsterlike creatures; anemones with crimson extrusions like pulsing mouths; and ruffled, gelatinous animals in shades of mauve and saffron. She’d never seen anything like them before. She found strands of kelp and began wearing its leaves as a bikini top in case the man saw her again. There were no caves she could find, but other than that the island was an excellent place for her to wait out the winter.

Her only concern was the possibility that the man might come across her while she was asleep; even the island’s most secret crevices wouldn’t be completely inaccessible to a human. It seemed clear that the man was alone in this place, or as alone as he could be when every passing breeze carried swirls of formless chattering. But Luce had to admit to herself that he might be insane, even dangerous. And if he was some kind of sorcerer—which seemed fairly likely after the bizarre episode with the fish—she couldn’t be certain that her own powers would be a match for his.

It would be better if he didn’t realize she was here. Not until she could be completely sure.

∗ ∗ ∗

The horizon was always lost behind choking clouds and webs of mist. But Luce was almost certain she’d seen a remote stripe of land when she’d first arrived, though she couldn’t guess if it had been Russia or Alaska. Luce didn’t like to admit she was frightened, but the idea of trying to return home in the spring seemed a little daunting. She lay sprawled in the hazy blue daylight, scanning the far horizon and hoping to catch sight of that distant land again. She was back on the same beach where she’d collapsed on her arrival, eating seaweed and daydreaming about Dorian. Assuming today was a weekday he was probably sitting in a classroom right now, drawing in the margins of his notebook as he half listened to the teacher. He would be thinking of her, sketching pictures of her face . . .

Something snapped in the woods at her back, and Luce spun around. The fur-clad man was standing twenty feet away under a shabby, half-dead birch tree. He was looking straight at her, though his face stayed strangely blank. The breeze was alive with whisperings, warm suggestions of excitement, and again Luce had the sinking, hungry sense that she knew more than one of those voices from somewhere.