"Do you believe it?" The question is sharp, direct, stripped of the academic hedging that usually softens her words. "Not what they believed. What you believe. Do you think the ocean is alive? That it can be communed with?"
A roar builds behind my ribs, so loud I'm half-surprised she can't hear it. The truth claws at my throat, demanding release,but I hold it back through sheer force of will. Not yet. Not here. Not until I know for certain what she is and what she might become.
"Belief isn't required," I say finally, "when you've seen proof."
The words hang in the luminescent air, heavy with implications I don't elaborate on. Her eyes are the color of storm clouds in this light, and I can see her brilliant mind working through the possibilities. She wants to dismiss what I've said as superstition or delusion, the ramblings of an isolated islander who's spent too much time alone on the water. But something in her won't let her. Something that recognizes the truth even when her scientific training insists it can't be true.
"Show me," she says softly. "Whatever proof you've seen. Show me."
"Not here. This place is sacred, but it's not active anymore. The communion points are elsewhere, in deeper water, in places I can't take you yet." I hold her gaze, willing her to understand what I can't say directly. "But I can show you enough to help you understand what we're fighting to protect. What those corporate surveyors will destroy if they get their way."
Her expression hardens at the mention of corporate surveyors, a tightening that tells me I've touched on something that matters to her. She came here to save the whales, to protect the ocean from exploitation. Whatever else she believes or doesn't believe, that motivation is genuine.
"Maritime Development Corporation," she says, and the name sounds like a curse on her lips. "They've been trying to get development permits for months. Malcolm Carrick has connections in Edinburgh, in London, probably in Brussels too. Every time local opposition mounts a challenge, he finds a way around it."
"You know him?"
"I know his type." Her jaw tightens. "Corporate predators who see natural resources as profit opportunities. They don't care about ecosystems or endangered species or the communities that depend on these waters. They care about shareholders and quarterly reports and finding the next thing they can strip-mine for money."
The venom in her voice surprises me, speaks to history I don't know yet. Someone like Carrick hurt her before, or hurt something she cared about. The knowledge settles into place alongside everything else I've learned about her, adding depth to the picture I'm building of who Isla really is.
"We should go." I gesture toward the passage that leads back to the beach. "The storm will pass soon, and I want to check the outer boundaries before we head back to the harbor."
She takes one last look at the ancient carvings, her hand brushing against the stone in what might be farewell. "Will you bring me back here? There's so much I could learn from these walls, so much that could help us understand what lived here before."
"Perhaps." I leave the word hanging, deliberately noncommittal. "When the time is right."
We make our way back through the narrow passage, out onto the beach where the skiff waits exactly where we left it. The glow in the water has faded slightly as the storm clouds begin to thin beyond the cliff walls, letting weak sunlight filter through to compete with the luminescence. Isla pauses at the water's edge again, staring out at the cove like she's trying to memorize every detail before we leave.
Every instinct demands I close the distance between us, pull her against my chest the way I did when the wave nearly swept her overboard. The memory of her body pressed against mine, her face in the hollow of my throat, her heartbeat racing in time with my own, burns through me with an intensity that borderson pain. But I hold myself still, keep my hands at my sides, and wait for her to climb into the skiff of her own accord.
The row back toDeepwatchpasses in silence, but it's a different kind of silence than before. The air between us has changed, some barrier lowered or bridge built that wasn't there this morning. She saw the caves. She touched the carvings. And instead of dismissing what she experienced, she asked to come back.
It's more than I dared hope for.
The journey out of the hidden cove requires the same careful navigation as our entrance, threading through the gap in the cliffs with inches to spare on either side. But the storm has passed while we explored the caves, leaving behind the kind of crystalline clarity that only comes after nature has spent her fury. The sea stretches before us in endless shades of gray and blue, calm now, almost peaceful.
That peace shatters the moment we round the headland.
A vessel sits in the waters beyond the outer boundary markers, a sleek white ship that has no business being anywhere near these coordinates. Corporate colors gleam on the hull, and even at this distance, I can see the equipment mounted on the deck. Sonar arrays. Sampling equipment. The same kind of gear that showed up in the hidden cove where I found evidence of surveyors weeks ago.
My hands tighten on the wheel hard enough to make the wood creak.
"Is that who I think it is?" Isla has moved to stand beside me, her voice tight with the same anger I'm fighting to contain.
She grabs her binoculars from the equipment case and trains them on the distant ship.
"Maritime Development Corporation." She spits the name like a curse. "TheNorthern Promise. I've seen her in their promotional materials."
"They're inside the protected zone." She lowers the binoculars, jaw tight. "The boundary markers are clearly posted. This is supposed to be a marine sanctuary."
"Supposed to be." I adjust course, anglingDeepwatchtoward the survey vessel even though every instinct screams at me to stay away, to protect what's mine rather than confront the threat directly.
"Carrick has permits," Isla says, bitterness sharpening her voice. "Papers signed by people who should know better. Political connections that make the local protections meaningless."
"They've been testing the boundaries for weeks." I can see crew members on the deck of theNorthern Promisenow, can see them pointing at our approach. "Moving closer each time, waiting to see if anyone will actually stop them."
"Then we stop them." Isla's voice has gone hard, determined. "I have documentation. Data showing protected species in these waters, evidence of unique ecosystems that would be destroyed by development. If they're violating the sanctuary, I can report them to every regulatory agency that has jurisdiction."
