I feel my face hardening. “The storm was dangerous. Rose could have been hurt. Shewashurt, but it could’ve been much,muchworse.” The memory of those terrifying minutes, watching that unnatural storm rage across the water while not knowing if she was safe, makes my blood run cold. Even now, in the warm morning sunlight streaming through the bakery windows, I can feel the ice of that fear in my veins.
“I know,” he says, looking genuinely remorseful. “I promise to be more careful with my powers.”
I don’t particularly care about his promises. All I can think about is how close I came to losing Rose before I really had her. I brush past him, returning to our table with our breakfast.
As we eat, I watch the man approach the counter. “Tell Koko that Perun was here to see her.Again,” he tells Sarah, his voice carrying across the quiet bakery. Something in his tone – a mixture of sadness and frustration – makes me wonder about his history with Koko. But then he’s gone, and Rose is voicing her concerns about kiteboarding. “I’m worried my arms won’t be strong enough,” she admits, picking at her pastry. “And my corestrength isn’t great. I don’t want to make a fool of myself out there.”
The vulnerability in her voice makes me forget about the strange man. Instead, I focus on reassuring her that we’ll take it slow and that strength will come with practice.
At the beach, I help Rose into her wetsuit, trying not to get distracted by how it clings to her curves. Teaching her to kiteboard is both amusing and endearing – she’s determined but cautious, listening carefully to my instructions while muttering colorful curses when things don’t go as planned.
After her third fall, she stays up for a decent run, the wind catching her kite perfectly as she skims across the water. The look of pure joy on her face makes my heart swell. But when we finish the session, she turns to me with a laugh. “Well, I can officially cross that off my bucket list and never do it again.”
We return the equipment and head to our houseboats to clean up before the oyster farm tour. In my shower, I can’t help but think of Rose in hers, remembering how she felt pressed against me this morning, the way she moaned my name. The thought of having to spend my mornings away from her for the next week makes my chest tight. But at least I’ll have the afternoons and evenings with her, I remind myself. And right now, we still have the rest of today.
I step out of the shower, already eager to see her again. A week of early mornings on the fishing boats suddenly seems like an eternity when measured against moments without Rose. But I gave my word, and the fishermen are relying on me to help them. Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?
Rubbing my hand against the growing ache in my chest, I’m not sure my heart could get any fonder than it already is.
Despite livingin the area for years, I rarely venture far from my marina, and I’ve certainly never visited any of the local oyster farms until today. The drive takes us along winding coastal roads, each curve revealing new glimpses of the shoreline. When we pull up to the weathered wooden sign reading “MacLeod Oyster Farm,” I marvel at the intricate network of nets and lines stretching into the shallow waters. Wooden posts rise in neat rows from the water, marking different sections of the farm. The mudflats extend for what must be a mile, creating a patchwork of grays and blues under the afternoon sun. Even the air here feels different – raw and untamed, with a sharp undercurrent of fresh shellfish and mineral-rich mud.
The owner, Martha MacLeod, meets us at the edge of her property. I know her in passing – she’s a familiar sight in town, making weekly deliveries to the restaurants in her beat-up blue pickup truck, exchanging quick nods with the locals. I’ve also encountered her sleek seal form a handful of times in the ocean, her dark eyes just as knowing beneath the waves as they are now. Despite her stocky build, she moves with the fluid grace of someone born to the water. Her strong, weathered hands bear the marks of hard work. Two long braids streaked with gray hang over her shoulders, adorned with small shells woven into the plaits. Her family has worked this stretch of the Maine coast since before the Revolution, passing down the secrets of the tides and oyster beds from mother to daughter. From what I’ve heard whispered around town, the MacLeods were here long before Koko founded Lublin Harbor – a sanctuary for paranormal creatures.
I knew what Martha was the moment we met – that whisper of otherness that marks those not quite human. Her seal nature may be as different from my kraken form as the shallows are from the Midnight Zone, but we recognized each other instantly. We’ve never spoken of it, maintaining that unspoken agreement between creatures like us who walk in both worlds.
“Welcome to MacLeod’s,” Martha says warmly, stepping forward to shake my hand, then Rose’s. Her grip is firm, calloused palms speaking of years of handling ropes and cages. When I introduce Rose, Martha’s eyes crinkle with a knowing smile that makes me wonder how much she’s already heard from the local grapevine.
“It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for having us,” Rose replies.
“Lovely to meet you,” Marta says, her gaze sweeping over our casual summer attire – Rose in her denim shorts and loose white shirt, me in cargo shorts and a faded blue tee. She studies our tennis shoes with particular amusement as if already picturing them caked with mud.
“Can’t have you ruining those nice clothes,” Martha announces, leading us to a weathered shed where pairs of chest waders hang. She helps Rose into a pair while I find my size, showing us how to adjust the suspenders.
Once we’re properly outfitted, she gestures toward the mudflats. “Watch your step,” she warns, her voice gravelly but kind, carrying the slight lilt of her Scottish ancestors. “The mud here’s deeper than it looks.”
Following Martha as she leads us to the oyster beds, Rose doesn’t seem to mind the muck. She picks her way along the wooden planks laid out as walkways between the growing areas. Her eyes are wide with curiosity as Martha explains the farming process.
“How long does it take before they’re ready to eat?” Rose asks, peering into the water at the submerged bags.
“Now that’s the question everyone wants to know,” Martha chuckles, touching one of the floating lines. “It can take up to three years before they’re ready to harvest.”
“So they just… grow in these bags?” Rose asks, studying the rows of mesh containers bobbing in the gentle waves.
“That’s right. And the tide does most of our work for us,” Martha says. “These bags move with the waves – kind of like a cradle. That motion tumbles them naturally and builds a deeper cup and stronger shell than if we did it by hand. Much better than those farms down south that use machines.” Her voice carries a note of pride. “The tide here, she knows what she’s doing.”
In my other form, I’ve always feasted on the oysters straight from the ocean floor, but watching Martha explain the intricate farming system gives me a new appreciation for the process. She shows us how they sort the oysters by size, moving them to different areas as they grow.
Rose’s genuine interest has softened Martha’s typically gruff exterior. I catch the older woman grinning at Rose’s enthusiasm.
After showing us the different growing stages, Martha leads us to a weathered picnic table nestled under an old cedar tree. A young woman with the same fluid grace as her mother emerges from a small building, her dark hair plaited with shells like Martha’s. She carries plates, utensils, and an array of homemade condiments, setting them out with practiced efficiency. “My daughter, Moira,” Martha says with quiet pride before disappearing into the building herself. She returns with a bucket of oysters, and a shucking knife already in her hand.
Her movements are mesmerizing as she works – quick, efficient twists of her wrist that pop each shell open with practiced ease. I’ve never seen anyone shuck so fast on land. Moira arranges each opened oyster on beds of ice with the same precision.
“These are our signature sweet waters,” Martha explains, laying out a spread of crackers, homemade hot sauce, and horseradish. “Try them naked first – just tip it back and let it hit your tongue.”
Rose follows the instructions, closing her eyes as she tastes. Her look of delight makes warmth bloom beneath my ribs.
As we eat, Martha fires up an old grill, and soon, we’re trying them in different ways – raw, with various condiments, and finally grilled with garlic butter. Rose declares the grilled ones her favorite, though she watches with amused disbelief as I continue to down one after another raw.
