The day passed quickly. By the time we reached the coastal path, the sun hovered high in the clear sky. Churning waves crashed far below us, slamming against the rocky cliffside. In the distance, wooden docks stretched into the froth, where small boats rocked against their moorings. A few buildings were scattered amongst the cliffs, built from bleached stone. They were accessible by a stone set of stairs carved into the side of the cliff, winding down to the sea. Just beside the path sat a cluster of carts, where they’d been abandoned by whoever lived below.
Carefully, we left the safety of the grass to trail the rocky path down to the docks. Ragnar took to the lead, testing each stone with his not-insignificant weight. Despite the cold wind that battled against us, sweat coated my skin by the time we reached the bottom. We’d reached a small cove, cut off from the docks and the houses by a cluster of boulders jutting out toward the sea just a few paces to our left. Froth danced across them.
“Wait. I need a moment.” Catching my breath, I leaned against a slick, moss-coated stone and breathed in the salted air. I pulled my canteen from my waist and took a long swing. The cool water was like a tonic after that climb.
Ragnar sat on the stone beside me and draped his arms across his knees. Gazing out at the sea, he got a wistful look in his eye. “This is quite the place, eh?”
There was a calmness to it, despite the rushing waves beating at the rocky shore. It was still and frantic, quiet and loud, all at once. The air was so fresh, so bright and new. Tucked in this cove, it felt like we were in a whole new world, far from everyone else.
“I’ve never been to this beach before,” I said with a satisfied sigh. “Years spent wandering the Isles, and I still find new places every time I put my boots to the road.”
Ragnar gazed at me thoughtfully. “You love it, don’t you?”
“The Isles? Yes, of course.”
“No, wandering.” He gestured at the rolling sea. “Seeing new places, experiencing new things. I can tell by the way you speak of it, it’s in your soul.”
A smile crested my lips. “I suppose it is.”
“Do you never wish for a home?” he asked. “A house to call yours with a warm hearth and a familiar bed—a place to settle your bones.”
I shifted on the stone, legs tucked to my chest. “My wagon is my home. But what about you? Where isyourhome, Ragnar?”
A darkness dimmed his expression. “I don’t have one.”
I searched his face. “None at all? What about the brother you mentioned?”
“My brother is gone.” Ragnar stood, brushing the sand from his trousers. “I came here, hoping to find a way to pay off the debts he left behind. It only seemed fitting. He was always enamoured by the idea of his own tavern. Said he wanted to start one up. But something happened that took that chance away from him.”
“Oh, Ragnar, I’m sorry.” I reached for him before I realized what I was doing. My fingers stopped short, brushing the edge of his shirt. Either he didn’t notice, or he didn’t want to acknowledge what I’d done. So I let my hand drop awkwardly onto the stone before I stood.
We took off across the beach. The wet sand coated our boots within moments. Ragnar said little, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. I let him stew. Silence was sometimes the best comfort one could give.
Once we’d left the cove behind, we found a small road a few paces off the beach. Five buildings sat in a neat little row, each one smaller than the one before, as if the largest had been built to withstand the brunt of the storms and protect the others from the insistent wind.
We followed Nilsa’s instructions and found the pie man’s house smack dab in the middle of the buildings. It was a squat little house that couldn’t hold more than a bedroom or two. The window boxes held scraggly brown plants that had seen better days, and deep muddy gorges ran through the water-logged lawn. When we came to the front door, Ragnar rapped his knuckles against the peeling wood.
“Nilsa said he ran a shop out of here?” Ragnar asked, his voice low.
“No, I think he just sells his pies to the sailors who come through now and then,” I whispered back.
“Which can’t be too often, right?” he asked, leaning back to glance at the distant docks. There were only a couple of small boats docked there now, likely for fishing. No ships. “Access seems terrible for trading.”
I nodded. “That’s why most of the island’s trade goes through Milford.”
We fell silent as the moments passed. Ragnar knocked again, this time louder. After another bout of inactivity from within, my heart began to sink. We’d spent the entire evening prior searching for any hint to where our ale had gone, and this had been the only lead we’d stumbled upon. To find a measure of hope, and to have come all this way for nothing…
The door shuddered inward, the bottom of it scraping across the timber floor. A frazzle-haired human woman peered out at us, blue eyes wide and wary. She wiped a gooey brown substance across her apron, then jerked her thumb in the direction of the docks.
“Has a new ship come in already? You don’t much look like sailors,” she said in a husky voice that smelled of pipe smoke.
“No, we, ah…” I glanced up at Ragnar, wondering how much we should divulge. “Well, we’ve come down from Riverwold looking for a pie man.”
“A pie man,” the woman repeated in a flat voice. “Don’t you lot have enough pies up there, what with your bloody festival and all its bloody drunks?”
I bristled. “Now, wait a minute—”
“Shut your yapping,” she snarled. “We see plenty of them wandering around down here after Yule, checking out the little shacks beside the sea, like we’re some kind of circus act. Most of the time they’re three sheets to the wind.”
