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The coastal wind hits me full in the face the moment I follow Marta outside. I pull the cardigan around myself and hurry after her down the wet cobblestones.

“What exactly happened?” I ask when I catch up with her. Marta keeps moving toward the breakwater, her wings tucked tight against her sides.

“A yacht came in about twenty minutes ago,” she tells me. “Huge thing, black hull, Eiriksson markings, and then a whole crew came off it. They brought people in suits, Valerie.”

Before I can reply, we round the end of the library. A crowd has packed itself around the loading cranes. Humans stand shoulder-to-shoulder with gargoyle dockworkers. Draft-horse centaurs in high-vis rain jackets fill the road behind them.

Delivery carts have been abandoned at odd angles along the cobblestones. Everyone near the waterfront seems to be shouting at once. Saltweather argues about almost everything, but this has none of the usual familiarity underneath it.

“Where’s the harbormaster?” I ask, but Marta plunges into the crowd without answering. I follow the space her wings clear. Wet coats and stone shoulders brush against me as we squeeze through.

One of the centaurs stamps an iron-shod hoof against the cobbles beside me. Ahead, several men in sleek waterproof suits move between the loading cranes.

One presses a laminated notice against a steel support while another tears industrial tape from a roll. A gargoyle carrying a wooden shipping crate tries to move toward the loading berth.

One of the suited men steps into his path and raises a clipboard. The gargoyle stops. He could probably relocate the man to the nearest rooftop without much effort.

“Marta, what is going on?” I ask when I finally catch her near the loading zone. “Why is the harbormaster letting them block the docks?”

“They’re posting notices and telling everyone to put the cargo down,” she says, gesturing toward the cranes. “Nobody’s allowed to load or unload anything.”

I look toward the nearest laminated sheet, where a stark logo sits above several paragraphs of dense legal text. EIRIKSSON MARITIME is printed across the top in large black letters.

“They can’t just stop the docks,” I say, looking toward the motionless transport ships. “Half the town’s income is on those boats.”

“I told them that,” Marta says, suddenly quiet. The feathers around her neck lift as she stares at the corporate crew.

“And what did they say?” I ask. Marta gestures sharply toward the nearest man with a clipboard.

“One of them asked me to submit my concerns in writing,” she says. Considering the expression on her face, I’m impressed she hasn’t submitted anything heavier.

I start working my way toward the front so I can see what the notices actually say. People shift enough to let me pass. By the time I reach the loading zone, my hair is stuck to one cheek and I’m breathing harder than I’d like.

A merman stands on a stack of shipping pallets with a white megaphone in one hand and a clipboard in the other. His waterproof suit fits neatly around the faint scales climbing his throat. He looks about as concerned as I would be by somebody disputing a twenty-cent overdue fine.

“Pursuant to Maritime Code Section Four,” he says through the megaphone, the words breaking beneath the noise, “all residents and commercial operators are hereby required to vacate—”

“Required by who?” a dockworker shouts from behind me, and several people take up the question. The merman lowers the megaphone and waits them out without any visible irritation.

A movement to my left catches my eye, and I find Marta slipping past one of the security guards. She marches directly toward a stack of empty fish crates and grabs the top one.

“Marta, don’t,” I call, pushing toward her. She hoists the crate against her chest, her talons digging into the dry wood.

“Saltweather is ours,” she shouts back. The nearest security guard notices and starts toward her.

“Yes, it is. But throwing that gets you arrested,” I tell her as I reach her side. I catch her forearm before she can move any farther.

Her grip loosens for a moment, but then the megaphone crackles again.

“Anyone interfering with Eiriksson Maritime personnel will be removed from the premises,” the merman announces. Marta’s wings snap open beneath my hand.

The crate sails across the wet cobblestones and smashes directly in front of him. Pine splinters scatter over the stones and strike the toes of his polished boots.

The crowd surges forward at once, and a dockworker shouts something obscene about the eviction notice. The security guards reach for their batons. At the front, the gargoyles brace themselves with a grinding scrape of stone.

Marta reaches toward another crate, but I catch her wrist before she can grab it. She jerks against my grip once, then stops when I refuse to let go.

On the pallets, the merman lowers his megaphone and raises one webbed hand toward the harbor. The water beside the quay rises with him.