Page 9

“I haven’t offered you a buyout, Miss Priest.” He stops several feet away. “I haven’t offered anything except a comfortable armchair you refused.”

The deadpan answer sends a fresh flare of irritation through me. My neighbors are standing on a concrete pier in the rain while his people lock down the quay, and he wants to discuss the furniture.

“I don’t need your manners.” I cross to the desk and open the folder. “Your crew certainly wasn’t polite when they locked down the quay and put an isolation bubble over half the harbor.”

The papers inside survived the trip well enough. I spread out several property records and municipal documents, then place a handful of photographs beside them.

“These records go back generations,” I tell him. “Saltweather didn’t appear yesterday because somebody at Eiriksson Maritime noticed a convenient piece of coastline.”

Sigurd comes closer, and his attention shifts to what I’ve brought. Marta’s fish stand sits beside a photograph of the library, with the crowded quay visible in another.

“This is what your people are boarding up right now. We have gargoyles working those docks, merrow fishermen feeding their families. We have humans running businesses, centaurs hauling nets before sunrise.”

I look from the photographs to him. “People have built their entire lives around that harbor.”

He studies the spread in silence before answering. “Yes, I can see that. Eiriksson Maritime employs humans as well. Mixed-species workplaces aren’t unusual.”

For a second, I can only stare at him. “That is spectacularly not the point.”

One corner of his mouth shifts so slightly I almost miss it. “Then explain the point.”

“The point is that Saltweather works because people there have spent generations figuring out how to live beside one another. These aren’t empty buildings on a parcel map.”

I draw one of the municipal records closer, more for emphasis than because he needs to see it again. “There are property claims, businesses, families, and a town that existed long before your company decided it wanted our home.”

His attention moves from the paperwork back to me. I still can’t tell whether I’m getting through to him, but at least he isn’t dismissing me.

“Coexistence takes compromise,” I continue. “It means you don’t bulldoze a functioning community simply because you have enough money and lawyers to make everyone else move.”

I brace my hands against the desk. The steel is unpleasantly cold beneath my palms, but I leave them there.

“Do you actually hear what I’m saying?” I ask. “Or are you waiting for me to finish so security can drag me back downstairs?”

Sigurd goes quiet long enough that I start assembling my next argument. I have zoning notes in the folder, treaty references, and enough questions about Eiriksson’s claim to keep a corporate attorney occupied for hours.

Instead, he looks over the records once more. “You are factually correct.”

The rest of my argument dies before it reaches my mouth. I stare at him, certain I’ve misunderstood.

“What?”

“Bulldozing a functioning community is inefficient and rude.” His delivery remains perfectly matter-of-fact. “I didn’t order the evacuation, but I have the authority to stop it.”

That knocks me further off balance than any threat could have. I came here prepared for lawyers, intimidation, and several hours of being told why centuries of local history mattered less than whatever Eiriksson Maritime had signed.

I did not prepare for him to simply agree with me. “You agree?”

“I do.” He reaches for the photograph of the library and lifts it carefully between two large fingers. “Displacing that many residents would create unnecessary disruption, and there are less destructive ways to resolve the territorial issue.”

My little brick library looks absurdly small in his hand. The sight does something strange to the anger that’s been carrying me since Saltweather, though I don’t trust the relief trying to replace it yet.

Sigurd puts the photograph back among the papers and looks at me. His expression remains controlled, but his attention has sharpened in a way I can’t quite read.

“I’ll ensure Saltweather is protected, Ms. Priest,” he says. “In exchange, you’ll accompany me to a wedding this weekend. As my date.”

The edges of my papers have started to curl as they dry on Sigurd’s desk. I’ve had enough time to recover from his proposal, but not enough for it to sound any less absurd.

“You want to trade a town for a plus-one?” I ask. “Because I keep turning that sentence over in my head, and it isn’t improving.”