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He went so quiet that she checked whether the call was still connected. “I genuinely don’t think that’s within my department’s jurisdiction.”

“You have a jurisdiction?”

“For plumbing, yes. For…” He trailed off, as if he’d made a judgment call. “Have a good morning.”

He hung up.

Althea set down her phone and looked at the bathroom. The bathroom looked back. The tap dripped steam.

This is fine. I’ve handled worse. I once managed a product launch that became a minor international incident, and I handled it well. This is just hot water.

The floorboards creaked in the hallway — the two spots she’d already mapped during her first twelve hours of residency — and Valene appeared in the doorway with two cups of coffee, as if she’d timed it to the second.

“The pipes.”

“I see that.”

“I called maintenance.”

“How did that go?”

“He said it wasn’t in his jurisdiction. He apparently has a jurisdiction. It’s for pipes that behave normally.”

“Ok.” Valene pressed a cup into her hands. She was unsurprised. This was more unsettling than if she’d been surprised. “It’s not a plumbing problem.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a you problem. It’s a you-running-emotionally-hot-all-night problem. The building noticed.” She gestured toward the pipes, casual, as if this were a perfectly ordinary observation. “Spelltide Cove is very responsive. You’ll get used to it.”

“I will not get used to it.” A lie, and she knew it, but it was six-thirty in the morning, and she was allowed. “I have questions.”

“I have coffee and a plan.” Valene headed down the hallway. “Get dressed. There are people at the Cauldron and Cup who are much better at explaining this than I am, and they’ve been waiting to meet you.”

“How long have they been waiting?”

Valene considered this with slightly too much care. “Define ‘waiting.’”

Althea got dressed.

The Cauldron and Cup had been a café longer than it made strict architectural sense. It sat on the south side of the town square in a building that looked old and only grew more so, comfortably, over time. Wide windows. Exposed-brick walls, rune-marks barely visible beneath decades of paint — not decorative, Althea noticed, not the decorative ones carved into driftwood and sold to tourists. These were old. Functional. Working since before anyone in the room had been born.

The smell hit her at the door: espresso, cinnamon, and an herbal note beneath both that she couldn’t quite name.

Mismatched jewel-toned chairs crowded the communal tables. The copper-topped counter along the back wall bore the evidence of several incidents nobody had thought to fully repair. The chalkboard menu above it did its best — she watched it write a daily special in elegant chalk script, stall, reconsider, and replace it with what appeared to be a short poem about fog. Below that, in smaller letters: PLEASE DISREGARD. THE BOARD IS HAVING A MOMENT.

The espresso machine behind the counter caught her eye. It was a large, capable machine that, on closer inspection, had been reinforced at several points with what looked like standard hardware and a faint blue glow along the seams. It was making a small, tense sound.

I know how you feel.

It continued making the sound.

The back section had a round table, a fireplace burning at a height that seemed to have opinions about the room’s mood, and three women who had clearly been there long enough to stake out their territories.

The first one had a notebook open in front of her. Not a notebook — a system. Color-coded tabs lined the edge in at least seven colors. She was writing in it when Althea walked in, cap clicking, already sizing up the situation and documenting her findings before introductions could slow her down.

The second was gorgeous and had clearly decided long ago, never once revisiting the question. She was smiling, wide and rapid.

The third had her hands wrapped around a mug and was watching the door, patient, in no rush. When Althea walked in, she settled.