The Sea at the End of Everything by Emily McCosh

Author:Emily McCosh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oceans in the Sky Press
Published: 2023-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

Vivian doesn’t say anything about Haf. Not when he wanders the house poking at book spines and hanging herbs, touching beads of moisture forming along the oily panes of window glass. Not even when he goes outside. Cold truly seems not to bother him. Maren is sore and tired from the unending night and finds him under the eave of the house when the storm has lulled. He’s wearing nothing but Rocco’s slightly too-large clothes—no coat or boots or warm things of any kind.

“You’re lucky you haven’t caught your death,” Maren mutters while Haf blinks innocently. Rainwater drips from the fern alongside the door onto his head. He doesn’t appear to notice.

After finding him socks and boots and the warmest coat she can—she doesn’t know where Rocco’s run off to and feels out of place rummaging amongst his things—she stands over him until he gets them on. He doesn’t struggle with the clothing, just regards it with disinterest. Maren moves from blushing to bemused in the space of a quarter hour.

It’s still early, but she keeps an eye on the path lest any villagers attempt another visit.

“Those are moors?” Haf asks, pointing to the plains of grass and heather overwhelmed and beaten down with rainwater.

“Yes.”

He turns his face instead toward the sea, the cliffside where Vivian stood only the night before. Maren squints at him but does not stand in his way when he wanders toward it.

Will he walk right off the edge? She hurries after and takes a fistful of his coat arm. He appears both older than her and as if she’s guiding a toddler.

He has the good sense to sidle up to the edge like a crab. Maren gives him a warning tug. Instead, he grabs her wrist and leans farther over until she’s certain he sees the stomach-twisting drop. She grasps him tight. Wind whips back his loose clothing. When he turns his face to the sky, a burst of rain floods for a handful of seconds. He doesn’t so much as flinch, leaning back more as if it’s nothing but a warm wash of sunlight. Maren twists her wrist until she can slide her hand down around his.

“Moor horse,” he murmurs, turning with his face still raised before dropping it back to hers.

“Moor horse,” she agrees. “Before the storm returns.”

He walks alongside her and just behind, keeping hold of her hand as if it steadies him. She’s been observing him all morning, and he doesn’t appear to be in pain more than a few touches to his ribs, as if their presence often surprises him. He is unsteady upon his feet, but not limping, and he stood with surprising fluidity given his bedridden state for days.

His finger joints move strangely between hers, and she was surprised his legs hold his weight. Shuffling through these past days, she supposes it isn’t the strangest occurrence.

It is a short time to the spot where Maren estimates she woke. Out here, particularly with such weather, it is difficult to tell.

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