Chapter 11

His pearl weighed down his pocket, mysteriously heavy for its size. Stories, he thought. Fairy-legends and water-nymphs. Maybe a musical interlude or a lyric poem. Secrets on a rock at the end of the world, and a tripping light melody like the transparent fluttering edges of wings and foamy waves.

“Do you think,” he said into the pause, “magic might be real? I mean, not real. Not exactly.”

“In stories,” Rhys said, coming and going with hearty tea, “or the way the fishing crews talk, miracles and rescues and voices on the wind, maybe.”

“Tall tales.” Cade grimaced at his mug. “Of course.”

“Yes,” Jeremiah said unexpectedly. “I don’t mean legendary sorcerers or wicked witches or anything like you wrote in The Tragedy of King Beryl, but other lands. Under the sea, or in the air. Other people who can see the world in ways we can’t. Not human.”

Cade contemplated this fanciful assertion with some amazement. “Aren’t you a schoolteacher?”