He woke to the sound of paddling.
He hadn’t really been asleep.
He was awake at the wrong hour, the kind that comes when a storm is moving in over the water.
His eyes stayed closed, and his body didn’t move.
He listened to the wind, alert for any change that might mean he needed to get up.
After about twenty minutes, he heard, faint beneath the wind, the small, steady sound of a paddle hitting water.
The sound was clumsy; someone was trying hard.
He got up.
Pulled on a jacket.
Went to the kitchen window.
The kitchen window looked west, toward the mainland.
In the dark, he saw a small shape moving slowly across the open water.
It was a kayak, probably borrowed, and too small for the person inside.
The paddler moved with awkward determination.
It seemed like someone who had never paddled before but had decided to keep going no matter what.
He watched for a moment.
The kayak was making it.
Slowly.
Badly.
But it was making it.
He put the kettle on.
He left the overhead lights off and turned on the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen.
He liked the warm yellow glow they gave the room at night.
He took out cocoa powder, milk, and a small bar of dark chocolate he had been saving.
He grabbed a towel from the closet by the front door and set it out.
Then he waited.
The kayak landed at the natural anchorage with a wet scrape of fiberglass on rock.
One person climbed out, soaked and exhausted.
She was smaller than he had thought from a distance.
Now he could see it was a girl.
She stood on the rocks for a long moment, swaying a little.
Her body knew the journey was over, but she hadn’t decided what to do next.
He walked over to her, carrying the towel, at his usual pace without hurrying.
She was about seventeen, he thought, although it was hard to tell in the dark.
She was wearing what looked like a sweatshirt, jeans, and a pair of cheap canvas sneakers, all of them soaking.
Her hair was plastered to her forehead.
She was shivering.
He didn’t ask her name.
He didn’t ask her anything.
He held out the towel.
She took it.
He gave a slight gesture towards the house, indicating she should follow him.
She did.
Inside, under the warm yellow light, he had her sit at the kitchen table.
She sat quietly.
He poured the hot chocolate into a mug.
The kettle was almost ready, and the kitchen-temperature rule helped him get it just right, which made him quietly happy.
He set the mug in front of her.
She took it in both hands but hadn’t drunk it yet.
She just held it.
He knew she was doing what people do when they finally arrive somewhere safe and need a moment to calm down.
He sat across from her.
He did not stare.
He did not look away.
He was just there.
After a while, she drank the hot chocolate.
After a long while, she spoke.
“Are you the man?” she said.
“I might be.
Which man?” “The man on the island.” “That would be me, yes.” “There’s a website.” “There’s a website.” “I found it.” “Okay.” She drank more of the hot chocolate.
Her shoulders had started to come down from where they had been around her ears.
“Are you in immediate danger?” he said, because at some point, one of them had to ask.
“Not right this second.” “Then drink the hot chocolate first.” She drank the hot chocolate.
When she was about halfway through it, she set the mug down.
Looked at the table for a long time.
Then she said, “There was a fire.” “Okay.” “In New Jersey.
Not — I wasn’t — I didn’t —” “Take your time.” “It was at a house.
Not my house.
The house.
There was a fire, and the fire was — the fire wasn’t entirely an accident.
In the way fires are sometimes entirely accidents.” “Okay.” “My body did something I didn’t entirely control.
In a bad moment.” “Okay.” I was scared.
I had been scared for a long time.
The feeling kept building up.
When I get really scared, something happens in my body.
It’s green.
She gestured, vaguely, in the air.
She didn’t name what it was.
He didn’t push.
“And the fire happened after the green didn’t work.” “After the green didn’t work.” “And somebody told you it was safe here.” “I heard somewhere.” “Not where.” “Just somewhere.” He nodded.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, because the right thing to say was not on the tip of his tongue, and he did not want to say something that wasn’t the right thing.
Eventually, he said, “That’s a very common story.
I’m sorry it happened to you.” She glanced up at him.
Her eyes were tired, young, wary.
He let her study his face, offering her space without pressure.
She looked back down at the hot chocolate.
She said, “I don’t have anywhere else.” “I know.” “I don’t want to make you a problem.” “You’re not making me a problem.” “I read on the website that — ” “I know what you read.
The website is correct.
Drink your hot chocolate.” She drank her hot chocolate.
When she finished her drink, he led her to the spare room.
Technically, it was the guest room, and it had been finished for a few weeks.
He had built it before the rest of the second floor, before the kitchen, and before the porch.
The guest room came first, though he hadn’t known why at the time.
He told himself it was practical, that a sovereign needed a guest room, but the truth was, he had never hosted a guest.
He built the room for someone whose name he didn’t yet know.
He gave her dry clothes.
They were too big, since they were his, but they were dry and soft, and she took them without comment.
He showed her the bathroom and told her there was a glass of water by the bed.
Quietly, he said he would be in the kitchen if she needed anything, and that the door was unlocked, but he wouldn’t come in unless she called.
He left her at the door.
He went back to the kitchen.
He sat at the kitchen table.
The empty mug was across from him; his own was untouched in his hands.
The small window was dark.
Rain fell steadily.
He thought about the green, about how long someone must have been scared before that.
He thought about the kayak, too small.
He thought about the website that said, “Please welcome.” She had read it.
She had come.
He picked up the journal.
Day [unmeasured].
A girl came in a kayak in the rain.
She is too young to be having to come anywhere.
She didn’t tell me her name yet.
She drank the hot chocolate.
The guest room has its first guest.
I think I built it for her.
He read it back.
The last line struck him harder than he expected, and he sat for a while in the kitchen with the journal closed in front of him.
He waited.
She didn’t call out.
Eventually, he heard her breathing settle on the other side of the wall.
He heard her shift once, twice, then go still.
He got up.
Turned on the under-cabinet light.
Stood for a moment in the dim, listening to the rain.
He went to bed.
In the morning, when the light came up over the water, he made breakfast.
He made enough for two.
He sat at the kitchen table with the breakfast in front of him and waited.
After a pause, the door of the guest room opened.
She came out in his too-big clothes.
Her hair was tied back.
She looked, in the daylight, even younger than she had looked the night before.
She looked at the breakfast.
She turned to him.
She said, “My name is Dara.” He said, “Hi, Dara.
I’m Alaric.
There are eggs, and there is coffee, and there is tea.
The tea is better.
The coffee is fine.
Take whichever.” She took the tea.
She sat down across from him.
She ate.
Halfway through, without looking up from her plate, she said: “What does please be welcome mean on the sign at the gate?” “It means what it says.” “What if I broke things?” “You wouldn’t.” “What if I did?” He put the cup down.
“Then we’d talk about it.
And we’d figure it out.
And we’d still have breakfast in the morning.” She kept eating.
After another stretch, she said, “Is there a thing I’m supposed to sign?” “Not yet.” “When?” “When you’ve eaten?” “Right, then.” She ate.
He drank his tea.
Outside on the porch, the wind had eased, and the morning was clear.
The compass rose flag, with no directions marked, caught the early light and turned slowly in a gentle, wandering breeze.