Nyx (ON HOLD)

Sea Change, Part II

I stared up at the ornate wooden boathouse as Ethan's rustbucket car shuddered into reverse behind me. The building had seemed strange enough from the opposing cliff, but much like my grandmother's house, the closer I got to it, the more fantastical it seemed.

At the thought of the night-black Victorian, I looked across the narrow stretch of water to the far side of the cove, finding it almost instantly. It stuck out against the forest like a living shadow, even more vivid than Ethan's family's garishly painted home. Though it was just a structure like any other, I couldn't shake the feeling that the black house was watching me, scowling down from its lofty perch like a cantankerous owl.

Yet at least Adaline's house looked like it belonged in a sleepy Maine town; the boathouse looked as though some almighty hand had yoinked it out of a Scandinavian village and dropped it here by accident. Or maybe not even Europe — the curiously curved beams that surged along the pillars and eaves reminded me of a hybrid between driftwood and antlers, like nothing I'd ever seen before, now that I really thought about it.

My stomach roiled with terror at the shrill screech of Ethan's brakes, but he only rolled down his window, pausing long enough to shout: "Say hey to Uncle Eli for me!" Then, with another cryptic grin, he rolled the window back up and the car bumped its way back along the rutted dirt track, disappearing amid the pines.

I turned back to the huge wooden building, giving my nerves a moment to settle. I'd run from the high school because of Keiko and her painting, but Ethan's well-intentioned ride here hadn't been any less tense.

Uncle Eli? It was only now, after Ethan was gone, that I realized what he'd said. Maybe it was a term of affection, like a local nickname. Otherwise he would've said so yesterday, when he was calling to Adaline across the neck.

A chill breeze skirled through the bottleneck of cliffs at the head of the harbor, cutting through my grey-and-white sweater as though it was made of good intentions. If this was how cold it was now, on a September afternoon, I was going to need some serious glacier gear — and soon.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, the feel of the metal-and-silver pendant startling me as I trudged toward the boathouse's door. Only a couple of cars were parked around back, but this was no bustling marina. A few skiffs and larger boats were tied up at the end of the rickety-looking pier that extended from the side of the building, but they were far outnumbered by the cluster of ships that could only be the foreign fleet.

Keiko's people. I forced myself to look away; though they had to be a few hundred yards away, a few people were walking over the tied-up ships, and I didn't want them to catch me staring.

Between the overcast sky and the chill breeze I was prepared for the boathouse to be as frigid as a tomb, but a welcoming sigh of warm air greeted me as I shouldered the door open and scooted inside. The place had no second floor, save for a little office that was tucked away up a flight of unfinished stairs, perched in the upper corner of the building like a roosting owl. The rest of the space was open, its tremendous height supported by tree-thick pillars that divided the boathouse like stalls.

There weren't any horses here, of course — just sailboats of all different sizes and styles, in various stages of completion. Most had been covered by tarpaulins or sheets, but their shapes were still visible beneath, like shrouded statues in a forgotten mansion. I'd never seen so many inside a single building before, so it was impossible not to gape as I crept forward, searching for any signs of life. Raising my voice to shout felt somehow wrong, but the whole building seemed deserted.

It didn't make sense. Heating oil was inordinately expensive nowadays, you could overhear people carping about fuel prices at any gas station in the country. Someone must be paying a fortune to keep this place so warm; I'd gone from shivering to sweating in seconds.