Chapter 3
Esme sped across the long basalt shelf at Spindrift Island’s southernmost point. Charcoal cliffs rose at one end; the ocean fell away at the other. This tiny, wild islet, beloved by fishermen, hung right on the archipelago’s fringe, as if straining to escape its tamer brothers and sisters. To the people of Picton Island, visiting Spindrift was like visiting the edge of the world.
The speckled eagle circled above, floating in its own sea of blue.
The teardrop-shaped pool before Esme hid the portal that, several weeks ago, had swallowed her whole and spat her out into Aeolia. It had taken her days to accept that Aeolia was as real a world as her own—days during which she hadn’t known if she was dead, dreaming, or delusional.
She crouched down and ran a hand over the pool’s icy
