The harbour was still half-asleep when Cate arrived at six-fifteen, and that suited her fine.

She'd been in Môrlan three days. Just long enough to find her way around, not long enough to stop feeling like an imposter. The stone cottage she'd rented smelled like other people’s holidays: sea salt, fabric softener, and the faint mustiness of a place closed up more than it was lived in. She'd opened all the windows despite the March cold, and slept with the sound of the sea threading through her dreams.

Now here she was, standing on the harbour wall at dawn like she belonged, and that was a start.

A wave broke against the stones below, sending spray arcing toward her face. Cate nudged it aside without thinking—a flick of her fingers and a spark of will, nothing more—and the water splashed harmlessly three feet to her left. Small magic. The kind that kept her dry, her tea hot, and helped her find parking spaces on match days.

She'd been doing it so long she barely noticed anymore. Her Mam had taught her, back when her mother still remembered how.

Môrlan was waking up around her in the grey March light. A fishing boat chugged toward the harbour mouth, running lights on, while overhead, gulls wheeled and screamed over something worth fighting about near the slipway. The air tasted of salt and diesel and the cold that came off the sea before the sun warmed it.

Cate pulled her coat tighter and let herself settle.

It was another kind of small magic, the settling—a gentle nudge to the way people perceived her, smoothing the edges of newcomer into something a little more unnoticeable. She did it without thinking, the same way other people straightened their backs or put on a professional smile.

Something resisted.

She felt it like pushing against a door that should have opened easily and finding unexpected weight on the other side. The settling slid off, incomplete. Cate frowned, tried again—and this time there was definite pushback. Not her imagination. Not tiredness.

Someone had been here before her. Laid something down. A working of some kind, subtle enough that she couldn't see its edges, but present enough to interfere with hers.

The lights in the harbourmaster's office flickered.

Cate turned to look. The office was a small stone building at the end of the quay, weathered to the same grey as everything else on this coast. She'd been given the keys three days ago by a council official who'd driven up from Haverfordwest and spent twenty minutes explaining things she already knew. The lights inside shouldn't even be on—she hadn't left them on, and no one else had a key.

They flickered again, then steadied.

Electrical fault, she told herself. Old wiring. Nothing more.

But the hairs on the back of her neck didn't believe it.

Cate walked toward the office, keys already in hand. The door should have opened smoothly—she'd oiled the lock herself on the first day—but the key stuck. She jiggled it, tried again. Nothing.

"Come on," she muttered, wiggling the key determinedly.

The lock clicked open on the third attempt, grudgingly, like it had decided to cooperate only because she'd put a little magical oomph behind her insistence. Cate pushed the door open and stepped inside, reaching for the light switch.

The overhead fluorescent buzzed, flickered, then steadied. The VHF radio on the desk crackled with static—louder than it should have been, spitting and hissing like something was interfering with the signal. Cate crossed to it and adjusted the signal. The static faded, but didn't disappear entirely.

She stood in the middle of the small office and turned slowly, taking stock. Desk by the window. Tide tables on the wall. Kettle older than she was. Filing cabinet. Nothing obviously wrong. Nothing she could point to and say there, that's the problem.

But something felt off. Like the air pressure before a storm, or the silence before bad news.

Cate let out a slow breath and made herself a cup of tea. Whatever was going on, she'd deal with it better caffeinated.

She was halfway through her first cup when she saw someone emerge from the RNLI station at the far end of the harbour, coffee cup in hand. He had the look of a man who spent most of his time outdoors—weathered in a way that suited him, comfortable in his own skin. Dark hair with a touch of grey at the temples, long enough to curl over his collar. He moved like he knew where everything was without having to check.

He noticed her watching through the office window—of course he did; she was the new face in a place where faces didn't change often—and raised his coffee cup in acknowledgment. Not friendly, exactly. Just noting her presence.

Cate grabbed her coat and went out to meet him. That's what a new harbourmaster should do: introduce herself, establish the working relationship, make sure the RNLI knew she wasn't going to be difficult. The sensible, professional thing.

He waited for her to reach him, not moving to close the distance himself. Patient. Unhurried. The sea was louder here, slapping against the harbour wall, filling the silence between them.

"Cate Morgan," she said, offering her hand. "New harbourmaster."