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“At the expense of actual farmers,” retorted Tib. “The landlords enclose more and more land for larger, more profitable operations, and the farmers lose their small plots and the commons for grazing.”

“That’s not happening here.” The corner of his mouth flattened. “My father doesn’t need to wring more profit from the land. He’s obsessed with innovation for innovation’s sake. It’s an end in itself to him.”

Tib couldn’t argue with the characterization. Every year, the duke scattered agricultural journals across the island like seeds. He organized talks on “developments” that left farmers scratching their heads, or rolling their eyes, or both. Tib remembered the lecture on soil fertility. Three-quarters of the way through, old John Stevenson had turned to Alexander Balfour and asked in a loud whisper, “Is this about shite?”

Once, the duke had turned up with a harvesting machine that failed on demonstration. Onlookers had laughed then too. The duke hadn’t seemed to notice. He was too busy tinkering.

“He is newfangled,” Tib conceded, and watched James’s mouth curve further down.

“He should have confined his interest in novelty to agriculture.” He wore a magnificent sneer, eyes fixed on the middle distance.

Tib blinked. Whatever crisis drew him to Selchskerrie, the duke clearly played the villain’s part.

James’s gaze snapped back to her.

“I consulted with masons,” he said. “About where to build the kiln. And with farmers, too. The Crawfords, the MacGregors, your father. Every leaseholder in the vicinity. None of them mentioned anything sacred about the spot.”

He shook his head. “There’s no Clootie well with strips of fabric tied to the branches of a Hawthorne tree, to heal the sick. No ancient lore. As far as I can tell, no one even calls it the Fairy Dale, except you and your siblings.”

“Corry does.”

“Corry.” He sighed, the sneer twisting around into a wry smile. “Another of your acolytes. Isobel. Admit it. The Fairy Dale is your invention.”

“The name.” She swallowed. “I invented the name. I didn’t invent how the moss glows greener there than anywhere else. How flowers sometimes bloom near the pond out of season.”

Her feet were freezing, and her eyes felt too hot.

“The Fairy Dale is special.” She took a breath, heart pounding. “Ancient lore starts somewhere, with someone. Maybe the lore of the Fairy Dale starts with me.”

She expected him to laugh, to mock her. But he was watching her with a strange expression.

“Your Dearnrigg is different.” He spoke slowly. “Secret beaches. Fairy Dales. Mermaid coves.”

She bit her lip. Had she ever mentioned Mermaid Cove? Or was that a guess? An embarrassingly good one.

“You wouldn’t understand.” She looked down. “Dearnrigg is such a small place. You can walk around the whole island in a day, and if you encounter someone you don’t know by name, odds are they came from the mainland on the ferry, and they’re the cousins of forty people you do know. Everything is mapped out here.”

She glanced up and felt a thrill to see him, tall and broad and intent, framed by the sea. He’d been coming to Dearnrigg his whole life. He wasn’t a stranger to its geography, to its people or their ways. But he didn’t belong to the island, like she did, like her family and friends did. The island belonged to him. It was one of his many possessions, one of his smaller possessions.

He’d seen more of the world in the past week than she ever would.

She tore her eyes away, scowled at the water lapping now above her ankles.

“I make my own maps,” she said. “I look for things other people overlook, or I look at them in a new way. For instance, the boulder at the corner of Mr. Balfour’s field. Everyone calls it the boulder at the corner of Mr. Balfour’s field. But I call it Muckle Rock. It plugs a hole that goes right down through the earth, and if someone moved it, Dearnrigg would sink.”

“Good thing it’s so heavy.”

This brought her head up. She’d almost forgotten he was listening.

James was smiling, not a twisted half-smile, a real smile, wide and impossibly charming.

“Dearnrigg is safe,” he said.

She shrugged, embarrassed. “I had a plan for how to plug the hole, if Muckle Rock was ever moved, by an earthquake, or a giant.”

“I’m sure you did,” he murmured, and that was admiration, was it not, in his voice?

With luck, he’d think the wind was reddening her cheeks.