When I was alone on Jeval, I’d thought many times that love was no more than folklore. And that my mother had only been able to give it flesh and bone because she wasn’t like the rest of us. She was mythic. Otherworldly. Isolde seemed connected to the sea in a way that no one else was, as if she belonged beneath the surface of it instead of up here, with us. But in the next breath, I thought of West.
