Eileen O'Shea was a tall woman with black hair and a nose slightly longer than most, which made her self-conscious about her appearance. Her shirt was rumpled from a rough night spent sleeping in a chair. Her skirt, long enough to reach her ankles, was a welcome relief against the cold winter night.

  She sat at a table, nursing her coffee as the ship rocked uncomfortably from a huge wave. Despite a table leg being propped up by a book, it had yet to topple over, though “yet” was the word Eileen kept foremost in her mind.

  Many things had yet to happen. She had yet to gain a PhD, yet to win the lottery... but she expected at least one of those to happen eventually.

  A chill lingered in the air, prompting Eileen to bundle her jacket tighter. Vaguely, she could hear her professor from Gerome University remarking that the weather on the island would be colder than what she was used to. Beltra was just far enough from the mainland to have its own weather patterns, and this autumn was proving to be especially cold for the place. She had checked the weather forecasts the week before, but the freak storm had been an unexpected turn. The island had just endured one of the greatest storms of the century, which was saying something given how far into it they already were.

  Normally, she'd be in her Dublin apartment at this time of year, the heating in her building enough to ward off the cold. But she couldn't be there. She had to be in Ballycalva.

  Her aunt, Gretten O'Shea, had recently passed away and left her estate to Eileen. It was a surprise to Eileen; she had known her aunt and met her occasionally, but they hadn't been close. In fact, they hadn't spoken since the death of her father, Gretten's brother.

  Gretchen had been a force of nature whenever Eileen had met her, and imagining her ill was a jarring thought. Gretchen had been able to browbeat her father into compliance, a man who wouldn't bend for something as trivial as Eileen needing a matching pair of socks.

  So a sudden, quiet death had shocked the family.

  Somehow, Eileen's inheriting Gretten’s farmland wasn’t a surprise to anyone but her. So when the time came, she headed to the island where her father had been born, to the house her grandparents had built. Small, isolated towns weren’t exactly Eileen’s idea of a bad time, though.

  Life in Dublin was a bustle. Packed bus services, shouting orders at Delis, tourists rushing about like bulls in a china shop. The only reason Eileen liked Dublin more was the recently revitalized Dublin Zoo. It boasted the best animal variety in the nation, mainly due to the presence of imported creatures on loan from other zoos. Eileen didn’t plan on staying long on the island; just a short week to settle things before her uncle, Harry O’Shea, gave notice at his job in Scotland and came to manage the place. After that, he’d take over, and Eileen could finish her zoology degree.

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  Then she’d decide whether to sell the farm or keep it as a home for another generation of the O’Shea family.

  “We’ve landed, miss,” one of the crew informed her, breaking Eileen from her thoughts. She thanked him and gathered her bags. Soon, she was off the ship and walking down the dock into town.

  The place was busy with activity. People swept shards of glass from the sidewalks, installed new windows, and nailed planks over holes in wooden doors, grumbling about the cost of repairs. The town was recovering from the storm.

  The mood wasn’t particularly happy, nor was it dour. It was the mood of determination. But Eileen found it curious how that determination was fuelled as a man in an ill-fitting suit, made all the worse by heavy makeup, was yelling at anyone with so much as a scratch on their front door.

  “Mister Mayor,” one man whined as the mayor’s scolding caused his face to lose its makeup, revealing a faint tinge of embarrassment. “It’ll be as good as new with some wood filler.”

  “My good man,” the mayor replied in a tone that indicated “good” wasn’t quite the word he meant, “My town will not suffer sloppiness. Not one bit of it. Now, you’ll replace the door... or, ”

  “...or?”

  “Well,” the mayor smiled, his teeth gleaming white, “I’m sure you understand that hooligans could take issue with your sloppiness. And they won’t be as polite as I am.”

  With that, the mayor turned sharply and walked away. Eileen, who had been standing too close, had to quickly sidestep as he brushed past her. The mayor took the time to wink at Eileen, leaving her confused.

  “Can I help you, miss?” the remaining man asked.

  “Y-yes, I’m looking for Marco’s?”

  “The solicitor?”

  “Yeah, ”

  “That would make you, Eileen. Gretten’s niece. You’re earlier than I expected, given the storm, but it’s good that you’re here.”

  Eileen looked up at the blank space above the door, where a sign had once hung before the storm had torn it away, leaving just a hook. She didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that the sign had once read Marco Delvin, Solicitor.

  “I’d offer you to come in, but there’s a massive hole right through to my office,” the man said. Eileen cringed at the thought of an office suffering from the storm. There probably wasn’t a dry spot anywhere. “Luckily, the cabinets protected my documents. So, if you don’t mind, we can take the discussion of Gretten’s will to Mitchell’s.”

  “Mitchell’s?”

  “It’s a local restaurant. I’ll get us semi-private seating, and the owners will make sure no one sits too close to us.”

  “Fine with me. Lead the way.”