The doorbell rang early the next day.

  Tristan pulled the front door open. "Morning, mate," the delivery man said as he struggled under a huge crate of groceries. He set them down with a grunt and flicked through a tablet. "Bloody hell, that's a lot of honey. Having a… party?"

  "Ahhh haha, yeah!" Tristan scrabbled for something to explain the strange order. "Making honey drizzle cake for the church fundraiser… a lot of them!"

  "Must be a big church." The delivery man eyed the huge number of carefully arranged bottles sceptically.

  "They need a new window…?" Tristan tried.

  The delivery man considered this. He looked down at the crate full of honey. Then back at Tristan.

  "Bloody big window..."

  He returned his attention to the tablet, seemingly with no desire to probe Tristan further on his concerning lifestyle choices.

  Yesa suddenly stuck her head out of the kitchen door, just behind Tristan, her ears twitching at the sound of a stranger's voice.

  "The honey man has arrived as you foretold." She moved forward to check on the haul.

  The delivery man smiled and turned to look before his eyebrows raised and his smile faded. "Err…" he started.

  Tristan grimaced. Crap, she was supposed to stay in the kitchen.

  Yesa reached past him and grabbed one of the honey bottles, then immediately started trying to squeeze it into her mouth before turning away and heading back into the kitchen.

  Tristan froze. If he just treated this as completely normal, the delivery man might not ask questions.

  "Well, that all seems in order," Tristan said breezily. "Do I need to sign anything?"

  Yesa stormed out of the kitchen with the bottle in her hand. "This honey does not work; he has deceived us!"

  Tristan's eyes widened. Oh crap, it still had the little protective thing on it.

  He smiled at the delivery man and turned, grabbing the bottle from her; his fingers fumbled with the cap, trying to unscrew it and pull the tab underneath. The bloody thing wouldn't come off.

  Yesa glared at the delivery man accusingly over Tristan's shoulder. Her hand drifted towards the blade at her hip.

  "There! Just... had something on it, you can—" Tristan finally got it open and pushed it back into her hand.

  He turned back to the delivery man and smiled. "Hah! It… anyway…"

  Yesa disappeared back into the kitchen behind him, apparently satisfied that the honey situation was resolved.

  The man slowly pushed the tablet towards Tristan, still staring after Yesa.

  Tristan dutifully signed it and handed it back.

  "The ears… looked really real…?" the delivery man managed, turning the tablet in his hands with a look of confusion on his face.

  "Hmmm? Oh yes, got them off some tat merchandise website. I'm sure they'll last a week at most, but I can't get them off her! Hah!"

  "Website…”

  "Mhmmm…" Tristan tried to block the doorway with his body.

  "...did they move? The ears, I mean?"

  Tristan gave him a blank stare. "Ermm... no, I don't think so? Anyway, goodbye! Thanks so much!" He stepped back and shut the door firmly.

  Tristan locked the deadbolt, put his back to the door and slid down to the ground.

  He waited until the delivery van had driven off before breathing again. Yesa popped her head out of the kitchen.

  “The honey man has gone?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I told you to stay in the kitchen!”

  “I wanted honey.”

  “You could wait five minutes!”

  “I did not want to.”

  Her head disappeared again.

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  He groaned as he stood up, aching from the beating he’d taken the other day. He walked stiffly into the kitchen, carrying the honey, before dumping it unceremoniously onto the table.

  “Right, well that should last you a… while.” Although even as he said it, he knew that was wrong.

  She walked over to him, looking him up and down.

  “Yes?” he asked, trying to work out what she wanted now.

  A finger reached out, and she poked him in the side, right where the angry black bruise was underneath his shirt.

  “Ow fu… what was that for?!”

  “You are still hurt?” She looked confused.

  “Yes, of course!... I think you have a special healing thing going on. Humans don’t work like that.”

  “Humans are inefficient.”

  “Well, we make up for it in other ways!”

  She stared at him.

  “Well, I can’t think of any off the top of my head… honey? We make honey.” Technically bees did that, he thought, but would they make it without humans? Yes, yes, they would. He wasn't going to tell her that, though.

  She briefly closed her eyes and nodded once, accepting the point.

  He parked the conversation for later and grabbed a scarf from the side, holding it out to her.

  “You’ll need this if we go out in public. For the ears.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because… if people see them, they may not… understand or ask questions.”

  “So?”

  “Humans can be a bit… funny...”

  She stood, silent.

  “Can we just—” He reached to brush her ears back.

  Her hand snapped up and clamped around his wrist. “Do not touch.”

  He froze. “Okay. Yep. No problem. Too far.”

  He tugged his arm back gently; after a moment, she released her grip.

  “Can you just… you know… lower them?”

  She glared; the ears slowly dropped.

  “Are you doing that on purpose, or are you just angry?”

  “What is the difference?” she glowered at him.

  “Good point.” He held out the scarf.

  She snatched it from him and wound it tightly around her head. “Good?”

  “Yes. Perfect. Sorry about the… you know. The ears. Shall we take some of the honey with us?” Tristan asked.

  “Yes.” Her expression relaxed slightly.

  He tossed a few bottles into a satchel and swung it over his shoulder.

  Honey was, evidently, the way to her heart.

  The snow had mostly melted after the sudden overnight thaw, leaving slush and a few stubborn piles clinging on. They left the house and took the lane down into the village. Tristan told Yesa to keep a low profile and just ignore everyone. What she actually did was scowl at anyone they passed.

  Several pensioners looked years closer to shuffling off their mortal coils after enduring her intense examination.

  "There are many humans here."

  "It's winter; just the locals at the moment." Tristan explained, tugging his scarf tighter against the cold.

  “Good morning," said a voice. Tristan turned and saw a grey-haired woman struggling up the road with two walking sticks.

  “Good morning, Mrs… Pentherik," Tristan replied, as amiably as he could manage, hoping he’d remembered her name correctly.

  Yesa stopped and glared at her.

  “Just nod and keep moving," Tristan hissed.

  “Awfully… cold, isn't it?” Mrs Pentherik said to Yesa as she passed.

  Yesa didn't respond. Instead, she slowly tracked the old woman with a hard stare, assessing her. Mrs Pentherik nervously continued on her way, walking sticks clattering against the frost-hardened cobblestones, noticeably increasing in tempo the longer Yesa’s eyes bored into her.

  "She appeared very old," Yesa noted, tilting her head once Mrs Pentherik had vanished around a corner at an impressive speed for someone of her advanced age

  "Yes… I'd estimate the average age of the village is about seventy."

  "Good."

  "Is it?"

  "Getting old? Yes."

  “... Right.”

  The lane coiled down toward the older part of the village, three-storey buildings pressed close on either side of a road barely wide enough for a small car—if it didn’t mind losing some paint.

  Yesa’s eyes darted side to side; she kept reaching for the scarf over her head before pausing and letting her hand drop away again.

  Tristan was more concerned that his left shoe felt wet, which probably meant it was ruined, and he was trying to remember where he’d bought this pair so he could order the exact same ones again.

  The road sloped steeply toward the seafront, opening onto the bay. The only sound was the gentle lap of waves on the stony beach below.

  A low stone wall bordered the slipway, with benches facing the calm water. A clock tower jutted toward the beach.

  Yesa stared at the sea. “There is much water.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s… kind of the point.”

  “Where does it go?”

  “Erm. Everywhere? We’re on an island. A big one. But it’s surrounded by the sea.”

  “Hm.” She leaned on the wall, looking down at the beach below.

  Tristan joined her and peered over the edge. The drop made him slightly nauseous, so he turned and scanned the buildings behind them for the museum. He spotted it after a moment.

  It was old—but then, most buildings here were. This one stood out: a circular stone structure, almost like a turret, with a single narrow door. Even among the surrounding buildings, it felt archaic.

  A small plaque read: Porthkelgh Museum. Tristan motioned toward it. “That’s the place. Let me do the talking.”

  Yesa turned to look; she nodded and followed as they headed for the door.