Autumn chases spring away almost before it begins. Adara watches as the flowers fall and sprouts of new-planted seed wither in the ground. The dry skitter of disappointed blooms around her feet whispers: you are needed here. There will be work ahead, and growling bellies to feed.

The youngest sisters blow through the field on the wind, laughing and playing over the brown rows as she and Mother and Jack work to save the hardiest plants. That wind snatches away drops of salt-bitter sweat before she tastes them. She turns for one moment to the sky, shading her eyes and looking up to the swelling clouds above. She leaves her heart with the clouds, riding the breath of the world.

The pub is a different world from home. She tucks away the few coppers she earns there and joins the elderly brothers and wandering sons who haunt the Illimat. Her okus is always the same – a compass no bigger than an acorn, its arrow pointing true in the direction of her desire. North: to the great port.

Illimat is a forbidden game at home, her father’s game, as the compass was her father’s. Ariners rarely made it this far inland, but he had done so, long enough to meet and love her mother; long enough to make her; and again, years later, to make her youngest sister, Del. Of him, Adara knows little: not even whether he died, or simply never returned.

But she learned the game for curiosity about him, and feels the salt of the ocean air sing in her blood, feels the wind trying to lift her feet from the known ground of home. These men have known her all her life, and they know the secrets she lives at the pub, but even they do not know her heart’s desire.

The mournful dance of the pipes and whistle twirl over the heads of the wedding guests and the green, green fields beyond, and Adara feels a pang of loneliness. This is the beauty she has known: the sweet songs and rousing reels of home, heads on shoulders and hands round waists, the struggle of growth, fruiting, harvest, the same old stories.

She shoulders her pack and takes one last, long look, then sets off down the road while her family is lost in the celebration.

Beware the black spot, and beware the sails on the ocean. The old tale sends a shiver down Adara’s spine as she tries not to look at the hands of the first mate before her. “A ship,” she says, breathless. “They say you’re hiring hands for a ship.”

They look her over with flinty eyes, then say, “Have you ever sailed the skies, lass?”

It’s like breathing air for the first time. Like the climax of a song, feet moving faster than you can command them. Like the third mug of ale, or the first kiss. The prow carves through the clouds, and suddenly, they burst out into clear air and she can see everything. Fluffy white giants rising around her, a strange landscape lit by the last golden light of the day. Wind, whipping her curls across her forehead and straining the tears from her eyes. She feels like she could sprout wings and fly herself.

“Aye,” says the older boy climbing the lines with her. His black eyes crinkle in a knowing smile, reflecting her joy back at her. “It’s something, isn’t it?” It’s only then that she realizes she’s laughing.