Iona froze.

The voice hadn’t come from behind her. It hadn’t come from anywhere, not exactly. It was more like the sound had bloomed in her chest, rich and low and threaded through with salt and varnish. Like whisky in a storm.

She looked around, heart thumping. “Hello?”

Silence. Just the creak of the rigging and the gentle lap of water against the hull.

She released the tiller and stood, turning in a slow circle. Nothing. No one.

“No more boat wine for you,” she muttered.

You’re not drunk.

She took a step back.

Then another.

The deck shifted under her feet, not with the motion of the water, but as if someone had shifted their weight. As if Kelpie had sighed.

“What the fuck,” she whispered.

The wheel turned slightly of its own accord.

“I’m going mad.”

Not mad. Just alone. And I don’t like being ignored, Iona.

Her name in that voice did something strange to her. She clenched her thighs without meaning to and scowled at the mast like it had insulted her knitting.

“You’re a bloody boat.”

And you’re wet and lonely. Let’s not pretend this wasn’t inevitable.

She narrowed her eyes.

The ropes swayed gently in the breeze.

No. Not in the breeze.

Towards her.

“Oh hell,” she breathed.

She backed up until her calves hit the bench seat and sat down heavily, eyes never leaving the mast.

“Okay,” she said, speaking aloud just to hear her own voice. “Let’s assume this isn’t a psychotic break. Let’s say I’m… having a moment. Talking boats. Sure. That’s fine. Totally fine.”

You talk to me all the time, the voice murmured. I’m just answering now.

“Oh good,” she muttered. “It’s a sassy boat.”

The ropes gave a little twitch. A gentle tug, as if testing tension. One coiled languidly along the rail, brushing past her boot. She pulled her feet up, tucking them under her thighs like the deck might start groping her.

“You are not allowed to flirt with me,” she snapped.

But you like it.

“I do not.”

You smiled yesterday when I caught that loose halyard. I felt it. That little thrill when I wrapped it around the cleat. You like a good knot, Iona.

She covered her face with both hands and groaned. “I am not having this conversation with a sailboat.”

Why not? You’ve had worse. That ginger bloke with the fish tattoo? Awful. At least I’m waterproof and reliable.

Her hands dropped to her lap. “You’ve been listening?”

I’m always listening. You live on me. You touch me. You sleep inside me. I know how you breathe when you dream. I know the rhythm of your footsteps when you’re angry and the way your voice goes soft when you read aloud. You think I haven’t noticed the way you tie off my lines with those clever little hands?

The boom shifted, slow and lazy, as if stretching in the sun. Iona watched it warily, but it only settled into a new position and stilled. The wheel gave the faintest creak.

I could make you feel safe, Kelpie said, softer now. I could make you feel seen. Tied up and cared for. Would you like that, Iona?