Pell’s bar-chart is a strip of paper that has survived more weather than Wren’s last nets.

Soundings in fathoms and half-fathoms. A shaded hump: the bar. A pencil mane drawn by some child (possibly you, last year) exactly where the shallowest numbers sit. The Storm-Horse is a map wearing a story.

“Kelpie,” Pell says, not unkind. “Here. Not in the deep. The deep doesn’t need a warning with hooves. The bar does.”

You compare the chart to the window. Foam is already standing up on the hump. Magnetic as a dare, and still only water.

Pip grins, then stops grinning. “If we say it true in public, do we kill the wonder?”

Pell snorts. “Wonder that needs a lie is a thin coat. Give people the bar and the name. They can keep both in a pocket.”