Merrick’s good chair has not moved. Merrick has, inwardly.

You tell the mouth-test: sweet, brackish, salt. Nursery. You tell the kelpie as a bar, the selkie as a door, the Post as a stock-rule in story-clothes.

Merrick’s eyes go bright. “We protected what we loved by calling it holy. I’m not ashamed. Holy is a fence that doesn’t need a lock if people remember why it was built.”

“Some people remember with ledgers,” you say.

“Then give them both,” Merrick says. “A myth that can survive a cup of water is a better myth.”

The storm ticks on the loft glass. Time to choose the size of the audience.