The channel marker is heavier than pride.

You and Pip wrestle the wand upright on its perch, stone it, check the line of it against Pell’s chimney and the Stack’s knuckle, the way a person makes a tiny map with their body. Wren’s hurry knocked it; your patience puts it back. Boats will lie less.

Brine, from north, lifts a hand. Selkies will tend the Stack if the coat comes home. You have tended a mark. Mutualism starts at the size of a wand.

The storm still stacks. Council still may be needed. Or the seals may decide you are part of the picture without a vote, which is a different prize.