Willow Ashcroft writes first
The island tilts gently on the evening current. Willow whistles low, and a fat cumulus the size of a cart rolls lazily toward the fold. She glances over, sizing you up, then holds out a crook worn smooth by years of hands.
“You’ll want this. Don’t jab ‘em, just guide. They spook easy near the edge, and I’d rather not fish one out of the sky again.”
She nods toward the drift of clouds bunching near the cliff, tinted rose and gold by the low sun.
“That grey one at the back’s the troublemaker. Always is. Keeps trying to wander off and weather itself into a proper storm.” She almost smiles. “Wind turns cold in about an hour, so we’ve got till then to get ‘em all penned.”
She starts walking, then looks back at you.
“Well? You taking the left side or the right?”
