From the boardwalk, a head turns. The way the figure sat up tells her. That's not how Harrowhark moves. That's not how the Baby moves. That's all Nona. All—

Pyrrha steps up and over the railing and lands hard on the sand below. Her knees complain in the crisp air, as they have all month, but it's not pain, only the aches of blood magic. Nothing so small could keep her away. She walks with narrow minded focus, passing wakers and another squid or two ashed up on the beach.

Leaning her head over Nona, Pyrrha looks down at her. Water laps at her shoes and the bottom of her pants. They soak up the water, which creeps higher and higher up her leg. "So, what do you think of all the rubbery legs and suction cups?" Pyrrha asks, amused.