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The tide was high, and the cottage was having delusions of grandeur again. It groaned against the basalt cliffs, the timber framing screeching as the house tried to heave itself off the foundation and slide into the churning grey surf like a wooden whale.
Isa braced her boot against the kitchen island, gripping her wand—a twisted piece of driftwood inlaid with sea-glass—and shouted at the ceiling. "You are a house! You have a cellar, not a keel! Stop trying to float, you melodramatic pile of lumber!"
On top of the highest cupboard, well out of reach of the damp floorboards, Coral watched the scene with the heavy-lidded disdain only a twenty-pound Flemish Giant rabbit could muster. Her nose twitched, sniffing the air which smelled unpleasantly of brine and wet magic.
It wants to return to the sea, Coral broadcasted into Isa's mind. Let it go. We can live in a cave. Caves are dry. Caves do not pitch and roll.
"We are not living in a cave," Isa grunted, tracing a glowing anchor sigil in the air. The golden light sizzled, then slammed into the floor. The cottage shuddered, gave a mournful creak, and settled back onto the stone with a thud that rattled the jars of pickled kelp on the shelves. "I just put up new curtains. I am not letting this house sail off to the Archipelago of Lost Spoons just because it’s high tide."
Coral shifted her weight, looking unimpressed. The water is touching the porch. I hate the water. It makes my fur separate.
"You’re a rabbit, Coral. You aren't supposed to like swimming."
I am a familiar of refined tastes. Wet paws are a degradation to me and creatures like me.
Isa wiped sweat from her forehead, leaving a streak of soot. She walked to the window, peering out through the glass that was thick and warped, distorting the world outside. The ocean was in a foul mood, hammering the cliffs with fists of white foam. Spray hit the glass, sliding down like oil. Living this close to the edge of the world meant dealing with the Elementals, and the Water Elementals were notoriously clingy.
She went to the kettle, which was bubbling over a small fire she’d coaxed from a salamander living in the hearth. She poured a cup of tea that turned a violently bright blue as it hit the air.
"Someone knocked earlier," Isa said, leaning against the counter and eyeing the rabbit. "A traveling potion-monger. Wanted to know if you had button eyes."
Coral’s ears flattened against her skull. If you tell me you corrected him, I will chew the baseboards until the house collapses.
"I didn't say anything. I just slammed the door. But honestly, Coral, it’s the third time this month. The Legend of the Button-Eyed Girl is apparently very popular in the coastal towns right now."
It is a derivative folktale, Coral sniffed mentally. A girl goes through a door, finds a spider-witch, things get only ever stranger. I do not have button eyes. I have eyes of superior perception. Why must humans categorize everything by their nursery rhymes?
"Because you're huge and you glare at people," Isa pointed out. "And your name is Coraline. It’s an easy leap."
You named me, the rabbit countered, ripping a bite out of a dried carrot Isa had left on top of the cupboard. You liked the sound of it. You said it sounded like "coral reef'" and "crystalline". You did not mention the baggage attached to the nomenclature.
"I didn't know the story was famous in this province! I thought it was just a localized myth in the hinterlands." Isa sighed, blowing on her blue tea. "I should have named you Flopsy. No one asks Flopsy if she has a soul-eating mother in another dimension."
Name me Flopsy and I will summon a demon into your boots.
The cottage gave another lurch, smaller this time, a mere testing of the boundaries. Isa stomped her foot, sending a pulse of binding magic through the floorboards. The house settled with a sulky groan.
"The damp is getting in," Isa muttered, rubbing her arms. The air in the kitchen felt heavy, thick with the invisible pressure of the ocean. "The wards are fraying. If I don't dry this place out, we’re going to wake up with barnacles in the bedsheets again."
She set her tea down and rolled up her sleeves. "I’m going to try the Arid Sphere. The one in the grand grimoire."
That spell is for deserts, Coral remarked, licking a crumb of carrot from her paw. It is designed to dehydrate mummies. You are going to turn us into jerky.
"I’ll modify my intention. Just a little localized dryness. Watch."
Isa began the incantation. It was a harsh, guttural language, full of consonants that clicked in the back of the throat. She wove her hands in a tight circle, pulling moisture from the air, condensing it into a floating orb of water.
It was working! The damp patches on the wallpaper faded. The windows cleared of condensation. The floorboards stopped feeling spongy.
Isa grinned. "See? Precision."
Then she sneezed.
Her hand jerked. The invisible lattice of the spell snapped.
Instead of gently pulling moisture, the spell aggressively banished it. The air instantly turned brittle. The blue tea in Isa’s cup evaporated into a cloud of blue dust. The apple in the fruit bowl withered into a shrunken, brown skull in seconds.
Isa gasped, her throat suddenly feeling like she’d swallowed a handful of sand. "Water," she croaked.
Coral, still on the cupboard, looked down. Her sleek, tawny fur had instantly frizzed out, standing on end with static electricity. She looked like a dandelion puff that had been electrocuted.
You have desiccated the atmosphere, Coral projected, her mental voice emerging scratchy. I am a desert hare now. My nose is dry. This is unacceptable.
"Help," Isa rasped, crawling toward the sink. She turned the tap, but only a puff of rust came out. The pipes had dried instantly.
Coral sighed, a long exhale that ruffled her electrified fur. She hopped down from the cupboard, landing with a static snap that sent a spark jumping to the table leg. She loped over to the heavy iron cauldron Isa kept by the door, which was filled with collected rainwater for brewing.
The water inside was rapidly evaporating, the level dropping by the inch.
Coral reared up on her hind legs and shoved the cauldron with her front paws. It tipped.
Gallons of rainwater flooded across the stone floor.
The spell shattered on contact with the liquid. The air screamed as humidity rushed back into the vacuum. The sudden pressure change popped Isa’s ears loud enough that the sensation hurt for a few eternal seconds. The apple re-inflated slightly, though it still looked mushy.
Isa lay on the wet floor, coughing and inhaling the damp, salty air. She was soaked. The floor was soaked.
Coral sat on the only dry patch of the rug, glaring.
I hate water, the rabbit thought, lifting a paw to shake off a single droplet that had dared to touch her toe. But I hate being a raisin more.
Isa sat up, wringing out her hair. The cottage, sensing the return of the water, gave a happy, buoyant little shimmy.
"Okay," Isa wheezed. "Too much dry. Noted."
You owe me fresh kale, Coral stated, turning her back on the mess. And if anyone asks about the static in my fur, tell them I am a Storm-Bunny from the jagged peaks. If you mention the button-eyes story, I'm throwing your wand into the sea.
Isa answered with an audible sigh and a grumbled "Deal."