THE HOUSE WAS SMALL.
That was the first thing. Not a property, not an estate, not a fortress with security rotations and reinforced perimeters.
A house.
Stone-built, low, sitting on a coastal promontory above water that was black and silver in the pre-dawn light, the nearest neighbor a lighthouse whose beam swept the water half a kilometer out with the unhurried rhythm of something that had been doing this for a hundred years.
The sea moved below the promontory with a deep, rhythmic authority. Spray caught the lighthouse beam occasionally, a brief silver flash before the dark resumed.
Mailah stood on the stairs and looked at it.
"This isn't yours," she said.
"It is," Grayson said, from behind her.
"It's — small."
"Yes."
"You own small things?"
