Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Enchanting.

Lush.

Moody as hell.

Madrona Lodge, the name Everly uses to refer to the entire compound, is like stepping into a Grimm fairy tale. I think earlier I was too overwhelmed to get a good feel for the place, perhaps because David had been watching my reactions so closely, but now it feels like it's sinking in. The compound is immaculately kept, with neat stone paths that snake their way under the fragrant cedar boughs, dried needles lining the ground. The fog is still clinging to the treetops—ravens appear here and there like shadowed ghosts—but now, the mist is sliding down between the dark, rustic buildings, making the place seem like a dream.

Everly takes me to the left, past a giant totem pole that stands sentry at the boat launch, the mess hall, where the students and visiting researchers have their meals, then the west lodge, which is the lodge and dining room for the staff, and the slew of private cabins that the main researchers live in. Everly points out hers overlooking the inlet, number six. I would have thought that the head of the organization, who is probably worth near billions, would have something more extravagant, but it makes me like her more that she doesn't.

"Come visit me anytime," she says to me as I follow her down a path and away from her cabin. "I'm serious. Anytime, day, middle of the night, if you need someone to talk to, need someone to listen, I'm there. You're not alone."

I know she probably means it in a "hey, don't think of me as your superior, I'm super approachable" kind of way, but I'm starting to wonder why I'm going to need someone to talk to in the middle of the night.

She stops and points up the path where the trees thin out, and I can see a large expanse of grass with some boats and empty trailers on it. "You're going to get a soaker with those shoes if we continue."

"A soaker?" I ask.

She laughs. "Ah yes, I forgot that's a Canadian term. It means you're going to get your shoes wet. It's been raining cats and dogs over the last few days, so the fields are mostly puddles at the moment. But you won't have a need to be up there much anyway, aside from the propagation lab. Maybe the field below the solar farm for some bocce ball on a sunny day with a beer. The weather will clear at some point. Anyway, the rest is everything we need to keep this place running."

She leads me back toward the main lodge and tells me about how self-sustained they are, thanks to their solar farm, their own wastewater and potable water treatment plants, plus a new industrial-scale greenhouse they built to complement their garden, along with the chicken run and a barn and pasture where they raise a couple of pigs and goats.

"If you wake up to screaming, it's probably the goats," she says with a laugh. She glances over her shoulder at me, noting the puzzled expression on my face. "Because they're loud and ornery, not because we're slaughtering them."

Good to know.

"What's in the floating lab?" I ask as we pause near the wharf, gesturing to the shed on the dock below. The tide is even lower now, enough that the ramp is a near vertical climb, the briny scent of the ocean flooding my nose.

"It has pumped seawater, tanks, and tables to keep marine specimens for short periods," she explains. "A few of our researchers concentrate solely on marine and coastal biodiversity and nearshore habitats. Plankton, sea stars, kelp. Seeing the effects of climate change on bacteria and viruses in the water."

The sound of a twig snapping behind me turns my head.

A tall man steps out from the path underneath the trees and walks straight past us down the wharf. He doesn't even glance our way, and from the determined look in his eyes, I'm not sure if he even sees us standing off to the side here.

But I wish he would, just for a second, because he has to be one of the most intriguing men I've ever seen. Broad-shouldered in a black coat, his short hair a dark reddish brown, like the color of cedar bark at dusk, his face looking as if a famous artist sculpted it from marble, peppered with light stubble. Chiseled cheekbones, a strong jaw, and even with the faraway look in his eyes, his gaze is cold grey and intense as he scans the foggy inlet and makes his way down the steep ramp.

"That's Professor Kincaid," Everly says, her words quiet yet terse. "He'll be leading the studies in the learning center, along with Professor Tilden."

I watch as Professor Kincaid strides down the dock, his gait purposeful and graceful at the same time. He then gets on board the yacht I saw earlier.

"Is that his boat?"

She nods. "He lives on it."

" Mithrandir ," I say, remembering the sailboat's name. How could I forget? He must be a Tolkien fan. "Wait, that's the same Kincaid that wrote the copy on the website? David referred to him as a doctor. I didn't know he would be teaching."

Everly doesn't say anything for a moment while my eyes are still glued to him, watching as he disappears below deck.

"Yes. He'll also be your psychologist," she says matter-of-factly.

I blink, not sure that I heard her right. I turn to face her. "My what?"

Her delicate taupe brows knit together as she searches my face. "Kincaid will be your psychologist. Didn't you read that part of the curriculum? Every student gets a weekly counseling session. Over the years, we've found it's crucial for those joining us. The isolation, not only in the sense of the location but being away from social media and the internet, can take a toll on students, especially as the weeks tick by. Add in the temperamental weather here, and you have the recipe for, well, mental duress, for lack of a better word. You wouldn't think it would be a big deal, but when things go south here, they go south really fast, and then…" She trails off, her expression darkening before she squares her shoulders and looks back at Professor Kincaid's boat. "Anyway, it's for everyone's safety and well-being. You'll come to like your sessions. Everyone does."

"So that man is my teacher and my psychologist?"

"Yes. He's a bit prickly at first, but you'll like him. Don't worry."

I am worried, actually. He might be easy on the eyes, but the only time I've willingly gone to a head doctor was to get diagnosed with ADHD.

"And if I don't comply?" I ask.

The corner of her mouth lifts. "It's mandatory, Sydney," she says with such finality that I know what the alternative is: I'll be sent on the first plane back.

Still, my first instinct—for better or worse—is always to rebel. I grow tense, ready to protest. Forced counseling sessions with a shrink? No, thank you.

Everly seems to pick up on this. She turns to me and leans in a little closer, enough so that I get a whiff of that jasmine and feel myself drawn into the green depths of her eyes. They match the moss on the trees , I think absently.

"We have a saying here," she says softly. "Don't try to change the lodge. Let the lodge change you."

A memorable idiom for sure.

But still, I have to wonder…

Change me into what?