Sella climbed the Kelpbone Steps with her shell basket hugged tight against her round hood. The morning market was waking up above the cliff road, and she meant to reach her little spot before the shrimp baskets were all gone and the best stories got told without her.
The steps smelled of salt, wet rope, and warm smoke from the oven vents. A gull cried overhead. Then the wind shifted.
It came hard and quick, like a push from a giant hand. Loose sails snapped. Hanging nets swung out from the walls. Drying lines whipped across the stairway in long, angry loops. A blue-striped cloth smacked a rail, and a bundle of rope rolled down two steps at once.
Sella stopped so fast her shell basket tipped against her knees. Below her, a small harbor cat crouched flat and a pair of crabby little birds hopped away from the flapping ropes. The way forward was no longer a way at all. It was a moving knot of cloth and line, twitching in the wind.
Sella peered at the mess, then at the stairs beyond it. She could hear market voices still calling above, but the tangle had spread right across her path. If she wanted to reach her spot, she would have to choose what to do first: try to free the ropes herself, call for Bran or Tobin, or find some other way through the mess.
What happens next?
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