“Good morning missy,” the old lobsterman called as he reached out to grab her hand and help her aboard. He looked the very picture of an old salt with his bristly white bead, yellow canvas hat and a dark blue LL Bean jacket as ancient and weather beaten as he was.
 
“Good morning Bert,” Lenya replied as she stepped from the wooden dock onto the gently rocking deck of the unnamed lobster boat. Pots and floats lay beside neatly coiled lines. Ready to be hurled into the sea once Bert had safely delivered her to shore. Bert probably didn’t need the income, given the stipend she paid him to transport her to and from Islesboro each day, but in his mind he remained a lobsterman and lobstermen fished for lobster. There was a slight shudder and the smell of diesel combustion as Bert pushed forward the throttle and they moved away from shore at a sedate speed. He would be the envy of his old cronies once the season ended and he still had the steady work of water taxi to depend on.
 
Living on the island presented its own unique challenges but since returning from Micronesia she found that living near the ocean was exhilarating. She took her usual place beside the wheel, listening to Bert’s prognostication on the weather, discussion of the lobster catch and Augusta’s apparently chronic hatred for all fishermen with good grace. In addition to ferrying her to and from the mainland Bert also acted as an unofficial groundsman and handy man and as a useful go-between with the small island community. It paid to keep the help happy she had discovered. It was easy enough to let the strangely accented English wash over her with only occasional agreements and comments to give the impression she was paying attention.
 
It was a calm day, despite the chilly Atlantic wind, a sombre promise of winter storms yet to come, and the passage was quick. She thanked Bert and wished him luck with his pots as she stepped onto the quay.  A brisk walk took her to the red brick post office. Opening her briefcase she took the package slip she had received yesterday and handed it to a bored looking clerk.  The man heaved a long suffering sigh and went back into the mailroom to search for her package. A few minutes later he returned with a brown paper parcel, the rustic look somewhat spoiled by the various airmail stickers and customs forms currently affixed to its surface.  Vienna Austria. Excellent. Tucking the package under her arm she walked to one of the various coffee houses which had sprung up recently and purchased her usual brew. Thus armed, she headed for the office.
 
She attracted little enough attention on her way in, beyond the occasional admiring glance from some of the locals. There was little enough to remark upon, just a blond woman in a business skirt and jacket with a briefcase. An attorney maybe, or a particularly successful real estate agent. The irony of the perception bought a slight broadening to her usual professional smile. She moved quickly through the public area, nodding politely to the firms employees before reaching the offices. Her nose twitched slightly detecting the scent of fresh donuts. Decisions decisions. Repressing her urge to make a beeline for the donuts she instead headed to her office. There was more mail in her in-tray, mostly academic journals to which she still insisted on subscribing in the old fashioned paper medium. There were a number of half-finished documents laid out on the table. Ritual workings she still needed to discuss with Emmaline. Carefully she gathered them up and tucked them into a drawer before setting her coffee, briefcase and parcel down on the polished wooden surface.
 
Opening another draw she retrieved a silver letter opener and carefully opened the package. Inside were several Adel vice blossoms and a small book. She tutted, her mothers understanding of international customs wasn’t what it might be.  The book was unadorned and modern, a recent copy from her mothers library. The letters across the cover read, in German: Die Shriken und Wunder. She opened the book and thumbed idly through it. Modern printing reproduced ancient illuminated drawings and text. She supposed her mother had it in PDF but it seemed to lack the intimacy of paper. Thessonicus of Bregga had penned Die Shriken shortly before his execution as a heretic, a diary of his tragic dealings with a particularly vile demon.  This was probably only the second copy in existence, medieval copyists and book burners being what they were. Max would be pleased. Leaving the book on her desk she rose and set out on the more important quest, to locate a chocolate donut to go with her coffee…