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out.
    “Evenin’, Frenchy!” he called.
    “Don’t you ‘Evenin’, Frenchy’ me, you son of a hake! Where the hell you been?”
    I opened my door and jumped to the ground, shutting it firmly before I walked around the back of the truck.
    “Been about,” Borgan was saying. “Piece o’business took me outta the way for a bit.”
    “ Piece o’business ,” Frenchy repeated. “And what kind of—”
    I walked into her line of sight about then, and she stopped her scold to give me a long look out of peat-brown eyes before she returned her attention to Borgan.
    “I can see that kind of business might’ve kept you, all right.”
    “Be polite,” Borgan told her, and stretched out his hand. I took it, and let myself be pulled closer to his side.
    “Kate, this is Frenchy, Camp Ellis Guardian. Frenchy, this is Bonny Pepperidge’s girl, Kate Archer, Guardian of Archers Beach.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” I said, which was more true than not. Frenchy didn’t bother to return the sentiment.
    “Archer of Archers, are you?”
    “That’s it,” I agreed, there being no sense to denying it.
    “And you’re pleased to meet me for why?”
    “Because, not counting Borgan, I’ve never met another Guardian.”
    She gave a sharp crack of laughter, and smacked Borgan on the arm.
    “I like that— not countin’ Borgan ! Oughta happen to you more often.”
    “Time enough, and I’m pretty sure Kate’ll cut me down to size,” he answered equitably.
    “’Bout time you met your match.” Frenchy turned back to me. “So, now you met another Guardian, what d’ya think?”
    “I think it’s a good thing you started whittling Borgan before I got to him.”
    That earned me another crack of laughter, then she pushed her gimme hat back up on her head, showing a short, curly profusion of brown hair. I frowned. The sense I had from her was that she was old—her face was gaunt, tanned to leather by wind and sun. I reached for the land to sharpen my senses—and touched something that was . . . land. It responded to my touch, tardily; I heard a slight fizzing inside my head, as if I’d hit a radio station hovering on the edge of my reception area.
    I withdrew my touch, carefully and respectfully—no snatching—and produced a small bow for the Guardian on whose land I stood.
    “Sorry. Habit.”
    “Don’t I know it?” Frenchy said cheerfully. “Used to be I’d get over to the Pool now and then, to share news with John Lester. Had the damndest time mindin’ my manners. Nature’s nature, is what it is.”
    The Pool in local parlance is Biddeford Pool, across the river and east, toward Wood Island Light. So there was another . . .
    “Been gone some amount of time, now, John,” Frenchy continued. “And nobody rose up to take his service.” She shook her head, a shadow passing over her worn face. “Still miss ’im. Quite the man, wasn’t he, Cap’n Borgan?”
    “John was a fine man and a good Guardian,” Borgan said. “Did just as he ought.”
    Frenchy turned back to me.
    “So, you got specific questions? I’ll let you know that I doubt it—Bonny Pepperidge wouldn’t let you outta her sight ’less you knew how to go on.”
    “Mostly,” I said carefully. “Mostly, I wanted to meet another Guardian—and now I’ve done that, and met you. If I do come up with questions—which I’m likely to do because I’m new at this—it’s good to know there’s someone I can ask.” I grinned. “Gran’s a stickler, but she’s not a Guardian.”
    “Lady o’the Wood; that’s damn’ close, but I take your point. Sure, I’ll be on standby. Got a cell?”
    I did, though I was faintly surprised to find that she did. We exchanged numbers, and then I said, “Do you mind talking about the cats?”
    Frenchy laughed shortly.
    “Why not? Everybody else is talkin’ about the cats, like they just fell down from the moon or somethin’. You’d think a smart fella from Away’d know enough to leave what works alone,