Though the monsoon had long passed, it still rained in Scara Brae. From rooftops. From lampposts. From palisades and ramparts. The streets ran ragged with tributaries and market square was a silver lake. In doorways and alleyways citizens huddled together, deciding wherever or not their engagements were worth chancing the impending maelstrom. A monsoon was never singular, and the acrid clouds overhead put the city ill at ease.

Despite the tension, beauty could be found in the floodwater. Children splashed in puddles and floated paper boats down cobbled hills. The season was short but furious, spilling out sewers and eroding landscaped gardens and wedding marques. Duffy wandered through the merchant district in search of inspiration, the cold prang in the air refreshing and invigorating. His bare feet slapped against the wet flagstones, a touch of blossom in the air and an earthen undertone proclaiming the start of another long spring.