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Bay didn't mean to call a whale into the harbor and destroy the village docks. He'd been trying to carve a fish. Something simple that a fisherman could tie to his net, the bauble's magic ensuring a bountiful catch. Now that he looks at it, though . . . it does sort of look like a whale.

Not that it's entirely his fault. If his aunt and uncle would just believe that Bay's affinity to lost things is stronger than theirs, he wouldn’t have had to carve it in secret. When Bay told them the chunk of wood he found—spit out by the sea after a particularly violent storm season—came from an old fishing boat and would make a perfect fish bauble, they ignored him. So Bay set out to prove them wrong. And, really, he had proved them wrong. He called a whale. Besides, he told them a hundred times that he was a terrible bauble carver, and they'd all be better off if they apprenticed him to someone else.

But when they suggest sending him to the nearby quarries to crawl around in tunnels for the next decade—well, that wasn't quite what Bay had in mind. They won't even listen to Bay's objections or pleas. Not after all the trouble Bay just caused with the whole whale thing. (And that thing before with the chickens, but really, why can't people just forget about that?) It looks like Bay has only two options: resign himself to a life of darkness and backbreaking work, or run away and risk the storms plaguing the island.

At least until the dune hunter walks through the front door.