Three days later, Grayson stood on the edge of the jagged cliff, staring down at the churning Irish Sea with the focus of a predator.
He held a fishing rod as if it were a ceremonial spear, his knuckles white against the cork handle. He was wearing a pair of rough trousers and a thick, dark sweater Arthur had dug out of a chest—a garment that did little to hide the intimidating breadth of his shoulders.
"It has been forty-two minutes," Grayson stated, his voice flat, cutting through the salt spray. "The aquatic life in this region is either remarkably intelligent or intentionally insulting."
Mailah, perched on a flat rock nearby with a sketchbook in her lap, didn't look up. "It's called patience, Grayson. It's a human virtue."
