Sipping iced black tea in the shade, Rosemary flipped a page in her book. The ocelot’s treehouse had been successfully rebuilt yesterday, but she hated staying home in the barren walls. She’d, strangely, become accustomed to relaxing in open spaces where the ocean sounds could reach her ears. Even the chatter in the tavern bothered her less, now, and the atmosphere was cozier than her spartan quarters.

The ocelot sighed as she thought about this. She inserted a bookmark between the pages and closed it with a soft thud.

Her forked tails flicked as she considered all the things she’d missed out on by being such a recluse. She’d missed seeing Goldie enjoy her relationship with Sam (before the woman’s untimely death), and watching the early months of Pincher’s grandchildren. If her treehouse hadn’t burned down, would she’ve even noticed Roxanne was pregnant?

Rosemary liked to think she would; she’d still allowed her family to visit, during her solitude, but… she admitted now those visits were few and far in-between. The witch pushed those thoughts out of her head now, and cast her gaze out to the waves lapping on the shore.

The surf, especially violent today, was more entertaining to watch than usual. Of course, the oncoming storm would likely be wet and miserable… she’d have to make sure she had enough supplies to endure such weather before it rolled in the next few days.