A gale whipped up in the night, and now, at first light, wind is tearing at the water, at the spruce trees, at the sky. The air is a constant roar, and I glimpse whitecaps on the usually serene cove. A thin rain clacks like sleet on the window, though the temperature is warmer than it has been--nearly 50 degrees instead of chill mid-30s. In the storm the cottage feels even more fairy-tale than usual. At any moment a witch or an enchanted swan might tap on the door.

The mood here has taken a turn for the tragic because W's little cat has disappeared. This is deeply unfair of the Fates: given W's so recent loss of her husband, why should they also take her only pet? Tom and I are unsettled and anxious, and W is deeply distressed but trying to hold herself together. The loss of Gracie is a pall over everything.

Still, we are all trying to go about our business. Tom and I hiked Day Mountain yesterday morning--not a particularly tall peak but with a severe and striking vista of the open Atlantic. Then we came back to the cove, and he finished trimming out the window in W's house and I brought her down to the cottage so that we could do a little bit of writing together. Who knows if it helped anything, but at least it was a way to rechannel our perseverations.

Today is my last full day on the island. With this storm Tom and I likely won't be able to do much outside: we'd be blown into the sea. I might work on some manuscripts; he might sort out Curtis's film rolls and do some more odd jobs for W. Meanwhile, the wind howls and buffets; the rain clicks like pellets; the cove churns; the crows screech.