High water

The first time Clare saw the water, she thought a pipe had burst. It came under the locked door at the end of the basement in a thin, dark line, spreading across the concrete toward her boots. She knelt and touched it. It was cold, and when she put her finger to her tongue, it was salt.

The museum stood on Battery Point hill, a kilometre from the harbour and forty metres above it. By the time she came back with a mop and the caretaker, the floor was dry. The caretaker looked at the door and then at his watch, and said nothing, and went back upstairs.