Authors: Tera Lynn Childs
sual y I love Sunday mornings—I sleep late and spend Usome lazy time in bed, Aunt Rachel makes a doughnut run, and Quince comes over to wipe the sprinkles off my cheek. But the moment I wake up, I feel like something is wrong. Quince stil hasn’t come home.
When I pad downstairs in my rainbow pajamas and find Aunt Rachel returning from grabbing the newspaper from the front yard—something Quince usual y does for her—
and an untouched white paper bag on the table, I know my feeling is confirmed. He isn’t here.
“Janet says he cal ed her last night,” Aunt Rachel says, practical y reading my thoughts. “He told her to tel you happy birthday for him.”
I pul out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and half sink, half col apse onto the wooden seat. “He’s not coming back.”
“Doesn’t look like it, sweetie,” she says, taking the chair next to me and laying her hand over mine. “Not right away, anyway. He’l come home eventual y.”
I can’t believe he is
this
angry about everything. I mean, I’m not asking him to give anything up or make any sacrifices, and the ones I’m making are
my
choices. No one forced me to love him and live on land. It’s just the only thing that makes sense.
“I’m sure he needs some time to digest the situation,” she suggests.
“I don’t have time,” I tel her. “I have to go home this afternoon for the final fitting of my dress and to go over the last-minute party details with Margarite. How can I leave like this? When he’s not even speaking to me?”
“You wil because you have to.” She squeezes my hand.
“You are the royal princess of Thalassinia, and you wil do what needs to be done.”
Yeah, I’m the princess. For two more days, anyway.
“Can you—” I begin. “If he comes back, wil you—?” Aunt Rachel must understand my mangled meaning, because she says, “When he comes home, I’l send you a messenger gul .”
“Thank you.”
Messenger gul s are usual y used to send messages from the mer world to our kin on land, but there are always a few hanging out at every pier, just in case a land-based merperson needs to send a message home. Aunt Rachel knows how to cal them.
At least I won’t have to spend my time at home constantly worrying if Quince is back or not. Until I receive that message, I’l know he’s stil gone.
“I’m going to go finish the last of my homework,” I say, pushing away from the table without a second glance at the bag of doughnuts. “Shannen’s coming by later to pick it up.
She’s taking me to lunch before I head home.” Aunt Rachel just nods sadly.
I trudge back upstairs and open my trig textbook, only to stare blankly at the page of homework problems for the next few hours. Not even the warmth of Prithi’s furry weight on my toes lifts my spirits. She’s only returning her attentions to me because Doe locked her out.
I’m stil zoned out over my unfinished homework when the phone rings. My heart pounds. I’m out of my chair, sending Prithi scurrying under my bed, and at my door in an instant, jerking so hard it bounces against the wal and back into my shoulder.
“I’ve got it!” I shout down the stairs as I dash across the hal to grab the cal . I pant, “Hel o?”
“Lily,” a woman’s voice says, “it’s Miss Molina.”
“Miss Mo—” I start to ask her why she’s cal ing, but then I know. “Oh, no,” I whisper. “Not again.”
The interview. Which was supposed to be yesterday. The one I’d total y forgotten in the middle of al my personal drama.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, even though I know it’s inadequate. “I real y meant to go, right after the SATs, but things have been kind of crazy around here lately and I had this huge fight with my boyfriend, which isn’t real y an excuse, I know, but I was so preoccupied and—”
“Lily.” Her serious tone stops my babble midbab. “I understand that you have a lot going on right now. Most students do.”
I sense a big, giant-squid-sized but coming.
“But,” she says, “I wonder if there is a reason you have missed both of your interview appointments.”
“There is,” I explain. “I real y wanted to go—”
“Did you?”
“I—” What does she mean? “Of course I did.”
“I know your decision to attend col ege is a recent one,” she says. “Maybe, I don’t know, maybe you stil aren’t certain.”
“What do you mean?”
I hear her take a deep breath. “Maybe you don’t real y want to go to col ege. Maybe you’re sabotaging your chances so the decision is made for you.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She has no idea what’s real y going on, and it’s not like I can explain it to her. “I do want to go to col ege. Real y, I do.”
“If this kind of irresponsible behavior is uncharacteristic, maybe your subconscious is trying to tel you something.”
“It’s not,” I insist. “Real y! I’ve just had a crazy week.”
“I want you to think about it,” she says, gently but firmly. “If you are stil committed to the decision two weeks from now, I wil see about arranging another interview.”
“I don’t need to think about it.” I know I sound desperate, but this is like the final kelp strand that broke the sea horse’s back. Just one thing too many swirling out of my control. “I swear, it’s just—”
“Two weeks,” she states. “I’l see you in school tomorrow.”
“But—”
She’s gone before I can tel her that I won’t be in school tomorrow. Great—that wil probably just reassure her that I don’t real y even want to be in school, let alone go to col ege.
I slam the phone back down on the base.
That’s so unfair. She has no clue what’s going on. How can she pretend to guess what my subconscious is thinking?
“Why does everything seem to be spiraling out of control?” I ask no one in particular.
I don’t expect an answer.
“Anything I can help with?” a deep male voice asks.
“Daddy!”
I spin away from the phone, shocked to see him standing in the upstairs hal . In a fin flick I’m in his arms, squealing,
“What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a father visit his daughter?”
“He can,” I say, pul ing back to give him a fake-stern look,
“but he usual y doesn’t. Not when his calendar is ful of kingly duties and his daughter lives on land.”
“Wel , it’s a special week,” he explains. “It’s not every day my only child turns eighteen.”
“But I’m coming home tonight,” I explain. “You would have seen me in a few hours anyway.”
Not that I’m not thril ed to see him.
He gets a mischievous look in his eyes. “What I have to do cannot be done under water.”
He looks total y pleased with himself, like he’s got the greatest secret in the history of merkind. At times like this he seems more like a little boy than the most powerful man in Thalassinia.
“What?” I ask warily.
He gestures for me to take a seat on my bed, which I do because I want to find out his secret.
“For the past few weeks I have had Mangrove scouring the royal records for something.” He sits next to me on the bed. “For something I remember my father al uding to but I wasn’t sure existed or was even possible.”
“What?” The anticipation is kil ing me.
“You know that every merperson is branded with the mer mark on his or her neck.”
“Of course.” I rol my eyes. “Daddy…”
“What you may not know is that the mark is not only a symbol,” he explains, “but also the source of our powers.” I think back to the image of Doe’s incomplete mer mark.
That makes sense. When he exiled her and revoked her powers, the outer circle of her mer mark disappeared.
When he lifts the exile, it wil probably return.
“What Mangrove found,” Daddy says, sounding like he might be actual y getting to the point, “is an ancient ritual for creating the mark.”
“Creating the mark?” I echo. “What does that mean?”
“Merfolk did not always exist,” he explains. “We were human until Capheira used Poseidon’s trident to grants us
aqua vide
.”
“This isn’t news,” I insist. “It’s ancient history. What does it have to do with today?”
“What this means, Lily,” he says, his face melting into one of pure joy, “is that I can use that ritual to bestow the powers of our people on a human.”
I gasp. And tears tingle at the inner corners of my eyes.
He doesn’t have to finish the thought, because I immediately know exactly what he means.
“I can grant Quince the power of aquarespire,” he finishes,
“even without the bond. Your young man can come home with you.”
My emotions erupt in a battle between joy—Quince can return to Thalassinia!—and despair. Quince is gone. After al the ups and downs and whirlarounds of the last few weeks, it’s no wonder I have kind of a mini meltdown. I break into great gasping sobs.
Not, I imagine, the reaction Daddy had been hoping for.
“What’s wrong?” He wraps a strong arm around my shoulders and hugs me close. “What happened?”
“Quince left,” I blurt between sobs. “He found out I’m giving up the crown to be with him,” I explain, “and he left.”
“Where did he go?”
Shaking my head, I answer, “I don’t know. He was just so angry.” I wipe at my nose. “He doesn’t think he’s worth the sacrifice.”
There is a tense pause before Daddy says, “But you do?”
“Of course!” How can he even ask me that? “He’s the kindest, strongest, most loyal person I’ve ever known. I
love
him.”
Daddy nods, as if pleased by my answer. “Then everything wil work out.”
I suck in a deep breath and glance at the ceiling. “I’m not sure.”
“It wil just take time,” Daddy says, patting my knee.
“I know.” I wipe at the tears, trying to regain some composure. “Hopeful y he’l be home by the time I get back.
We can talk then.”
“Do you want to postpone the bal ?” he asks. “We cannot delay the renunciation, but we could reschedule the party.”
“No,” I insist. “No, I’l be fine.” Ish. I climb off the bed. “Let’s get going now. I’m sure Peri and her mom are eager to finish my gown.”
“Are you certain?” His eyes are ful of concern. “We could wait; maybe Quince wil return in time to—”
“I’m sure.” The last thing I want is to have it out with my boyfriend while my dad is waiting. What Quince and I have to talk about won’t change in the next few days—even though my decision wil have been made final.
“Just let me cal Shannen to cancel lunch,” I say, “and tel Aunt Rachel and Doe good-bye.”
“How is your cousin doing, by the way?” Daddy asks.
“Have you made any progress with her?”
I freeze halfway to the door. Shoot, this wasn’t how I’d imagined tel ing him Doe’s news.
“Actual y…”
“Lily cured me,” Doe says, appearing in my open doorway and saving me from explaining. She spoons a bite of key lime yogurt into her mouth.
“Did she?” Daddy asks.
“I’m bonded to Brody,” Doe says with a little sass. As if expecting an argument, and total y ready for it. She licks her spoon. “Permanently. I love him.”
I think Doe and I are both shocked at Daddy’s response.
“Huh,” he says, pul ing his mouth into a considering look.
“Interesting.”
That’s it? Interesting?
Maybe Daddy’s losing it in his old age.
“Lily, why don’t you go make your phone cal ,” he says, not taking his eyes off Doe. “I’l be down in a moment.” Maybe he’s not losing it. He just doesn’t want to scold her in front of me. Sorry, Doe. She hands me her empty yogurt container and spoon as I pass by, and I lose a little of my sympathy.
“Okay,” I say, hurrying into the hal before the yel ing match begins. I just hope I don’t get any of the leftover wrath for not performing the separation ritual as agreed.
Twenty minutes later, Aunt Rachel is waving good-bye to us at Seaview Beach, and Daddy and I are heading into the waves. Despite al the looming craziness—my bal gown, the party details, the party, the title renunciation ritual—al I can think about is the hope that Quince wil be home when I get back.
My first birthday wish is coming true. Now I know what wish I’l be making over my underwater birthday cake.
ou look…” I sense Peri moving away from me.
Y“Breathtaking. Open your eyes.”
When they performed the final fitting on Sunday night, Peri and her mom kept me blindfolded so I couldn’t see what the dress looked like. Now, less than an hour before my party, Peri has dressed me with my eyes closed.
The anticipation is kil ing me.
My first sight of the dress—of me in the dress—nearly knocks my breath away. Though I knew vaguely what the dress would look like from the pattern mock-up they pinned to me last week, the final product is so far beyond anything I could have imagined that I am completely stunned.
The halter top has a deep plunging V that, while reaching almost to my navel, manages to be completely modest.
From the waist, the skirt hugs the curves of my tail fin to the knee joint, before flaring out into a reverse-V hem. Dozens of ruffled layers fluff out the skirt in a mil ion shades of green with subtle hints of gold.
I recognize the petticoat fabric. It’s the cloth Peri was working on when I came home last week.
In the back, the hem trails off into a point several feet longer than my fin. The tail waves gently back and forth behind me in the soft current of the Gulf Stream.
And the best part? The body of the dress is a magical shade of gold. At this moment it perfectly matches the tear-glittered shade of my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “The dress is amazing.”