by Tobie Easton
With my head still tilted, I look up at him, at the hopeful smile on his face, and I don’t have the heart to remind him that I’ve been researching every day for over a month—since the very first day he asked me—and I’m no closer to finding a spell that will make him Mer. My stomach churns. I haven’t even found so much as a mention of it being possible to turn a human into a Merperson.
But the hope shining on Clay’s face … “We’ll find a way,” I say, conjuring up a small smile for him. We will. We will.
As I rally my hope, his seems to fade, his expression turning pensive. “Better finish your apps,” he says, voice distant and distracted. He drops a kiss on the top of my head, then retreats to the pile of blankets on the floor. He submitted the last of his applications a week ago, so now he picks up a book on film composer Hans Zimmer, but a few minutes later he’s staring at nothing instead of turning pages, lost in thought again. When he catches me watching him, he nods toward my laptop screen. “You got this, Nautilus.”
I face forward in my chair. Time to focus. I’m the kind of kid who’s always turned her homework in on time, so it’s hard for me to believe I missed the deadline for the UCs and for some merit scholarships. I was too busy studying advanced magic at a Mermaid boarding school on a remote island out in the Pacific, getting Clay his memories back, and stopping a group of sirens intent on brainwashing countless humans with evil magic. That has merit too, so I refuse to feel bad. But it does mean I can cross UCLA, UC Santa Barbara, UC Long Beach, and all the rest off my list. I won’t miss out on any more schools.
Now that I finally have some quality time with my laptop, I go to the box marked “Major” and scroll down to select “Undeclared.” Unlike my sisters, who have always known what they wanted to study, I still don’t. I threw around the idea of studying marine bio because I thought if I learned more about the ocean I might figure out more about myself and how I connect to it. But if I majored in bio, it would be more because it’s the expected choice than because it’s what I’m passionate about. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m passionate about yet. Noooo idea.
The supplemental questions may be kicking my butt, but at least I finished my main essay last week. I reach into the kelp net bag I brought from Below and pull out the rolled-up scroll of waxed red algae leaves I wrote my essay on. See? I’m not a slacker. The essay is covered in corrections and edits that my best friend Caspian added in blue squid ink (“Blue is kinder than red,” he told me as he slashed through another of my unnecessary sentences with his fishbone quill in the palace library). I pull my brain back to the present as I type up my main essay. Once that’s finished, I have no choice but to work on the supplemental questions.
What do you feel is your greatest accomplishment?
Hmm …
Seven-and-a-half months ago, I saved my entire species from death. That’s not some poetic metaphor. The Little Mermaid (yep, that one) accidentally unleashed a curse two hundred years ago that stripped all Merfolk of our immortality. Ever since then, we’ve been cursed with human lifespans. The Mer blamed her father the king for her mistake, dethroned him, and executed him. Each subsequent ruler who tried to take his place promised to find a way to restore immortality, but none could, and with each failure, anger rose, until the next power-hungry wannabe king or queen would raise an army to seize power, starting the cycle all over again and keeping the ocean in a near-constant state of warfare for two centuries. That’s why my parents and a few brave others did the unimaginable: They moved on land. They built a Community where their children could grow up in safety, but they couldn’t break the curse. We all knew that, eventually, we would die.
What we didn’t know was that another power-hungry Merman and his daughter Melusine planned to use an evil, ancient ritual to give themselves control over the curse, so Mer would have no choice but to accept their rule if they wanted to live. That ritual involved killing a human boy I love more than anything—and killing me, too, once I tried to interfere. In our efforts to save each other, that human boy and I risked our lives for one another. Only later did we learn our true love broke the curse, restoring immortality to all Merkind. Most days, I still can’t believe what we did. The strength of that love and all the good it’s done for my people is my greatest accomplishment.
Now that would get me into the Ivy League. Too bad it would also get me taken into government custody and locked in some laboratory tank to be studied and experimented on. I shudder. Maybe I’ll write about the time I turned my grade around in my self-defense class.
By the time I’ve tackled the last supplemental question, I have just enough time to click submit and do a little victory dance with Clay in the middle of the den before I have to kiss him goodbye—long and lingering.
“I wish I could come with. I wish I could be there tomorrow,” he whispers against my hair.
“I know.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder and sneak out the door, heading toward the home I haven’t been allowed to live in for months and toward my family waiting there.
Time to go become a princess.
Chapter Two
Melusine
I would have been a princess. Then a queen. If it weren’t for her.
Hard to believe, isn’t it? Not that I could have been a queen—that part makes perfect sense. What’s hard to believe is how far I’ve fallen. Four walls of gray stone surround me on all sides as I swim from one room of my cell to another.
They tell me it’s not a cell. They call it a suite. They tell me I’m lucky not to be imprisoned like my father. But just because I can swim out that porthole and go to school or use the underwater tunnel system doesn’t mean I’m not their prisoner.
I push aside a curtain woven from coarse kelp threads and enter a room that, even after almost five months, I still don’t think of as my bedroom. At least no one could consider it small; it’s built on a grand scale, with water flowing for at least two tail-lengths above my head and an entire second living area above that.
These rooms originally housed visiting dignitaries from Below or families who had just moved to the Landed Mer Community and whom the Foundation had yet to place in one of its beachfront estates. Whatever architect first designed these rooms, deep within the Foundation headquarters, intended the underwater section—where I swim now—to make newly arrived Mer feel at home. In the upper section, they could swim with their torsos out of the water and begin to acclimate to the lifestyle Above. There are even protrusions in the rock to offer seating in the upper level. But I rarely spend time up there. What’s the point?
Bare indentations dot the gray walls where, once, embedded jewels or crystals must have gleamed. Rough-hewn, simplistic furniture now huddles where I imagine hand-carved, gilded masterpieces used to stand proud.
The powers that be stripped away all of it. Because of me.
After all, they couldn’t have a convicted criminal living like a queen, could they? Well, sink them. They couldn’t get rid of me either.
I dive forward in the surrounding water, angling my body downward to reach under my thinly padded sea-sponge bed, and pull out the one piece of luxury in this dreary place. The ornate iron chest slides across the floor into view. Curling my coral-colored tail beneath me, I sit in front of the chest, running a hand over the raised anemone design on its surface.
Foundation officers delivered this to me when my initial three-month restriction period ended and I regained some of my liberties, like supervised nightly ocean swims and access to my own belongings. But I didn’t open it. When it got here, I slid it under the bed and haven’t looked at it since. Until now.
I click open the lock and lift the lid.
A smile sneaks onto my face at the sight that greets me. So many colors! Scarlet seasilk and purple satin, bright blue organza, and celadon lace, all embroidered in silver threads or studded with gemstones, abalone, or mother of pearl. My siluesses shine up at me like long-buried treasure, each chest-covering more
beautiful than the next. The siluess that currently hangs from my shoulders is beige, boxy, and too long, hitting me almost at my bellybutton. It looks identical to the one I wore yesterday and the day before that and every day since my conviction. Clearly, whoever runs the department of corrections for the Foundation has no taste.
But I do. They can’t take that away from me. I unlatch the vullrin—the thin slab of clear quartz that sits on top of the folded clothing, keeping it from floating out when the chest is open. Running my fingertips along the lush fabrics makes me long to slip one on, feel its kiss on my skin. Like I used to every day.
In another life.
But I won’t. What was I thinking? I won’t be wearing one of these. Not today. Because I won’t be going anywhere today. No. I’ll stay right here in this building. Any other decision would be idiotic.
As I set the quartz cover back in place, a knock clinks against the glass portal in the next room. It doesn’t sound like one of the guards—they usually pound their fists harder, and they never wait for me to answer before swimming in. But no one swims in now. When I don’t answer, a second knock sounds. Who could it be? Since Ondine disappeared, it’s not like anyone comes to see me. Why would they?
“I’m back here,” I shout, the Mermese words musical as always, even as I infuse them with as much nonchalance as I can. If someone wants to come here uninvited, I won’t rush to meet them. Who would you ever invite? a bitter voice asks in the back of my head. I ignore it and lift myself into an upright position. In the next room, the portal creaks open.
“Hello? Melusine?”
It can’t be. Why would he come here? Why would he come here today?
“May I come in?” His deep baritone is hesitant. The tips of silver fins peek out from below the kelp curtain.
“If you must,” I say, maintaining that same bored tone. My thoughts race. What’s he doing here? Is there some emergency? Is he here to warn me out of some overly noble sense of reciprocity because I warned him about Ondine’s plan to force … his best friend … into sireny? I brace myself as best I can for bad news as he swims out from behind the curtain.
My gills flutter as my breathing speeds up—and not out of nervousness. There’s no denying a fine piece of tail when it’s floating in front of you. The boy’s easy on the eyes under normal circumstances, but today …
“Hi,” he says. “How are you?”
His blond hair floats around his head in the surrounding water like a crown, and he wears a strand of what must be his most formal limpet shells strapped diagonally across his chest. He’s polished them to a high sheen, and they shine almost as brightly as his tail. Decked in his finest, he looks like one of the princes of the Mer royal court in the fairytales my mother used to tell me. Like some girl’s dream come true. But not this girl. “What do you want?” The words come out as harsh as I intended.
“I …” Just when I think he’s going to wither, he says, “I’ve been doing well, thanks.”
A point to Caspian for rallying. Still, I raise an eyebrow, unamused. I don’t speak, letting the silence stretch and his discomfort mount.
He runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Um …” Ha! Two points to me.
“What are you doing here?” Since we became … friends (his word, not mine), he’s visited me several times, even after he moved Below with his family, but I’ve always made sure we met in a Foundation conference room or near the all-Mer high school in the grottos. I don’t want him seeing me here, in this dull, forgotten place, like I’m someone unimportant. Not just him—anyone. This isn’t who I am.
Is it? It’s not.
But he doesn’t seem to see the surroundings; his focus rests solely on me, and I resist the urge to adjust my hair or siluess under his gaze. Instead I fix him with a glare, one I know makes my sapphire eyes sparkle. “Well?”
“I hope it’s all right that I’m here.”
“How could you question it in the face of my effusive hospitality?”
“I brought you something, and I thought it was something you’d want to open in private.”
“Aw, did someone finally discover Victoria’s Secret? Bring me a present? Thought I’d give you a show?”
“What? No, um …” A blush darkens his cheeks. It’s too easy. “I’ve been meaning to give you this for a while, but it never seemed like the right time.” He reaches inside the woven sea-palm bag slung over his shoulder and pulls out a small but deep nickel box.
“What is it?” I say as I take it.
“Open it.”
I purse my lips and stay still for a long moment, staring at him instead of at the box in my hand like he wants me to. He doesn’t say anything else, just waits. What could be in this box that he felt the need to come here to my rooms and withstand such a frosty reception just to give to me in private? And on today of all days when he’s apparently had it for a while? My curiosity crests and I capitulate, flicking open the clasp with my fingernail.
Pearls stare up at me. All I can think is, are they his? His tears? Since our tears harden into pearls, some Mer use them to make the occasional bracelet or necklace. But that’s usually for yourself or a family member … or maybe for a girlfriend or boyfriend. No, it can’t be that. He’s still laughably in love with Lia, even though she won’t give up that grubby human. So, what is he thinking? What does this gift mean?
I reach into the box, picking up the strand of pearls. “Are you seriously giving me—” but the words die on my lips. The strand keeps going, longer and longer, and a small but lovely red coral bead slides into view. This isn’t a bracelet or necklace. It’s an esslee—a chain.
Esslee are long chains of pearls made from tears shed over a specific incident or at a specific event that a Mer wants to commemorate as a way to mark it as special. To never forget why those tears were shed. Mer make esslee out of tears cried by all their loved ones at a wedding or funeral. As a child living Below, I knew a neighbor who’d made a chain after losing an eye when raiders attacked our village. He said that way, it was like having that lost piece of himself with him always.
Stupid. It didn’t bring his eye back.
Esslee constitute a longstanding tradition. Tears are saved and strung together with specifically selected charms or precious jewels, then cherished for years, displayed in the home or worn wrapped around the body on special occasions.
I rub the smooth pearls and delicately cut beads between my fingers. What is—
“They’re from the trial,” Caspian says in a quiet voice. “When you took the stand and … and talked about your mother and … what happened to her.”
He means when I had to tell the entire Community of Landed Mer and all the visiting nobility about how my mother died. People don’t like to say that word. He doesn’t say it now. He doesn’t say murdered, either. Even though she was. Murdered by violent looters on her way to the marketplace to buy sweet shrimps for me.
People like the word murdered even less than the word died.
He doesn’t use either word as he keeps talking. “The experience was a significant one to you.” Which experience? My mother being murdered or my confessing under oath that after she died, I carried out the plan she and my dad had for me to siren a human? To commit the greatest crime known to Mer by taking away a human’s free will? He doesn’t specify. He just says, “I thought you might want to keep the tears.”
“How?” is all I manage to force out.
“How did I …? Well, in the courtroom, when I saw your tears just floating down the aisle, it … it didn’t seem right. Tears that important shouldn’t go to waste. I was sitting on the end of the row, so I caught them in my shoulder bag.” He fixes his gaze on the gray stone floor. “Everyone was listening to your confession; no one was paying attention to what I was doing.”
“You made me an esslee.” I could slap myself for stating the obvious like some little idiot, but I’m too stunned.
“If you don’t want
it or you don’t like it, you can change it or throw it out.” The words spill out of his mouth in a rush. “But at least this way, it’ll be your choice. They’re your tears. It wasn’t right.”
I don’t say anything. What would I say? I just keep staring at the glimmering chain as I pull more and more of it from the box. Did I really cry this many in public?
“I wasn’t sure how to give it to you or when, so I put it away for a while, but I thought you might want to wear it today.”
“To the coronation?” I say, finding my voice, and looking up from the chain lying across my palm. “I’m not going.”
He stares pointedly at the open trunk by the bed, and the elegant siluesses visible under the clear quartz slab. Observant, isn’t he?
“I’m not going,” I repeat. I may have been toying with the idea when I opened that trunk but …
“That’s the wrong decision,” he says, voice more decisive that usual.
“Enlighten me.”
“Today is history in the making. You don’t want to miss it.”
I roll my eyes. I don’t need that patriotic whaleshit, and he should know better than to try it with me.
“It is,” he says when I scoff. “That’s just fact. You might not be happy about who will be taking the throne,” he concedes, even though it looks painful for him to say it, “but either way, this is the first time after over two hundred years of war that the crown will be peaceably granted by the people to someone with a rightful claim instead of forcefully seized by some temporary dictator. It marks a new start for all of us.” He swims a fin-length closer. “Don’t you think you could use one?”
Please. He’s so optimistic it’s annoying. No “new start” is going to erase what I did from people’s minds. No way it will wipe what I’ve done clean.
When I don’t answer, he says, “You’re Mer. It’s your right to be there.” He takes a turquoise invitation stone and presses it to my palm. “This will get you into the palace ceremony and the ball afterwards.”