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I curl my knees up toward my chest. “They’re just sore. They’ll feel better in the morning.”

“You were limping,” they say, wiggling their fingers. “Let me see.”

I place my heel in their palm, and they mutter something under their breath as they push on a sore spot.

“What is it?” I look down and see a blister of shiny white skin stretched thin over a green curl of flesh, a tight rosebud of a fluke waiting to bloom and split my toe open. “Why is it like that?”

The muscles pop in their jawline. “I don’t know, but I’m going to see if there’s a way to make it better.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, I’ll be back before we set sail in the morning.”

I close my eyes when they leave, not expecting to get any rest, but the image of the fish in the water bowl spins behind my eyelids, and I swim off into a deep sleep with it.

18

ZEPHYR

Icross the strait between Cor and Crossbill Haven, a day’s worth of sailing completed in less than a second.

It’s drizzling here, water spilling off of tin roofs and running down the back alley gutters that empty into the bay. I fit my cloak over my wings and swing into a tavern, vanishing into the shadows of a corner booth and reappearing behind the bar while the tavern keeper’s back is turned.

Snatching a bottle of whiskey, I pinch myself out of the building and land on the street.

The liquor smells of charred oak and sweet caramel. I only meant to grab the closest thing available, but this is top-shelf.

My mouth waters for a taste, but my aim needs to be sharp.

I pour some in my hand and smear it over my lips, biting my tongue to stop myself from licking the evaporating liquid as I stagger down to the sea witch’s house.

Her door doesn’t open when I arrive. I have to wait on her porch step, knocking on the frame until it creaks on its hinges with a rusty groan.

The message is clear; I’m not welcome here.

That doesn’t deter me. Nor does the sight of Cosette sitting naked in the middle of a circle carved into her floor, lit by the flames of five burning candles.

Her hair hangs in limp strands over her bare breasts. The seashell necklace holding Cordelia’s Ocean Voice is the only thing she’s wearing.

“How nice of you to stop in,” she says, her voice gritty as she looks up from the giant clamshell she’s holding in front of her crossed shins.

I grip the bottleneck tighter and slosh the whiskey around. “What did you do to Cordelia?”

She waves her hands over symbols carved into the hardwood, her fingers wrinkled and gnarled with age, although the rest of her body is as smooth and youthful as usual. “I don’t know what you mean. Has something happened to her?”

I can’t stop seeing that coil of a green fluke pushing at the edge of Cordelia’s toenail. She’s in pain and trapped in the body Cosette gave her.

Rage constricts my ribs. I can only take shallow breaths. “What the fuck did you do to her foot fingers?”

“Her toes?” Her hands go still, the flesh plumping beneath her wrinkled skin and flattening out her bulging veins. She studies her rejuvenated fingers as she stands, then trails them over the curve of her pale hips. “The new moon has already passed, and she has yet to make a vow of love or death, so her human form is probably beginning to deteriorate. It makes sense that the process would start at her extremities.”

“You did not warn us that would happen.”

“I told Cordelia she needed to marry the Duchess in order for the transformation to become permanent,” she throws back. “Her human body is only temporary. It will give way to her mermaid form if she’s not wed by the time the full moon rises.”

I can picture it now–her fin unspooling and bursting through her feet. Her initial transformation was brutal; I could sense her agony.

I don’t want her to go through that again. I won’t let it happen.