Drifting.

It was wonderful.

It felt strange, not to be quite solid. Sort of spread out. The water beneath Adva was cool and clear. The sun began to rise somewhere overhead, touching her gently with its bright fingers, making her sparkle on the crest of the wave.

Sea foam.

So this was what it was like.

The gentle rocking motion of the waves, tumbling her under the water and then bobbing her back to the surface, made her drowsy. She slipped into something resembling sleep, although somewhere within her she understood that she wasn't capable of becoming tired anymore.

Drifting...

For week, it was just like that. Adva let herself be carried wherever the waves decided to go. In some vague way she understood that they were moving with purpose—moving her away from the ship, away from the shore it had come from. Although she realized it, she had no strength to fight it, or even desire. She felt nothing.

Then, dimly, in a dream, she remembered her name.

Adva!

In her dream, it was being said by someone else. Who?

It took much less time to recall the name of the owner of the voice than it had to remember her own.

Peter.

Peter was calling her name.

Adva struggled to rouse herself, to listen harder, but she did not hear him call her name again. Instead there were shouts, and a splash as something fell or threw itself into the ocean. The wave she rested on was too far away to be disturbed by the ripples.

The dream threatened to overtake her again, but she fought against it, straining her hearing for more sounds from the direction of the splash. But the wave surged beneath her determinedly, and she found herself tossed beneath it again.

The little foam tried its best to escape the clutch of the wave, but was too weak. She rose to the top again.

“Adva!”

For sure this time. It was Peter.

Peter! Peter! Peter!

His name echoed in her head, accompanied by no other words. She pleaded with the wave beneath her:

Take me to him! Take me to where he is! He will drown!

But the wave did not heed her, and so she and it drifted farther and farther out to sea.

 

*

 

The sun rose and set several times again before Adva regained consciousness.

They were approaching the shore.

She felt vague excitement, but couldn't remember why the shore was so important.

Idly, she wondered how exactly she was staying together. When the sea witch had described becoming sea foam, it was horrible. According to Maris, when you became foam, you dissolved, and were cast across the seven seas, never again to become whole.

And yet, Adva could feel that she was still one piece.

When she had finished her thoughts, which took several days to complete, Adva found herself sloshing against a dark, spiny rock. Water flowed into a large fissure in the stone, becoming trapped there. The water level seemed to be close to the top.

She heard a coarse, masculine voice singing a sea chanty, and something that sounded like a swinging bucket. Her guess was confirmed when suddenly she found herself scooped up into the wooden vessel and carried away.

The fisherman swung his bucket merrily, whistling to himself as he made his way expertly from the crevice that lead to the tide pools, to his small home. It was weather-worn and made of graying driftwood, briny with sea salt.

He paused at the ramshackle door to cast a glance at the sky.

It was overcast, but the breeze was strangely sweet. There would be no storm today.

Nodding to himself and taking up his whistling tune again, he carried the bucket inside, where Adva could hear the crackling of a hearth fire. He set the bucket next to the fireplace, and moved away. Adva heard a pot clanging as it was pulled from some hiding place. His footsteps returned.

He turned to busy himself with hanging the pot, stoking the fire.

“I'll have a fine fish soup tonight, cooked with the finest sea salt,” he murmured to himself, pleased.

He looked the bucket, his face appearing enormous in Adva's limited view.

“Eh, I got a bit too much I see. And look there, a trace of sea foam. Well, my home is no king's palace.”

With that thought, he picked up the bucket and poured a bit of the water out on the dirt floor.

Adva slid from the bucket to the floor, feeling a strange heat rush through her.

The old fisherman dropped the bucket, spilling the rest of the sea water everywhere and causing the fire to spit and sputter.

“What in blazes—!”

Adva blinked, slowly coming to herself. She lifted up a pale hand, spreading her fingers and staring briefly at the even, pink nails. With dread she didn't quite yet understand, she let her gaze drop lower and was greeted by the sight of two small white feet. She gasped, her memory returning to her.

“Legs! I still have legs!”

Then her hands flew to her throat, touching it with stunned joy.

“My voice!”

2: The Prince

 A gentle knock at his door.

“Peter? Can I come in?”

The prince did not turn his face from the window. He was seated at his desk, a half-finished letter before him.

“Come in, Stefan.”

His brother entered quietly, shutting the door behind him. With an easy grace, he made his way to the cushioned chair beside Peter. He pulled a pipe from his pocket, struck a match. As he shook out the flame and brought the pipe to his lips, he watched his older brother from the corner of his eye. Peter seemed neither pleased nor irritated to see him. He simply kept his eyes on the sea, his hands folded underneath his chin.

Stefan cleared his throat.

“We missed you at dinner.”

“I apologize. I wasn't hungry.”

They were silent for several minutes. The roar of the sea irritated Stefan, but somehow seemed soothing to Peter. His brother closed his eyes, a small smile appearing on his lips.

Stefan felt his shoulders relax.

“So...may I ask what you're looking for?”

Peter finally broke his gaze out the window to look at Stefan without turning his head.

“I thought that was obvious. I'm looking for her.”

“The princess?” joked Stefan. “She left weeks ago.”

Peter didn't bother to answer him. His eyes slid back to the window.

Stefan rubbed his chin, where a thick blond beard was beginning to appear. Soon he would have to ask Alice to trim it down for him, before it grew as thick as his father's. He regarded Peter carefully.

His brother and he had always been somewhat...different. Peter, the older of the two, was tall and well-built, with dark hair that curled when he let it grow, as he was doing now. His eyes were dark, brows heavy, and his gaze, lately, somewhat too intense. Stefan, on the other hand, was of more of an average height, wiry, and fair-haired. He had taken more after their father and had inherited his droll humor and gray eyes, which, in his young face, looked cold.

He puffed at his pipe and looked out the window with his brother.

“And? Any sign of her?”

“No.”

“And what exactly makes you think that today will be any different?”

“Nothing.”

Stefan felt his bile rising. He snuffed out his pipe and replaced it in his coat pocket.

“How long will you keep looking for her?”

“Forever. Until she comes.”

“And your duty to the throne? You will be crowned king in a matter of weeks, Peter. Surely you know you cannot rule a country from a bay window.”

The crown prince was silent.

Stefan's fist clenched.

“You disgust me, Peter,” he said quietly.

His brother looked up at him with knitted brows. “Stefan?”

Stefan had stood and was looking down at him with distaste.

“Adva is dead,” he spat,” and you're making a fool of yourself, of father, and of our kingdom by continuing to believe otherwise. It wasn't enough for you to jump overboard and try to kill yourself, too. It wasn't enough to break your engagement to Princess Sophia. No, now you're going to live like this as well.

“You are not fit to be the heir to the throne.”

With this last bit of venom, he turned, sweeping his coat behind him, and departed.

Peter watched him go, shaken.

3: Rumors

 “Thank you,” Adva said quietly to the offered blanket. She reached her hand out and found the ragged cloth dropped hastily into her arms, as if the fisherman didn't want to touch her. His crinkled blue eyes were still very wide. Having given her the blanket, wizened fingers reached up to nervously pluck at his gray-and-red speckled beard.

Adva wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. She had returned to herself the same way she had left—wearing a light purple dress with little ornament, gracefully cut and embellished with a gold trim. Surprisingly, it was still dry, though her hair and skin were soaking.

She looked up to the cringing fisherman. She felt sorry for him.

“Are you alright?”

He jumped a little at the sound of her voice addressing him. He sat down in a rickety chair near the fire and regarded her.

“I'm alright, I suppose,” he said bravely. He visibly fought to stop his trembling. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Adva. The prince calls me Adva.”

“And you are the little lass who jumped over the side of the ship?”

“Yes,” she said, her gaze dropping. “I'm sorry,” she added, not knowing why she felt the need to say so.

He looked uneasy at her apology. “Ah, there's no need to be sorry, I suppose... Did give everyone aboard quite a fright, though. The prince, too.”

Adva's little eyes suddenly swam with tears.

The fisherman waved a hand. “Oh, now, now, don't be crying. Why are you crying? Were you frightened to die?” He stayed in his chair, eying her curiously.

Adva brushed the tears away with her little hand.

“Oh no, sir. I was very pleased to die. Only I didn't, I merely turned to sea foam. And now I am here, and I am terribly frightened.” Her voice was inhumanly musical, but still somehow rough, from a year without use.

“Are you a ghost then?”

Adva laughed at that, a gentle sound like tinkling bells. “No, I am very much alive.” She looked at her legs again with a mixture of joy and unease, as if she thought they might suddenly disappear at any moment.

“But the rumors are right, you killed yourself? Because of the prince getting married and all?” Now the fisherman was cautiously curious. Hearing that she was not a ghost had cheered him considerably. The shock of seeing a bucket of water change into a sixteen-year-old girl was already beginning to wear off of him.

The laughter disappeared from her eyes and was replaced with a flat, listless look. “No. I had to...for my own reasons.” She paused. “I suppose that the prince is married now?”

The fisherman's eyes grew sad and distant. He turned from Adva to one of the grimy shack windows. He stretched out a shriveled hand, pointing at it. Adva turned to see a view of the town, a ramshackle collection of houses built near the sea, and beyond it, the castle.

Adva's eyes ached at seeing it again. Once built entirely of pure white stone, its walls had grown dingy with time. Peter had told her it was small for a castle, but to Adva it seemed enormous. It was surrounded by a river fed by the sea, only passable by the drawbridge, always left open for anyone to come in to speak with the king if they were in need. He was a kind man, and had passed that nature on to his oldest son.

If she squinted her eyes, she could see the balcony that jutted from Peter's room.

She let out a soft sigh, then turned back to the fisherman.

He shook his head.

“Look again, lass.”

She turned back, wondering what he wanted her to see. Then, she let out a gasp.

The flags flying from the towers were black.

She jumped to her feet. “Peter! Is he—”

“Not dead,” the old man said sharply. He waved his hands for her to sit down, all his fear apparently gone now.

“What's happened then?” asked she, confused. She did not sit, and the blanket fell from her shoulders to the floor. The fisherman sighed at the sight. It would get muddy.

“Well now, he's gone and lost his mind. He's locked himself up in his room and is refusing all his meals. Spends all his time looking out the window, looking for you. That woman he was going to marry—don't recall her name—she left for her kingdom weeks ago. Only one he seems to talk to these days is his brother.”

“Stefan,” Adva intoned, but her mind was still fixed on the words looking for you. Peter was looking for her?

“Yes. Strange boy,” he said, expression darkening. “They say he'll be king now.”

Adva now looked at him curiously. “What? But Peter is next in line for the throne.”

“You missed quite a bit while you were off being...sea foam, was it? While you were dead. Or not dead. Makes my head ache.” He scratched his head. “Stefan will be king now.” He scowled.

She sat down now, brushing the dust from the blanket and smiling at the fisherman apologetically for getting it dirty. But he wasn't looking at her now, he was looking out the window towards the castle with his brow furrowed.

“Does Peter not want to be king any longer?” She looked up at him innocently. Clearly hearing that Peter was alive was all that truly mattered to her.

The fisherman turned to her, his gaze somewhat hard. “No, lass. Peter cannot be king anymore. Or so Stefan and the king have declared.”

“Cannot?” she asked.

“As the prince, they say, has gone mad.”

 

 

Peter reached out a thin hand to the window. He paused to look at it. So thin. It had been days since he ate. The hunger hit him in a sudden wave, and he fought back nausea.

You are unfit to be heir to the throne.

He winced, remembering Stefan's words. His fingertips brushed the curtain.

If only he could bring himself to close it, he knew he could leave the window. Stop searching, stop watching, stop waiting for someone who would never come.

Stefan was right. This was pathetic. How long had he wandered the castle like a ghost before settling before the window? How long had he sat here, wasting time?

He drew his hand back, burying his face in his fists.

Adva...

Somewhere, deep in his heart, he knew she was still alive. But what if it was only that, a feeling?

His mind rushed inescapably to the last time he had seen her.

The light splash, like something being thrown from the deck into the sea. Waking. Cold morning light, the sun barely rising from dawn-colored waves. Turning his head to see the cabin doors thrown open. Soft white curtains blowing gently in the breeze. Adva poised with one tiny foot stepping onto the side of the ship. Her quiet backwards glance, her little face streaked with tears. She held his gaze for one lingering moment before turning and leaping into the sea.

Surging from his bed, nearly tripping over his sheets. Calling her name. Doors opening as wedding guests poured from their rooms to see what was the matter. Leaning over the side of the ship, eyes raking the water for some sign of her. Unable to see anything.

Diving over the side, treading water, arms reaching. Going under, forcing his eyes open, the salt water stinging unbearably. Nothing at all. Other splashes. A rope thrown into the water. He ignored it. Strong hands gripped him, urging him back to the ship. He shook them off. Voices.

She's gone, Peter!

She's gone.

Finally, exhausted, allowing himself to be pulled up, shivering and dripping wet, to the deck. Confused, angry argument over his head. Sea water dripping from his hair down his cheeks in place of tears.

He hadn't cried then. He did so now—a single tear that landed on his hand and was brushed away quickly.

He closed the curtain.

She's gone.

4: Jetsam

 Stefan stormed into his chambers, slamming the door behind him.

He knew he was being irrational, that it was foolishness to become angry, but Peter had been too much this time.

What a little fool! Stefan paced the red carpet that lead from his bed to the door, seething.

When they were young, he had esteemed Peter above all else. Peter, who was strong and brave and sensible. Peter, who could shoot straighter, swim faster, and run longer. Peter, who always did the right thing. Sometimes Stefan had been jealous, but always admiring. Until recently, he couldn't think of a better person to succeed their father.

Watching Peter falling apart in this way—embarrassing himself, embarrassing the family—was too much. For a month and a half since his canceled engagement and Adva's suicide, Peter had remained locked in his room, dead to everyone.

Lost in a daydream, Stefan thought bitterly. Just like he's been for the last year. Since that snip made her way in here.

They had been together, like always, readying to cast out to sea...

 

 

“C'mon, now, keep up, Stefan!” Peter laughed, tipping his cap over his eyes. Over one broad shoulder he had slung a handful of nets. His dark eyes sparkled underneath the wrinkled black cap, stolen from the cook.

Stefan tried to run faster, but only succeeded in tripping over a jutting stone and landing on his knees in the sand. He sputtered, wiping himself off, while Peter continued, disappearing behind an enormous dark, pock-filled rock. Stefan groaned as he watched his brother go. He had forgotten that there was one more set of tide pools to cross through before they reached the place they had hidden the dinghy.

“Crab-infested, stupid beach,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his foot. He sighed and took off at a jog.

The sound of Peter's footsteps had stopped. He was standing at the edge of the collection of tide pools, where rock gradually met sand. Stefan picked his way gingerly across the pools, avoiding the small crabs that clicked at him threateningly from their small hiding places. Coming to a halt behind Peter, he shoved him lightly on the shoulder.

“Well come on, I've caught up, now look who's slowing us down!” he chuckled. “What are you looking at?”

Peter put a hand over his eyes to block out the sun. “Stefan, does that look like a person to you?”

Stefan looked out along the beach. There, in the tide, was a slender figure lying in the sand. The surf slowly retreated from it, and Stefan's eyes widened as he realized what it was.

“Peter, it's a girl!”

They glanced at each other with raised eyebrows and made their way down to the surf.

She was lying on her side, one small, languid arm stretched out beneath her head, tiny fingers sunk in the sand. Long, wavy hair dark with damp fanned out around her. Her skin was paler than anyone Stefan had ever seen, as though she had never seen the sunlight. She looked young, with a childlike rosebud mouth

Peter covered his eyes next to him, turning his head. Stefan glanced at him with surprise before he realized that the girl was naked. He blushed deeply and turned around. His brother was setting down the nets and pulling off his coat, his eyes clouded with thought. Peter turned, eyes still closed, and gently picked her up, wrapping the coat around her.

She was limp, but queerly light and delicate, as though she had birds' bones. Peter opened his eyes, nudging her chin up to his shoulder. He glanced at Stefan.

“Do you think she's dead?” his younger brother asked.

Peter put his free hand on her wrist, feeling for a moment. “She's very cold.” He paused. “But I can feel her breathing, now that I'm carrying her.”

Stefan was staring at her in fascination. “Where on earth could she have come from? Do you think she made her way here from a shipwreck, like you?”

His older brother laughed. “Maybe! I hope that I didn't look like this when you found me.” He brushed some hair from the girl's face. Her lips parted and she seemed to stir slightly. “She's as pale as death.”

Stefan shook his head. “You looked terrible. You still look terrible!” He grinned and dodged a swat from his brother.

“Let's leave the dinghy for now. She needs to get warm. Let's see if we can get her home where Alice can see to her.”

The young prince smiled and followed after his brother, feeling pride swell in his chest. Peter always made decisions quickly and did the right thing.

He was going to be a wonderful king someday.

5: Passions

 Stefan's head turned when he heard a sharp knock on his door. He stopped his pacing to open it.

“Father! Come in, please!” He stepped aside to allow the king to enter.

His father still moved with strong strides in his old age. He seated himself at Stefan's desk, turning the chair to face him. He had removed his coat after dinner and was clad only in his dress shirt and dark trousers, a cloak of deep purple at his shoulders, fixed by two large gold clasps. His gray eyes, drooping with years, fixed on his son's.

“A servant told me you'd been to see Peter.”

Stefan sighed and ran his hand through his hair, wishing for his pipe. “He let me in this time.”

“Is he the same as ever?”

His son closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to remember what he had rehearsed earlier for this moment. “No, father, he's much worse. Father, I think he has finally broken. He barely spoke to me except about Adva. He barely seemed to know I was there.”

His father considered this, stroking his short white beard. He looked at the carpet for a moment.

“Father, this has gone on long enough. He hides in his room. He barely eats. He has refused to speak to anyone—“

“Save you,” his father pointed out.

“And even so, I sometimes feel that he only tolerates my presence, and never says what he is truly thinking.”

The king fixed him with his gaze, looking at Stefan for a long moment. “I had hoped for good news,” he admitted. He shook his head. “This is not.” There was another stretched silence before he spoke, seeming to weigh his words carefully.

“Stefan.”

“Yes, father?” Stefan now sat on the edge of his bed, his arms crossed over his chest, staring into the carpet.

“What is your opinion of Peter's sanity right now?”

Stefan's head snapped up. He's fine, he is simply acting like a fool right now is all, he meant to say, but instead, he found himself speaking the truth. “I think he is mad. He's lost his whole self. My brother was filled with laughter and strength. The man who lets me into his room, the one who sits at the window, is not my brother.” He paused. “He hasn't been himself for almost a year.”

“You associate this with Adva herself?” His father raised an eyebrow.

Stefan's hands clutched the blanket at his sides. “Yes. That's when he started becoming quieter. Sadder. He insisted on having her with him everywhere. He began to object to his engagement.”

“It was natural for him to fall in love with her. She was a pretty little creature and his dear friend.”

Stefan shook his head. “You don't understand, father. It was as if she had enchanted him. You know how dedicated Peter is to you, to the kingdom. He never would have resisted the engagement so strongly before she came. He cared about the alliance and the people more than he valued his personal feelings.”

The king looked disturbed at these facts. “He did, eventually, agree to honor his betrothal.”

“Only after I took him aside on my own and argued with him to make him see sense again!” Stefan sighed, releasing the blankets. “Peter has always seemed as if he were following a compass, a star, that guided him in the right direction. I've never known him to be brash or selfish for all our years growing up together. But this depression he has given himself over to... Father, to me, it is madness.”

Stefan watched his father carefully. The king, deep in thought, did not notice his son's intense, almost hungry gaze.

Finally, he looked up. Stefan had rearranged his features so that they were smooth and even, appropriately worried. Something dreadful was stirring inside him, a sudden and traitorous thought, at the memory of his brother's blank face at the window that day, and the disgust he had felt. He fought to keep this from showing in his eyes.

But the king was too absorbed with his own thoughts at that moment to read his son's.

“What do you propose must be done, my son? You have had the opportunity to observe him the most closely.”

Stefan met his father's eyes boldly. “I do not believe Peter is recovering or has any desire to do so. His coronation was meant to occur two weeks from now, but I feel that he should be considered unfit to rule. Let the throne fall to me instead.

The king stood, eyes blazing. “What is this? Your brother is grieving, not gibbering. I never thought you to be ambitious, Stefan. And especially not at the cost of stealing the birthright of your own brother!” He shook his head. His face was red with anger.

“Not so, father!” Stefan cried. They were both silent, staring hard at one another. The sea roared outside, waves crashing against the stones.

Stefan broke the silence first. “Peter is ruled by his passions. I see that now. He was ruled by a passion for the kingdom once, and now his emotions have transferred to Adva. He is unstable, letting his feelings control him.”

“And you are cold, Stefan, which is all the worse,” the king said quietly.

Stefan felt anger rising but kept his voice calm. “Cold I may seem, but my mind stays clear because of it. Peter was once my superior in every way,” he admitted. “But at this moment, I am more capable of acting as king than it appears he will ever be again. Admit it, Father. Peter's mind broke when his heart did.”

His father's eyes flashed and he left without a word, shutting the door behind him.

6: Names

 “Now, what are you hurrying for?” called the fisherman from inside the shack. He hadn't moved from his chair when Adva ran out the door.

She paused to turn and regard him. He was now standing in the door frame, watching her with puzzlement.

“I must find Peter,” she said. She retraced her steps to his front door and surprised him with a tight embrace, burying her head in his shoulder. “You have been so kind to me,” she said. “Even if it was not on purpose. Thank you!”

The fisherman blushed and patted the top of her head. “Well, now, you're welcome I suppose.”

Adva stepped away from him, beginning to turn away when he placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Wait there, Adva. What are you planning to do?”

She gave a him a strange look. “Well, I am going walk.”

He shook his head. “No, lass, that's not what I mean. When you meet the prince, what will you do? If he is as mad as his brother says?”

Adva looked lost. She played with a strand of hair. Now that she was dry, it was a dark auburn, shot with glints of gold that winked prettily in the dimming sunlight.

“Well, I...” she started. She wrinkled her little brow. “I don't know. Perhaps I will know then.”

With this, she was gone, running barefoot over the sand.

As she left, the fisherman realized that he hadn't even thought to ask her how she had come to be in his bucket in the first place. Curiosity inflamed, he called her name to her retreating back, but she was past hearing.

Adva ran, her tiny feet seeming to barely touch the sand. The sun was starting to disappear into the sea. She huffed as she moved. Her legs felt shaky. She had forgotten how awkward legs were. They had to move independently, and yet together. How many times had she fallen those first few days?

She smiled at the thought.

 

 

“Are you alright?” Peter rushed over to her. It was the second time today that she had tripped over herself and fallen.

She looked up at him with a smile, trying to show him that she was fine. Some of the frustration must have shone through in her face, however, because he chuckled.

“Let me give you a hand. Here,” he bent down and put his arm around her, helping her up. “Now, just hold onto me. I'll help you.” Together they walked the hallway towards the library, where they had been going before she fell. “I guess you're still feeling disoriented from the shipwreck, eh?”

She tried to act as if she hadn't heard him. Stefan and Peter had put together the story for Alice and the king. It seemed they were beginning to believe it themselves. There was no way to disillusion them, and it seemed to satisfy Peter. Still, her chest ached a little to not be able to tell him the truth.

The doors to the library were enormous, dark wood emblazoned with gold patterns. Peter opened them easily with one hand, the other still supporting her.

“Come in, we'll find you somewhere to sit. There's something I want to show you.”

He lead her to an armchair that was tucked next to a small desk. From this new position she looked around in awe.

There were shelves lining every wall, broken only by scattered picture windows. Gentle light filtered through their gauzy curtains, giving the room a friendly glow. The shelves stretched from floor to ceiling and were filled with books of every size, leaving no room for ornament of any kind. Two ladders leaned against one of the shelves nearest to the door. Three other small desks and armchairs like the one she was sitting in were scattered throughout the room. The desks were covered with maps and papers, and collections of knickknacks: telescopes, little statues of animals, model ships, a compass, abandoned tea-cups, inkwells of various sizes, candles, a vase of wilted roses dropping petals, a measuring stick, a sextant, containers for sealing-wax and snuff, an old pipe.

Her eyes widened as she realized that she didn't recognize some of the items. She and Mina had found so many things in the old shipwrecks, but nothing like these. She touched a little silver box on the desk in front of her. It slid from its perch on the edge of the desk and fell to the floor, opening with a soft sound. She gasped and pulled her legs up onto the chair away from it.

Peter looked over his shoulder. He was standing at one of the shelves, holding a slim green book with gold lettering on its spine. Seeing the fear in her eyes and the box on the ground, he chuckled and came over.

“It's alright, it's alright. Heaven knows Stefan and I have dropped it enough times. It's not broken.” He bent down to pick it up. She eyed it distrustfully. “It's a music box. It's not going to hurt you,” he laughed. He leaned against the desk and turned a small pin she hadn't seen on the back of the box. When he let go, a soft tinkling sound played, which slowly formed itself into a melody.

A slow smile spread itself across her features. She watched the little figure inside the box turning on one toe, apparently meant to mimic dancing. Mesmerized, she watched the figurine until the box finished the tune. After a moment of thought, a sudden, fierce delight spread across her face.

She gestured her hands for the box, looking questioningly at Peter. He let her hold it, fascinated by the intense joy in her expression.

She rolled the box in her hands until she found the pin. Once she had twisted it gently, she sat up, setting the box on the chair. As the tune began to play, she stepped away from the desk, into the middle of the room, where a large, rich carpet had been placed.

She danced to the tune, twirling her skirts and gesturing her arms gracefully, holding the hand of some invisible partner. Peter watched, smiling, as she tried to dance on her toes, as the figurine had done, her auburn hair and pale skin catching the light when she moved. As the melody sped up, her movements became more animated. She had given up trying to dance on her toes and settled instead for spinning in place, watching her skirts fan out. When the music had ended, she tried to slow herself down and only succeeded in tripping herself again, falling to her knees in a pool of skirts. Her eyes sparkled as he laughed at her.

“What a graceful little dancer! You move so lightly.” Peter let his eyes linger on hers for a moment, smiling, then shook his head, returning to himself. He put the music box on the table and indicated the armchair. “Here, come sit. I have something here that might help us find out who you are.”

It took a bit of effort to get up, but she managed, skipping lightly to the armchair. She looked at the book in his hand with her head cocked to one side.

Peter opened it towards her, pointing at one of the pages. “This is a collection of names my mother kept. She liked to know the meaning of words,” he chuckled. “But I thought you might be able to find your name here, so we know what it is. Then we can start making inquiries to the neighboring kingdoms, and maybe find out where your home is.”

He put the book in her hands. She cast her eyes on the page, turning it. Then she looked up at him expectantly.

Realization dawned on him. “You don't know how to read?” he said.

She shook her head, trying to hand the book back to him. But her eyes did not meet his. Peter raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. She persisted, pushing the book at him, her lips pursed.

“Ah, so you do know,” he said. She nodded, then closed the book, tucking it in his folded arms and looking away. He took it in his hand, frowning. “Why don't you want to look for your name?”

She stuck out her tongue, still not looking at him. He fought back the urge to laugh at her defiant gesture.

“What, do you not like your name?”

A shake of her head.

“Well, even if you don't like it, we still need to know, if we are to find out where you come from.”

She still didn't meet his eyes, and she folded her arms. Peter sighed.

“Alright, alright, I can see you're in no mood to tell me now. But I'd like to have something to call you, at least.”

She thought for a moment, then took the book from his hand and opened it. She presented it back to him, open, the way he had to her.

“You want me to choose something?”

Vigorous nodding.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck and flipped pages. A short word caught his eye. He put his finger on it and turned the book so she could see.

“Look at this. 'Adva.' It's Hebrew for a small wave or ripple. Do you like that well enough?”

He was answered with a large smile. With a laugh, he closed the book and set it on the desk.

“Adva, then. Sounds appropriately foreign for you.”

A strand of hair had fallen into her eyes when she danced and stayed there, forgotten. Unable to stop himself, he reached forward and tucked it behind her ear, meeting her eyes. A faint blush dusted her cheeks, and her eyes shone. He smiled.

“It's nice to meet you, Adva.”

7: Supper

 As his hand fell from the curtain, Peter turned away. He regarded the rest of the room, barely visible in the thinning light.

The bedclothes were rumpled, the draperies around the frame undusted and worn. The pattern of his tread was visible in the large embroidered rug which lied between the bed and door. He smiled at the footprints, a mixture of pain and relief in his eyes. For a few moments he took in the scene: the dusty furniture, untouched books, the quiet. It was grief, finished.

Peter tore his eyes away at last and made his way to the door.

He reached for the handle, a confident smile growing on his lips that slowly turned to a frown.

The door was locked.

 

 

Stefan accepted the key Alice slipped to him with a slight nod.

“Thank you. This should help,” he said, tucking the key into the pocket of his coat. He leaned forward in the austere wooden chair to rest his elbows on the table. At his feet were bags of flour and sugar. Strung from the ceiling were clusters of herbs and vegetables. It was the servants' kitchen, spare and small.

Alice did not say anything, but turned and busied herself with the small pot on the stove. She stirred, otherwise unmoving.

The prince watched his childhood nursemaid, feeling the frustration he had felt while talking to the king mounting.

“Alice.”

The little old woman did not respond, but continued stirring her stew.

Stefan brought his fist down on the table, causing a wooden bowl to jump and fall to the floor. Alice betrayed no surprise, reaching for the salt.

“Alice, why won't you understand? I'm doing this for Peter's own good.” He sighed. “You weren't there after Adva jumped into the sea, Alice. You didn't see how he reacted. No thought, no hesitation. He just jumped in after her.”

A board with hooks nailed into it, hung with utensils, was fixed over the stove. Alice pulled down a cutting board and a knife. She turned to retrieve some carrots. Stefan watched her expression and found nothing.

“You've raised me from a child, Alice. Have you ever known me to do something like this?”

Now she looked at him. Then, back to her chopping.

“No, Stefan. Which is why it puzzles me so.”

Hearing the disappointment in Alice's voice, Stefan's mouth opened to tell her the truth. To make her understand.

“Alice,” he began, but his words were cut off.

“Stefan!”

The prince turned to the doorway to see a small boy in white linen and a tailored waistcoat. He carried a silver tea tray containing two cups and a squat teakettle, and his eyes sparkled to see Stefan.

“Alec,” he said, opening his arms. The boy ran to him, throwing his arms around him. Stefan grunted, smiling. “Back so soon?”

“I am staying with Grandmother,” Alec said, ignoring him.”I made tea.”

Stefan reached for one of the steaming cups. “Oh?”

He found the cup snatched from his hands.

“That one is for Grandmother! Taste mine, Stefan.” The boy tapped on Alice's shoulder. She gave him a warm smile and accepted the cup, taking a sip and setting it next to the cutting board. Alec returned to Stefan, climbing up to sit on his knee. He reached for his cup, placing it in Stefan's hand. “Try it!”

The prince took a sip and blanched. The cup was filled halfway with sugar.

“I thought that you were staying with your mother at the mill,” Stefan said, returning the teacup.

“It isn't season yet. There is another month until the mill is busy,” Alec said brightly. “So Mother has sent me here to become a page.” He paused. “Alice made me a waistcoat.”

“A page! But there are no knights in Pheia!” Stefan chuckled.

“There will be!” Alec insisted. He offered the prince his teacup again, but was gently rebuffed.

“We don't need any knights because we have no wars,” Stefan said, ruffling the boy's hair. “It's a wonderful thing! Pheia goes mostly unnoticed because it isn't rich.” Then he laughed and whispered, “And we keep to ourselves!”

Alec grunted.

Alice brought her stirring spoon to her withered lips. “Soup is ready.”

Alec looked around. “The bowl is gone,” he said, frowning. He slipped down from Stefan's lap and peeked under the table. “Here it is.” He ducked and retrieved it, turning to the prince. “Did it fall off when you were angry, Stefan?”

He flushed. “How did you know I was angry, Alec?”

“I heard the table,” the boy said, unconcerned. “You were talking about Peter again.”

With that, Alec crawled back into his lap and set the bowl down. Stefan looked on as he and Alice ate, eyes distant.

“Is Peter still sad?” the boy asked.

Stefan sat up, lifting Alec and gently setting him back on the chair. “Sad enough to be a danger to himself,” he said, looking into Alice's eyes.

The old nursemaid turned her head, and returned to her meal only when Stefan had left the room.

 

8: The Sea Witch

A year before Adva would find herself on the floor of the fisherman's hovel, a mermaid was trembling at the entrance of an underwater grotto. On the surface of the sea, the moon streamed into the water, light scattering in the water and casting gruesome shadows among the crags of coral.

She wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to stem the shaking. There was only one entrance into Mathis' cave, a small rift barely the width of two merfolk swimming abreast. The cave within was as black as a sea-trench. Outside the grotto, seaweed grew thick and spiny, with only a narrow path left leading to the cave's grinning maw.

Is this really the right thing to do?

Before she could answer her thoughts, the image of a handsome young man, with dark hair and flashing eyes, appeared in her mind. She closed her eyes gratefully, her trembling ceasing as she spoke his name to herself quietly.

Peter.

A flick of her tail brought her to the entrance of the cave. She paused to regard it for only a moment before plunging inside.

I love you.

Within, the dark was consuming. The little mermaid lifted her hand in front of her eyes and found that she could not see it. She swam in circles, distressed. Even the entrance was no longer visible in the total blackness.

In her confused wandering she felt something cold brush against her tail. She recoiled it, letting out a small shriek.

Soft laughter echoed from somewhere behind her, and she felt something ragged and sharp brush lightly across her cheek and pull away.

“Youngest. So you've come to me at last. I was wondering which of you would come first.”

The mermaid stiffened. “Astra and Esther would never stoop to coming here.” She cast her eyes about trying to find the sea witch, who was circling her slowly.

She heard her cackle to her right. “You're probably right. And yet...you are here, Youngest.”

“I am,” said the mermaid, turning towards the voice. “I need your help, Mathis.”

The blade now rested itself against her neck, and the sea witch cooed into her ear, “So formal, Youngest. Ask me by my name and I just might help you. Come now. Name me, and the little favor you want. I'm sure I already know.”

Gritting her teeth, Youngest closed her eyes against the darkness, trying to hold Peter's face in her mind.

“I need you to make me a human,” she said. The silence waited. “...Mother.”

The cave echoed with the witch's pleased laughter.

 

 

Adva slowed as she approached the village. It was approaching night-time. Sounds filtered from the houses and shops, muted and sleepy. She stopped to gaze at it for a moment, an easy smile spreading across her lips. Peter dearly loved to enter the village at this time. They would walk up this same path from the shore and enter now, when no one was on the streets, and make their way back to the castle.

She tore her eyes away, her stomach fluttering. It wasn't far now to the castle. She ran away from the village, towards the forest that surrounded it on either side, framing the King's Highway.

The quickest way, the shortcut she and Peter used during the day, was through the woods. Adva lifted her skirts as she darted barefoot through the trees. She knew the path by heart.

Soon, she was able to see the drawbridge through the trees. Her steps grew so heated that her feet seemed to barely touch the ground. She held her arms out to steady herself as she walked across the log Stefan had placed across a small stream for their use. Memories assailed her as she ran.

There was that dear little tree, the one where Peter had first put his arm around her as they sat watching the stars. Other trees where she sat, watching Peter and Stefan hunt. A rock where the three sorted out small odds and ends and little shells they'd found that day. A little ways beyond it, the meadow where he announced his engagement to her and kissed her for the first time. The first, and only kiss.

Joy radiated from Adva's heart to her entire body, spurring her forward impossibly fast. She found the drawbridge and raced across, keeping herself to the shadows. Guards and servants would only slow her down.

She slipped through the courtyard to the small wooden door that lead to the servants' kitchen. Inside, coals were dimming in the stove and the faint smell of cooking still lingered from supper. Adva inhaled it quickly, grinning, as she pushed open the door that lead to the grand foyer.

The sweeping stone steps, towering royal portraits, and vaulted ceilings were lost upon her. She grasped the banister, hiking her skirts and scaling the stairs as quickly as she could manage. She was pleased to find that she could ascend much faster without shoes.

From there she took a sharp turn to the right, heart beating wildly.

 

 

Stefan emerged from his room rubbing his forehead.

He had lied on his bed for only a few moments before it became clear that he was to have no sleep tonight. His mind was racing, his stomach churning with the task ahead. He made his way to one of the hall windows, pressing his forehead against the glass.

The king was against him, and Alice too. He ground his teeth in frustration. Why couldn't they see things as he did?

Ambition. They think I am ambitious!

Finally unobserved, his face broke into a snarl.

If I am, it's her fault! She destroyed Peter! He spit. I should have known he wasn't all he seemed to be. Why is everyone so intent upon defending him? He's become weak.

Weak enough to be swayed off his path by a woman.

Stefan paused in his path as he caught sight of himself in the window.

“Why shouldn't I be king?” he murmured. “Peter doesn't want to be. He stopped wanting anything but her long ago.” He narrowed his eyes at his reflection. “Why?”

He looked past himself to take in the view of the village, the hunting forest, the King's Highway. Beyond the forest were stretches of farmland and scattered towns, their lights dimming for the night. Stefan gazed at them with a strange mixture of longing and anger.

“You're a fool, Peter, to wish to throw all of this away.” He sneered. “I am a better man than you.”

Once the words had escaped his mouth, he heard the footsteps.

He turned, confused, thinking that one of the servants was coming to deliver a message.

Instead, he found Adva standing in the hallway, her face flushed and auburn hair tumbling freely about her shoulders. She held her skirts up with one hand, the other supported her against the wall as she looked up at him, breathing hard and smiling.

She tottered towards him, and between gasps for air laughed,

“Stefan!”

9: Storm

 Youngest cupped her face with her palms, trying to keep her bearings. After what must have been hours there was still no light in the cave, and therefore no way to tell if she was sitting on the grotto floor or its ceiling. The thought was dizzying.

 

The sea witch was moving things around in the dark, humming tunelessly to herself. Occasionally her long tail would brush against Youngest's, leaving behind soft, rotted scales that the princess hurriedly brushed away. Tail rot was contagious—the afflicted mermaid's scales would gradually loosen from her tail, leaving behind oozing wounds. It affected the elderly and those with bad grooming. Youngest crinkled her nose, wondering which category Mathis fit into.

 

Her mother's voice split the silence.

 

“Tell me about your human.”

 

Youngest squirmed. “He's a prince.”

 

“What sort of prince?”

 

“A kind one. Beautiful. Brave.”

 

The witch cackled. “You needn't be so reticent, dear. Tell me how you came to know this prince of yours. There's hours yet before the magic you need will be ready.”

 

Somewhere in the cave, steam hissed. In the brief flash of light that accompanied it, Youngest saw Mathis crouched over a small table of vials. She was grinding something black and slimy with a large pestle.

 

Youngest shuddered and turned her eyes to her lap. The light receded.

 

“I rescued him from a shipwreck. Not long after my fifteenth birthday. I came up to the surface one night before a storm...”

 

 

The sky danced with colors Youngest had never seen before. Brilliant corals and luminescent violet painted the sky at the edge of the sea. The little mermaid watched, enchanted, from just below the surface. Seagulls cried out in the dusk, sweeping over the ocean, sometimes letting a wing brush the water for sport.

 

Just as the sun was about to sink completely into the sea, a sharp sound suddenly shook the water. Youngest dived, terrified. A small school of fish swam past her, escaping to the calmer deep waters. Youngest swam back through their ranks cautiously, returning to the surface and popping her head out above, searching for the source of the great noise.

 

It came from a ship not too far away. Youngest peered at it. By human standards, it was a grand vessel, a large three-masted barque carved from dark, shining wood. The sails were drawn, leaving the ship looking strangely skeletal. On its sides were several small cannons, one of which was still bellowing smoke from its recent shot. Shouts and laughter came from the deck, where stood a small crowd of sailors huddled about something Youngest could not see.

 

Curious, she approached the ship, diving beneath to get to the other side. When she glanced up, she was delighted to see that the starboard side had a clear view of the deck. If she kept her head above the surface she could see and hear the celebration aboard without being visible to its guests.

 

The sailors, it appeared, were gathered about a young man with dark hair and flashing black eyes, who held a thin brown packet. While the other sailors wore the same uniform of a flat cap, striped shirt, and white breeches that Youngest had seen on every other sailor that passed, the youth they cheered and shouted for wore a long navy coat lined with silver buttons, a pair of shining black boots, and a crimson scarf loosely strewn about his throat.

 

The little mermaid blushed upon seeing him. The boy's face was ruddy and angular, with full lips stretched in a gentle smile. He glanced about at his friends with dancing eyes as he unwrapped the little package to reveal a slender chain. Lifting it from the paper, he showed the sailors a small brass compass.

 

He turned to grasp the hand of a man in captain's garb. “Why, it's the most excellent birthday present I've received, Kennedy. Thank you!”

 

The bearded captain clasped the boy's hand with both of his. “It's our delight, Peter. The barque is yours, of course, but you ought to have something to navigate by, no?”

 

Peter laughed. “Yes, I suppose one cannot always use the stars and a guess!” This drew great guffaws from the sailors for reasons Youngest couldn't fathom.

 

Turning to the others, Peter raised his arms. “And well now, where are those pipes? I believe there is still a contest to be had!”

 

Chortles and chuckles from the sailors, and a sharp protest from a reedy sailor holding a small silver flute. “Not the pipes, Peter! That's not fair, now! 'Tis not the same instrument, even!”

 

Peter grinned. “Now, Flanagan, that's something you ought to have considered when you worded the challenge ashore!”

 

The sailor laughed good-naturedly. “I did say I could best you playing any tune I suppose.” He scratched his scruffy chin. “Very well then, little beast. You may have your pipes. But I'll choose the tune.”

 

“You may have your pick, Flanagan,” said Peter, accepting his pipes from the captain. He blew into them, playing a short scale. Youngest's mouth opened into a grin, pleased with the clear, fluid sound.

 

“We'll play the 'Fiddler's Green,'” declared Flanagan, a glint in his eyes.

 

Cries and protests met this announcement. “We've no fiddle! It wouldn't be proper, now!”

 

The captain raised his hand for quiet. “Now, men, 'tis Flanagan's choice.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But it is a pity to play the Green with no fiddle.”

 

“I'll play, cap'n!” piped up one short sailor with a shock of red hair. He had just emerged from below deck, where he'd dived as soon as he'd heard the name of the song. “I left me fiddle in me bunk.” He seated himself on a crate near Peter and Flanagan, drawing a short bow across his instrument. It rang forth sweetly.

 

“Right then! No more excuses! Flanagan, as the challenger, you'll start.”

 

“And you'll start the singin', right, captain?” The sailor wiggled an eyebrow. There were many shouts of joy at this.

 

“Alright, alright!” roared the captain, trying to quell the noise. “Quiet! Gerald, if you'll start!”

 

The fiddler began with a sweet, low, and swinging introduction that Youngest vaguely recognized. She had heard a similar tune on passing ships. The captain sang in a warbling baritone,

 

As I walked by the dockside one evening so fair
To view the salt water and take the sea air
I heard an old fisherman singing a song
Won’t you take ma away boys me time is not long.

At the chorus, the men joined in, as did Flanagan's flute, weaving in with the fiddle beautifully:

 

Wrap me up in me oil-skin and jumper
No more on the docks I’ll be seen
Just tell me old shipmates, I’m taking a trip mates
And I’ll see you some day in Fiddler’s Green.

 

Flanagan exited gracefully at the end of the chorus to make way for Peter's pipes. The young man entered with a finesse and energy that made the little mermaid gasp and clap her hands with delight. She felt the sea around her growing unsteady, but ignored it as the sailors began the next verse.

 

Now Fiddler’s Green is a place I heard tell
Where the fishermen go if they don’t go to hell
Where skies are all clear and the dolphins do play
And the cold coast of Greenland is far, far away.

 

Somewhere, thunder rumbled, and a few drops of rain began hitting the deck, but the sailors were too merry to notice as the roared out the chorus again. Flanagan grinned and shook his head, hearing Peter's pipes.

 

“Never should've challenged you, Peter!” he called over the singing. “You blessed fool!”

 

When you get on the docks and the long trip is through
Ther’s pubs and ther’s clubs and ther’s lassies there too
When the girls are all pretty and the beer it is free
And ther’s bottles of rum growing from every tree.

 

Peter smiled against his pipes and only played the louder, ornamenting his melody so that the notes seemed to shimmer and dance. Youngest, her face aglow, swayed as she sang the final chorus with them quietly:

 

Wrap me up in me oil-skin and jumper
No more on the docks I’ll be seen
Just tell me old shipmates, I’m taking a trip mates
And I’ll see you some day in Fiddler’s Green!

 

At the final note, the sky burst open and a torrent assaulted the deck. The sailors scrambled about in a panic as the waves began to churn. Youngest, used to the tossing of the sea, was dazed by the activity aboard. Within moments the captain was at the helm, barking orders every direction. Gerald abandoned his fiddle and scurried up the mast to the crow's nest, wiping rain from his eyes.

 

“What do you see?” called Captain Kennedy, fighting to be heard against the wind.

 

“We're being pushed away from the shore!”

 

The sailors' faces were set grimly as they pulled ropes, trying to free the sails. They cursed the storm. Peter held onto the railing, watching the sea.

 

“How far out are we, captain?” he called out.

 

“Too far, Peter! I couldn't see the shore even before this cursed wind took hold of us!”

 

A sudden wave jolted the barque. Even Youngest found herself struggling to remain steady in the high waves. She tumbled beneath the water and came up sputtering to hear panicked shouts:

 

“The prince! The prince has fallen overboard!”

 

Youngest's eyes grew wide and she searched around herself for signs of the young man that had just been leaning so precariously over the railing. A group of men clustered about the side of the ship, staring into the water.

 

The little mermaid dived below, forehead furrowed. The storm had roiled the waves, kicking up sand and making the water cloudy. She squinted, swimming beneath the ship, carefully avoiding the bottom, which rocked wildly in wide, dangerous arcs.

 

A small dark shape was sinking fast somewhere below.

 

Youngest darted towards the shape, long tail flicking. She could barely make out the shape of the prince as the sea sucked him away.

 

She frowned, swimming faster. Peter's face slowly became visible as she caught up. His eyes were closed and his mouth hung open loosely. There was a sharp wound on his forehead where the waves had thrown him into the bottom of the barque. Youngest reached for him with relief, grasping his coat. She pulled him into her arms just in time to hear a sharp crack above.

 

The little mermaid glanced up to see bits of the ship falling into the water. The princess gasped, pulling the prince out of the path of a sinking beam. Men were jumping into the water as the barque split into pieces. They swam desperately only to be tossed at the sea's whim. Youngest winced at their cries. Some grabbed pieces of the ship, managing to keep themselves afloat. Others began to sink as Peter had, dragged down by the undercurrent.

 

Youngest tucked her arms beneath the prince's and swam to the surface, looking about. The prince coughed, vomiting sea-water. She patted his back, holding his head to her shoulder as she viewed the remains of the ship with horror.

 

Within minutes, the violent storm had torn the giant vessel to pieces. It appeared that two or three large waves had assaulted the barque from all sides at once, causing the masts to snap and cracking the ship in two. It was sinking slowly, bits of the railing falling into the water where the mast had splintered it. Men were jumping from the ship in droves. Captain Kennedy stood aboard, still searching the waters and calling for Peter. After a minute or two, however, he shucked his coat and hat and dived over the side with his men. Several had begun grasping arms and swimming towards bits of wreckage.

 

Youngest regarded Peter. He was still unconscious, and didn't seem at all capable of holding onto one of the boards that the other sailors were grabbing at. She held Peter tightly, considering. The shore was only a few miles away—a mere minute or two of travel for a mermaid. In the storm, however, it would be tricky. Peter needed to be above water.

 

She maneuvered his limp body so that he had one arm slung around her shoulder. She grasped the wrist as tightly as she could, and plunged into the waves.

 

Bits of wreckage churned in the sea, sometimes barely missing her. She struggled to swim so close to the surface and the broil of the wave. It wasn't possible to dive, however, with Peter on her back. Gritting her teeth, she flicked her tail harder.

 

The twisting sea seemed to go on for hours. Her arms grew tired and her tail ached. The rain and thunder became deafening combined with the roar of the sea.

 

After what felt an age to the little mermaid, shore slowly became visible, and the sea somewhat calmer. Youngest took advantage of the lapse to dart ahead towards the sandy beach, her breath labored. The shallows caught her tail in the sand. She wriggled free, dragging the prince beside her towards dry land.

 

She finally deposited him beside her, collapsing with her face in the sand, coughing and choking from the effort. Beside her, the prince was still, chest barely rising and falling.

 

Youngest watched him with a quiet smile. Now ashore, she could see the beginnings of a small beard forming along his jaw. She touched the stubble with one fingertip, then took her hand back quickly when she found that it was rough and spiny. The hair on his head was like hers—soft and wavy.

 

She ran her fingers through his hair for a few moments before blushing and returning her hands to her sides. She laid her head on its side, preparing to take a quick nap before returning to the sea.

 

Just as exhaustion began to close her eyes, the little mermaid felt something warm touch her hand. She glanced down to see the prince's hand had clasped her wrist. Peter lifted his head to vomit sea water once more, squeezing Youngest's wrist in pain. The little mermaid wriggled out of his grasp. The prince was beginning to wake.

 

She cast one last look over her shoulder as she pulled herself back towards the water. Peter was sitting up, staring blearily at her. He rubbed his eyes, then reached out a hand, trying to move towards her.

 

“Wait!”

 

With a soft cry of surprise—or regret—she ducked into the sea, and disappeared.

10: Stories

 Stefan's knees nearly gave out beneath him. He stared as Adva ran towards him, her arms outstretched.

“Stefan!” she repeated, sighing. Her voice was thick with tears. She buried her face in his coat, embracing him.

His hands hovered over her back like uncertain spiders. She didn't seem to notice his hesitance, only holding him tighter.

“Adva,” he breathed, looking down at her small face resting against his coat. His tongue felt thick and heavy. “You're...alive. You're here. How...?”

“Yes, Stefan!” She stepped away from him and spun, letting her skirts fan out merrily. “And my voice has been returned to me!” Adva grasped his hand and tugged at him. “Come, we must tell Peter! I must see Peter right away!”

He had the presence of mind to pull back on her hand, prompting a confused pause from Adva.

“Wait. Wait!”

She stilled, hearing his sharpness.

Stefan grasped her hand with both of his. “Adva,” he said, “you can't stay here.”

The little creature gaped at him. “What? Why can't I stay? I must see Peter. I have to tell him that I'm alive!” She put her little white hand over Stefan's, her eyes shining. “I must tell him—that I love him, Stefan! That I have always loved him!”

The prince grabbed her arm as she tried to slip away again. “No!”

Adva looked back at him, her eyes now wide with fear. His grip on her arm was painful, the delicate skin bruising under his fingers. She cried out a little, twisting about.

“You're hurting me, Stefan! Let go!”

“I can't let you go to him, Adva!” Stefan said, turning his eyes away from her. He loosened his grip. “The sight of you will drive Peter to madness! He believes you dead! What strange magic brought you back here, I don't know, but you do not belong here!”

Adva ceased her struggling. Her eyes still brimmed with the joyful tears she had greeted him with. Now, they were tears of frustration and confusion.

“I don't belong here? What do you mean, Stefan?” She grasped the hand he held her with. “I belong where Peter is! Please, let me go to him! I love him!”

His grip grew tight again at her confession. “Don't say that! Please, Adva, promise me that you'll leave. That you'll return from wherever you've come from...”

“I cannot! I come from the sea!” she cried. “I cannot return. I shall turn to foam!” At his narrowed eyes, she sobbed, her large blue eyes pleading. “I am what your kind call a mercreature. Look, I will tell you all, Stefan, only let me go! I will tell you where I am from, I will show you!”

Stefan's eyes blazed. “Adva, you mock me now? Do you think I am some kind of child, to believe such a story?”

“No! It is no story! I traded my voice to the sea witch—she gave me legs for a tail! She changed me! I left behind father, sisters, kingdom—everything—to come to the surface!” Her voice broke and she could only weep now.

Stefan's face was cold as he regarded the young woman crying in front of him.

She is as mad as he is. What a fine pair. He grimaced. But heaven alone knows how she survived.

“You disappeared. No one was able to find your body. How did you return?” he said, trying to make his voice gentle.

Adva looked up. “I jumped, but when I fell into the water, it took me back as sea foam. It was as the sea witch said. Peter betrothed himself to another. And then you told me...” She stopped and shook her head. “...and my heart broke!” She paused, weeping. “When a mermaid's heart breaks, Mathis says that the ocean takes them eternally, scattering their remains to the seven seas.” Then she grasped his coat, her eyes shining. “But I heard him call for me, Stefan! I heard Peter's voice call for me with so much pain! And suddenly I was filled with hope! The sea could not destroy me as it was meant to do. Instead, it freed me! The current brought me back to shore!”

“Mathis?” murmured Stefan, shaking his head and furrowing his brow. He tried to remember where he had heard the name. “The witch from sailors' tales! More invention.” His eyes flashed, and he shook her sharply. “Now, tell me the truth. No more child's stories!”

“It is the truth, Stefan! I swear it!” She gasped when he squeezed her arm, grimacing.

“My brother,” Stefan said, squeezing harder and pushing her so that she had to fall to her knees, “was driven slowly mad by your disappearance. He broke his engagement, denied the crown, and took to locking himself in his room staring out of his window like a fool. Mooning about, speaking and thinking of nothing but you. Grieving for you. And who was left to pick up the shards of the shattered alliances? To care for my brother's shell? Me. In mere weeks everything has fallen apart.” His eyes were distant and his voice dropped lower so that she could barely hear. “And it's all my fault. I coveted him his happiness. His certainty. As soon as Peter saw you, he never wanted anything else again.”

With this, he tugged her to her feet. “Get up. I shall have to hide you away, too.”

Adva wept, pulling at him desperately as he began to take her down a small corridor.

“Stefan! Please believe me! Please listen to me!” Her desperate exclamations turned to shouts. “Peter! Peter!”

But the prince was walking too quickly, and her cries did not reach past the empty hall.

 

 

The eastern wing of the castle was abandoned. Its walls were covered with a fine layer of dust, the brass candle-rests on the wall sticky with cobwebs. Pale yellow squares were left where portraits of a young woman with sparkling, dark eyes had once hung. Doors lined the walls, holding vigil in silence.

Adva had ceased shouting and merely looked about as Stefan pulled her along behind him, quiet tears streaming down her cheeks. The corridor was dark and slim. Only the barest sliver of moonlight slipped through heavy, drawn curtains. She shivered a little from the cold and the fear racing through her veins. Her lip trembled and she turned her gaze to her feet, trying not to trip as Stefan sped up.

She walked into his back when he stopped, letting out a soft gasp. They were at the end of the corridor, in front of an enormous door that Adva could barely see in the darkness. The handle was a lion's head, and there were several locks placed along its side, bolting it shut.

“Stefan,” she murmured as he reached for a key in his coat. “Please. Let me see Peter. Let me see him but once more.”

“No, Adva. You'd fill his head with your stories and make him worse than he already is.”

“I wouldn't tell him stories, Stefan! I would tell him the truth, as I've told you!”

The bolt of the door pulled back with a heavy sound. The prince didn't bother looking back at her as he took another key and worked on the second lock.

“If that story was the truth, you would have told him from the beginning.”

“I wanted to tell you both! You don't know how much I wished, and tried, to tell you!”

“But your voice had been stolen by the sea witch,” he said, pausing at the third lock.

“Yes!” she cried, thinking he was finally coming to believe her.

She reached for his shoulder, but he swatted her hand away. Opening the last of the locks, he shoved his shoulder against the door and pushed it open with a grunt. Within, Adva could only make out the barest outline of a bed, a monstrous wardrobe, and the glint of a vanity. Stefan released her arm, and she grasped where his hand had been, grimacing as feeling returned to it.

He faced her, his eyes glinting in the thread of moonlight.

“This was my mother's room when she was alive. You may tell your as many of your stories as you wish to these walls, but neither I nor Peter will hear any more.”

She sprang at him, but he slammed the door in her face.

Adva sank to the floor, beating her fists on the wooden door as bolts slid into place.

Stefan moved away from the door quickly. Adva's cries grew muffled as he walked down the hall, then disappeared completely when he rounded the next corner. Within minutes he brushed past the window where Adva had found him. His eyes streamed with hot tears and his hands were fixed firmly over his ears as he fled to his room.

Closing the door behind him, he buried his face in his hands.

Peter cannot find out she's here.

Anymore than he can find out that it was I who killed her in the first place.

 

11: Within the Cave

“You don't belong there, you know,” Mathis murmured in the dark.

Youngest flinched. It was unnerving each time the sea witch spoke. The grotto echoed so that her voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. She wasn't sure how to answer her mother. There was nothing to say.

Mathis persisted, however, “You will be unhappy.”

The little mermaid's eyes softened. “If I am with Peter, it will be enough. I will be happy.”

Her mother let out a harsh laugh that made the princess frown. “Yes. You will be. For a time.”

Then she was silent, leaving Youngest stunned, wondering what this could mean.

After several stretching minutes, she spoke, her small hands clutched in her lap.

“I...Will I remain human for long?”

“Forever,” Mathis said.

Startled, Youngest ceased wringing her hands. “Forever!”

Her delighted smile was tempered by a twinge of guilt. It was Esther's and Astra's idea to consult the sea witch. Hearing her tales of Peter and the world above, they had encouraged her with their customary cheerfulness, accepting her desire to be human as readily as they would have a received a wish for a new crown or a special food. It was their way. Youngest felt her heart ache for them momentarily, but was drawn out by the sea witch's rasp:

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“All things being equal,” the witch replied. Even through the darkness Youngest could sense Mathis' grin.

“What do you mean?” Youngest resisted the urge to grasp the witch's tail as she went by. If only she could get her to stay still!

“Should the prince return your silly affections, you will remain human forever,” Mathis laughed. Vials clinked. “If not, I'm sure your heart will break as young hearts tend to do.” Unconcealed pleasure coated her voice.

“Then...I will return to the sea?”

“Not as you are now, but yes,” the sea witch chuckled. Youngest winced at the sudden sound of steam. It hissed for a few moments before cutting off, and the grotto was left unpleasantly warm. “When the prince chooses another, you will throw yourself into the sea in despair and be turned to foam.”

Youngest paled, shuddering, then turned her face aside. “I will not throw myself into the sea,” she said. “If Peter should love someone else, I...I will content myself to be his servant.”

The witch burst into peals of laughter. Youngest clapped her hands over her ears to block out the terrible sound that caused the grotto to tremble.

“The favored princess to become a servant to a human fool!” she gasped, dropping something that smashed to pieces on the floor in her mirth. “You have your father's sentimentality.”

The little mermaid clenched her fists at her side. “My father's sentimentality saved your life!” she said, the heat in her voice surprising her. “He loved you deeply, so much so that he didn't destroy you when you betrayed him to come” —she gestured— “here!”

Mathis swept up the pieces of whatever she had dropped. “His mistake.” She chuckled. “He ceased to amuse me. You, however, promise to be more tragically foolhardy than he.”

Youngest did not reply. She was moving along the sides of the cavern, her fingers lightly brushing the walls. She tried once more to get an idea of the shape of the grotto. For a short while the stone remained rough and dull, then slowly transitioned to something smooth and cold. The princess trailed her fingers to the floor where she found that the smooth stone dropped off sharply. A chill current issued from the open crevice. She scuttled against the wall with a shiver.

“This will take an hour yet, Youngest. The silence is dull. Sing for me.” Mathis' voice was unexpectedly pleasant, even curious. “I have heard that the kingdom takes pride in your voice.”

The princess flushed. “What shall I sing?”

Dismissive, the witch muttered, “Any banal tune shall do. Sing til I am finished.”

Youngest wrapped her arms about her curled-up tail and began with the “Fiddler's Green,” inventing words where she did not remember them. She kept her eyes fixed on where she believed her fins to be, her charming voice filling the cavern with a strange cheer.

12: Warnings

 Peter paced with a growing, barely contained rage. For a night and the better part of the day, the door had remained locked. His shouts for help proved fruitless. Several times, he heard quiet footsteps creeping by, along with hushed murmurs, but no one, it seemed, dared to approach the door.

It had to have been Father or Stefan, then, he reasoned. His mind raced back to his last encounter with his brother. No. It couldn't have been Father. It was Stefan, I'm sure of it.

He tried calling for him, but the servants only rushed by faster, and soon began avoiding the hallway altogether. In his frustration he had tried forcing the lock, but the door was built too sturdily, and a month and a half of little food or sleep had drained Peter of his former strength.

The crown prince stopped his pacing to look about the room. He caught sight of himself in a mirror and winced. The man there was pale and gaunt, his eyes shaded by heavy purple rings like bruises. He had grown a dark beard, and his hair was unkempt and long. He looked as though he had spent a year in the jungle, rather than a month at his desk.

As he turned away, ashamed, there was a sharp knock at his door and the sound of a key turning.

“Peter? I'm coming in.” Stefan.

He turned squarely to meet his brother, his eyes flashing.

“Why have you locked the door?” Peter demanded.

Stefan tried to stifle his tremor. Something vital had returned to Peter's eyes and voice. An echo of that old authority he'd once loved. Now, it filled him with momentary fear followed by intense irritation. He had entered the room calm, but hearing the old Peter seemed to shake him badly.

“I have only done as you wished. No one will trouble you now as you reflect on your precious dead.”

Peter was taken aback by the venom in Stefan's voice. His younger brother's face was twisted with dislike as he shut the door behind him.

“Stefan, what have I done that angers you so?” the prince asked, aghast.

“I hate your cowardice!” his brother spat. He trembled. “I hate your weakness! I hate you!”

The prince was stunned. He laughed a little, incredulous. “What? Stefan, what is this about?”

“Father, Alice, the court—they all defend you!” he said. “I never knew myself to be mistrusted and hated until I began opposing you! The precious favorite! How did I never notice, growing up beside you?” He paced on the rug as Peter stood back, wary. “You forget your duties—fall in love with a foundling—lose yourself in grief—abandon a country on the brink of an important alliance—I cannot fathom any of it! And I am called the villain!”

“Stefan!” Peter called out sharply. His brother stopped pacing and regarded him as if for the first time.

“You are not at your window.”

The prince nodded. “The time for grief is past.”

Heavy silence dropped between them for several moments. Peter cleared his throat.

“Stefan,” he repeated, his voice firm but gentle. “I am sorry so much responsibility fell to you so suddenly. You're right...I did lose myself. Adva was” —he paused— “incredibly dear to me. I reacted drastically.” He slowly approached Stefan, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. The flaxen-haired prince seemed to shrink under his brother's gaze. “You were right. I have reprehensibly neglected my duties. I now intend to fulfill them.”

Stefan stared blankly at Peter. Disbelief flooded his features, wrinkling his brow. He pulled away from his brother's hand.

“You change swiftly.” He cast his eyes on the floor.

Peter sighed, stroking his chin. “Yesterday alarmed me,” he said.

His brother watched him carefully for several moments. Something flickered in his eyes.

“You have...given up any hope that Adva is still alive?”

The prince sighed, a hand reaching to his temple. “Stefan...” He rubbed his forehead. “She is gone. Whether she died at sea or merely ran away, I do not know. I cannot shake the feeling that she is alive, somewhere.”

Stefan's frown deepened as he stared at the rug once more. “What will you do if somehow, she is? If she returns to you, will you abandon the throne once more?”

Peter looked at him strangely. “Should Adva return...” He trailed off, looking toward the window. “I do not know.”

“What are your...feelings towards her? You never did tell me.”

“You never asked,” Peter said, smiling gently. His eyes filled with their familiar distance for a moment. “I love her. I wish I had told her so.”

A short hiss escaped Stefan's lips. “You loved her?”

“Yes,” said Peter. His smile widened into a grin. “I believe she felt the same.” Pause. “I love her still.”

His brother eyed him carefully for a few moments. “Would you do the same thing again given the chance? Break your engagement, break the alliance?” His voice was feverish. “Be lead by your heart rather than the good of the crown?”

Peter regarded him with a frown. “You speak very frankly.” He watched as his brother's hands clenched into trembling fists. “Calm yourself, Stefan, I will answer you! I would make the same decision again.”

“Why?”

“Because it was right. How could I marry Sophia, whom I did not know, all the while knowing that I loved another woman? Despite all good intentions, my heart would always be faithless.” Peter chuckled. “What a miserable life for the both of us!”

“You were selfish,” Stefan accused. “You were betrothed to Sophia from birth. We had looked forward to the uniting of our kingdoms for almost twenty years. Much of her wealth would have been added to the treasury. A buffer of farmland we dearly needed would have joined our western border. New trade routes opened. An army would be given to us. We have none—“

“Stefan, you yourself have said it many times, Pheia has no enemies!” Peter said, his voice growing involuntarily heated in response to his.

“In our generation, Peter!” Stefan shook his head. “Perhaps the next would have been grateful!” His fists clenched tighter. “You did not think of your people when you made these decisions. You thought only of yourself.”

The prince's face slowly lost its warmth as he regarded Stefan.

“Perhaps I did,” he admitted. “Even still, my decision would remain.” Sighing, he tried to speak calmly, turning his eyes from his brother. “It was right.”

“You would give everything up again for the girl? For Adva?”

“Yes.”

Stefan was silent. The air between them was thick. The prince's quarters seemed suddenly cramped and stuffy.

“You pathetic fool,” he said at last. He turned, making for the door.

Peter followed quickly behind. “No! You will not lock it again, Stefan! You have no right or reason to trap me here.” He grasped his brother's shoulder and sought to reach the door first.

Stefan turned on him, hissing.

“Adva is alive!”

The prince's hand froze on the doorknob.

“What?” His voice was incredulous. Despairing hope rose on his face. He grasped Stefan's arm with bruising fingers. “She's alive? Have you seen her?”

His brother wrenched his arm out of his grip, a sneer painting his features. “Yes, Peter, I've seen her. I've even spoken with her. Did you know that, all this time she was here, she was able to speak?”

Peter was frozen.

“She told me the most wonderful stories to explain herself, of course. Let's see.” He held up a hand, counting off on his fingers. “For starters, your beloved claims that she was under a curse that took away her speech. She has been gone from you for these two months by fault of the same. When she jumped from the side of the ship, she was immediately transformed into sea foam from a broken heart. What am I forgetting?” He tapped his chin, then mimed great surprise.

“Ah! I remember!” His eyes narrowed at Peter. “What was the reason for all this grave misfortune on her part? Why, before she came to us, she was—can you guess it? A sea-maiden! Who petitioned no less than Mathis herself to gain humanity and come to you! Do you not feel honored?”

The prince merely trembled, his face pale.

“You have sold your birthright for either a madwoman or an exquisite liar, Peter. Congratulations.” He brushed past him. “Don't worry. I have retained my sense in this critical hour. I will protect the kingdom. I will think of my people. And after the coronation, I will set you free to be with Adva to your heart's content.”

He made once again for the door, but was stopped by weak fingers clutching at his jacket.

“Stefan! Wait...” Peter's voice was barely audible. “Where is she? Where is Adva now?”

“So long as you do not attempt to escape or free her?” Stefan replied coldly. “Safe.”

As the door shut, Peter sank to his knees, his head in his hands. He quivered, shot with a mixture of grief, curdled joy, and now, growing rage. For several minutes he gripped his head, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

Finally, a strangled whisper:

“Adva...alive!”

13: The Miller

Part II

 

 

Adva lied curled on her side in the queen's bed. Her hands were curled next to her face, her eyes puffy and reddened.

She took in dimly the faded floral coverlet and rose-colored lace canopy. Light poured through the windows where she had torn down the heavy velvet curtains. Shards of glass ornaments littered the floor where she had cast them against the wall.

Clothes spilled out of the wardrobe in a tumbled silken knot. The vanity was splintered where she had kicked it, the mirror badly cracked. Its drawers had been tossed at the door, cosmetics spilling out and staining the carpet with creams and rouges.

She closed her eyes against the scene, exhausted.

The moment that Stefan closed the door behind him, a bolt of fear and anger shot through her entire body. Her heart pounded as it never had before as she beat and tore at the door. After she could scream no more she had rushed blindly throughout the room, grasping whatever she could find and hurling it at the walls.

She fell on the bed at last, drained, bruised, and hoarse, sleeping in fits. From the looks of the light coming in through the window, it was mid-afternoon now. Adva curled her body further into itself, clutching her hands to her aching chest.

Peter...

A lone tear made its way down her cheek, soaking the coverlet. Adva wiped the trail from her face angrily, sniffing. The light from the window was making it difficult to fall back asleep.

The window...

Adva pushed herself up onto her elbows, rubbing one eye, expression anxious. From the bed, the window only afforded a view of the horizon, towards which the sun was slowly making its way.

She sat up, her small feet touching the floor carefully, avoiding the shards of glass that littered the carpet and picking her way across knocked-over tables and scattered books until she was at the windowsill. Her palm pressed against the glass as she regarded the scene before her.

The queen's room was on the second floor, gazing out over the river that surrounded the castle and tumbled into the sea. Between the castle walls and the river was affixed a black iron fence topped with wickedly curving spikes, driven deeply into the sloping bank. The forest began at the edge of the riverbank, the trees bending towards the water.

She considered the distance from the window to the bank, her fingers curling into fists against the window.

 

 

As she worked, she hummed to herself, taking time to glory in the sound. It had been a year since she had heard her own voice. She was pleased to discover that it hadn't lost any of its agility or tuneful delicacy.

Her hands twisted the sheets she had pulled from the bed into knots, tying each sheet to the next. There were five of them, all enormous, dazzling silk. A nail caught in the folds and tore painfully. Adva hissed, bringing the finger to her lips and looking about her.

She eyed the dresses bursting from the closet. They were heavily beaded, brocade-and-gold affairs meant for formal appearances. Adva crawled towards them cautiously, avoiding shimmering piles of glass.

Their material was stiff and coarse. She grasped a voluminous sleeve, tugging hard on it. The stitching held.

Nodding to herself, she began tying the sleeves together, her mind racing.

 

 

Peter paced.

Where would he keep her?

He ran quickly through the places his brother had frequented before Adva's death. The kitchens. His chambers. The servant's quarters. The stables... The mill.

He rushed to the window, squinting. The mill was a little ways off from the drawbridge. Its wheel turned rapidly in the current from the river surrounding the castle. It was built tall and proud from dark stone that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, and a shingled wooden roof. Stefan had often visited there for the past year, sometimes with Peter and Adva, but generally alone.

The prince clutched the windowsill until his knuckles were white, teeth grating.

Yes. That would be a logical place.

He transferred his grip from the windowsill to the chair at his desk, lifting it with a grunt.

With full force and a wince he threw the chair through his window.

 

 

 

Stefan tossed his cape behind him, cradling the basket of sweetmeats more firmly in his other arm. His expression, normally grim and weary these days, had begun to relax into something resembling a genuine smile. Alec tripped along beside him, still dressed in his linen suit, now complete with a white sunhat decorated by a jaunty blue ribbon, which matched Stefan's own. He took two or three steps for each of Stefan's long strides, occasionally grasping for the prince's hand to slow him.

They crossed the drawbridge without a word, inhaling the salty sea breeze. Alec's smile grew larger as they left the castle grounds and entered the woods. He now ran ahead of Stefan on a familiar, dusty pathway through the trees. Stefan tugged his hat from his shoulders and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow with a gloved hand. The afternoon had grown incredibly hot.

The mill's dark walls began to become visible through the trees. Alec skipped back to fall in step with Stefan, pulling on his hand impatiently.

“Mother is waiting. Smell!” he commanded.

Stefan did. He smiled at the scent of fresh bread and quickened his pace, letting Alec tug him along.

The door was small, made of scarred wood, with an iron knocker in the shape of a lion's head. Alec reached for the door handle without bothering.

“Mother! The prince is come!” he called out, dropping Stefan's hand and running into the house.

The prince bent down to retrieve some sweets that had fallen out of the basket, relishing the scent of straw and flour and baking bread. It was an earthy mixture he never grew tired of.

Before he could stand up, he felt a sharp rap on his head. Holding the injury, he glanced up, wincing. A young woman in a simple blue dress stood there with her arms folded, holding a wooden spoon. Her dark hair, which when free reached nearly to her knees, was currently pinned carelessly into a large knot at her shoulders. Green eyes flashed with irritation and amusement.

“Well, what took you so long?” she asked. “I was about to give up on you coming today.”

Stefan stood with a grin. Standing up straight he was a full head taller than her. He patted her on the head patronizingly, causing her to scoff and pull away.

“How are you, Catherine?” He grasped her hand as she turned from him and pressed the fingers to his lips.

She flushed and took her hand away. “How many times must I tell you, I'm not one of those fine ladies from the court. Don't do such things.”

Stefan threw back his head, laughing as he followed her to the kitchen, where a simple set of dining chairs had been placed around a small table. In the center of the setting was a bowl of flowers cut from the garden, and a block of soft cheese. The prince laid his basket on the table. He took off a glove and let his hand run over the table, enjoying the rough, unfinished feel of the wood.

Catherine eyed him over her shoulder as she took the bread from the oven.

“Stop pawing my furniture,” she said absently. “Honestly, Stefan. You have always had such a queer taste for unrefined things.”

He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow and she blushed, turning back to the bread. She set the pan on the counter, reaching for a long knife that hung from a rack strikingly similar to Alice's.

They passed lunch simply. Alec chattered about his pageboy lessons, answering Catherine's smiling questions about castle gossip with help from Stefan. Every once and a while, the miller would glance up at the prince and frown at the dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged somewhat.

Once, their eyes met with question, and Stefan shook his head quietly, nodding at Alec, who was too busy telling a story to notice. Catherine nodded and let her eyes slide back to her son, laughing at his description of Alice finding a troop of crickets nesting in one of the abandoned castle rooms.

After Alec had been persuaded to go upstairs and change out of his white suit to something more practical, Catherine stood up and moved behind the prince, settling her small hands on his shoulders. She worked her fingers into the tense muscle there, kneading and rubbing until he relaxed under her fingers. Stefan closed his eyes and leaned forward a bit to accommodate her.

Catherine smiled down at him and gently pressed her lips to his hair.

“Stefan.”

“Yes?”

“What is it? What's troubling you?”

The prince raised his hand to rub his eyes with a sigh.

“Things are difficult right now. Peter is... And Father thinks I am merely ambitious. He and Alice are both suspicious of me, watching me every moment I am near them. They don't understand, nor wish to.”

She smoothed a hand through his hair, stepping around him to see his face.

“You have not yet told them everything?”

“And I cannot, not now.”

Her fingers paused in his hair. “Has something changed?”

Stefan sighed, pulling away from her hand reluctantly. “Yes.”

“Well?”

“Adva. Adva is alive, and back in the castle.”

Catherine raised a hand to her throat, eyes wide. “She's alive? But how?”

“I still don't know,” he admitted, clasping his hands together on the table. “She will not tell me.”

She studied his expression carefully. “No. She has told you. But you do not believe her.”

He turned his face away almost imperceptibly.

“Because she tells you the same thing I tell you,” Catherine sighed. She began to loosen her hair, biting her lip, unable to hold back a smile. “I was right. I was always right.”

“Catherine, please,” Stefan said, looking away from her. “Don't start.”

“You call them fantastic stories, Stefan, but Alice has lived three of your lifetimes and she swears they're true!” Catherine's green eyes were now gleaming with excitement. She grasped his hands. “Don't you see, if they are true then all of your brother's strange behavior makes sense. You called him bewitched, perhaps he really was!”

The prince forced a smile, squeezing her hands affectionately. “Catherine. Please. I have no patience for fantastic stories.”

“You have no imagination,” she scoffed. “And were never a child.” She turned away from him to grasp a broom from the corner, sweeping hard and sending up clouds of flour and dust.

Stefan sighed and then became silent, looking out of the window. For several minutes, the two were quiet. Alec came down the stairs in a simple brown shirt to announce that he was going to go outside to play, and promptly raced out of the door. Catherine watched him go with a distant look in her eyes.

She turned back to Stefan, then looked away again, dragging the broom beneath the stove to sweep up fallen ashes.

“Don't you wish for your brother to return to himself?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“Not at the cost you and your mother name,” the prince said, standing.

Catherine smiled. “Stefan, she's not even human. Not really. Surely you believe at least that.”

He moved towards the door, reaching for his hat without an answer.

She dropped the broom and rushed for him. “You only just arrived, what takes you away so suddenly?” she queried, grasping his arm.

Stefan turned to press a quick kiss to her hair. “I will come back. I have only just remembered that she will need something to eat soon.”

The miller scowled in his arms, grasping his cloak. “Why are you feeding her at all?”

“I can't let her starve,” he said, voice alarmed.

“You most certainly can. I've told you, and Alice has told you—if she dies, her hold on your brother is broken.”

“That didn't work the first time,” Stefan said, leaning away from her as she tried to rest her lips upon his. “Rather, Peter was broken instead.”

“And you were angry with me,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “But you see that I was right. She wasn't dead at all.”

He was silent, trying to pull away from her, but her hands were firmly fisted in his cloak.

She persisted. “Let her die, and let her curse on your brother die with her. You call Alice and I superstitious, but even you can sense that we are telling the truth. You always knew there was something strange about her. This impossible return only confirms it. She isn't human, Stefan.”

Then she let go of his clothes and he stepped away from her, straightening his cloak and donning his hat as he headed for the door.

“She's human enough,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear, as he left.

14: Doubts

 The king settled onto a bench with a sigh. The evening was clear and bright, causing the polished stones in the garden to glimmer. Always, distantly, was the sound of the sea.

Phillip listened to it now, eyes closed, head tilted back. He smiled as a soft breeze came up, ruffling his hair. It was still thick, and somewhat long, but the previous decade had turned it a startling white.

His hand reached unconsciously for a small, white one. A hand that wore a large ruby ring. The king's fingers skimmed over the stone bench for several seconds before he realized that there was no one there. He drew his hand up to his heart instead, gripping his shirt.

His smile was somehow both peaceful and pained as he opened his eyes and regarded the sunset that could only just be seen over the wall. The sky was painted a brilliant mixture of coral and azure over the waters.

He released another sigh—this one weary, as he set his mind to what he had emerged from the castle to think on.

Peter, grieving and shut away. Stefan.

“What would you do, Ellen?” he asked the empty air with a tired smile.

Long ago, they had decided together to give the throne to Peter as soon as he came of age. They had not had their sons in their youth, and they wished to spend their final days peacefully reading, sailing, and hunting. Enjoying themselves as they had not been able to when they were younger. The kingdom was peaceful and prosperous, and Peter's cleverness and kindness could only increase that happy state. He received their intentions with his usual cheer and gratitude, excited and duly honored by their promise of his early rule.

Now, however...

“I wonder, my dear, if we weren't a bit hasty.” He watched as a pair of seagulls glided over the water towards the sun. “Perhaps we should not have placed so much responsibility on him so soon. Now, I fear, he resents what he once received with so much joy...”

And Stefan. Peter had admittedly been everyone's favorite, with his handsome dark eyes, humor and kindness. Stefan had always found himself in the background. He'd seemed happy enough to support his brother from the shadows before, but now... What had happened to that smiling boy who followed his elder brother everywhere and adored him without question?

Phillip frowned, remembering their conversation the night before with growing unease. He hadn't wanted to admit it at the time, but his youngest son's words rang with truth. Peter was exhibiting behavior that one simply could not exhibit as a king.

A king must stay stone-faced when all seems lost... He must not allow his emotions to betray him, or dissuade him from making the best choice for the kingdom.

His features sagged as he remembered the long months following Ellen's death. Numbly holding meetings with delegates from neighboring kingdoms about banal things: trade routes, currency exchange rates, settling minor border disputes. Speaking with his subjects, judging between peasants who had some squabble between them, organizing the farmlands, negotiating taxes with the merchants. He barely remembered a thing from those first few, heavy months.

But even in the face of losing his wife of thirty years, he had not grieved as Peter had: locking himself away, refusing all visitors, sending his betrothed away with curses. Peter, mild and gentle. Peter, so responsible and stable. The perfect heir, and his parents' pride and joy.

Phillip felt sickened as he wondered if he truly knew his son. What strange fever had Adva's death produced in Peter's mind?

For the thousandth time he berated himself for having allowed Peter and Stefan to house her in the castle.

They brought her to the kitchens where Alice was, reviving her with smelling salts, asking questions. When they found that she could not speak, and by all appearances was orphaned and alone in the world, they brought her directly to the king, seeking permission to give her a room in the castle, at least until her origins could be deduced.

Phillip still remembered the look in Peter's eyes as he held her arm to keep her steady before the king. She was clothed in an old dress of Alice's, the flowing material nearly falling from her shoulders because of her small size. The prince's gaze on her was tender and warm. There was something dangerously akin to affection in it. A quiet alarm had sounded in Phillip's mind as his mind flashed to Peter's betrothal, but he had chosen to ignore his instincts and grant his request.

Surely nothing would come of it.

He laughed quietly to himself.

Delegates were coming to the kingdom by droves now, some with sympathy, but most with shifting and suspicious eyes, armed with thinly veiled questions as to what was to be done now. The change of leadership had been well-advertised, and many rumors were now spinning throughout the continent the Pheia's royal house had grown weak. Trade was slowing as those who had been set to benefit from the alliance between Peter and Sophia began to carefully distance themselves from what some viewed as a dynasty beginning to crack. Peter's actions were the first shock of scandal to mar Pheia's throne in several generations.

Phillip combed his fingers absently through his hair.

“What is to be done, Ellen?” he repeated.

Although his still-fresh anger made him loathe to admit it, Stefan's grounded response to the scandal had been the only thing that managed to salvage some of the kingdom's reputation.

Hindsight gave the king a feeling of quiet pride as he remembered his youngest son jumping in to rescue Peter when he had jumped into the sea after Adva. When Peter had cursed Princess Sophia roundly to her face, severing their engagement, it was Stefan who saw the trembling girl to her chambers and spread salve on the break by sending her away with carefully chosen gifts and comforting words that softened the scandal.

He answered the questions of the guests and sent them away quietly. Since then he had been present in nearly every meeting with probing visitors to the king, doing his best to quash rumors, only revealing Peter's true state to Phillip himself.

The king felt his anger slowly slipping away, and being replaced with trepidation.

“Just a little more time,” he murmured to himself, and sat up suddenly, leaving the garden with his back to the setting sun.

 

 

 

Adva ran her hands over her work, a determined smile growing on her face. The sun was beginning to grow low in the sky. She was seated on the bed, stripped of its sheets. They were tied together in a curling rope that spilled from her lap to her feet. She glanced up at the horizon. It would be time soon.

 

 

 

Stefan tried to keep as close to the walls as possible as he clutched the bundle of bread and fruits to his chest. His heart pounded each time a servant passed him on his way to the foyer from the kitchens. He imagined they gave him questioning looks when his back was turned, though they walked by with faces respectfully turned down when he turned his head to watch them.

When he reached the corridor that branched off to lead to the queen's room he found several women carrying baskets of laundry, cheerfully chattering amongst themselves. He pressed against the wall to avoid being seen, teeth gritting as they walked past him without notice. As soon as their voices had faded, he slipped down the hallway.

The plan he had carefully rehearsed tumbled in his mind, making his steps faster.

The drawn curtains made the corridor almost as difficult to navigate in broad daylight as in night-time. He stumbled once, scattering apples and rolls, staining the carpet with a broken peach. He stayed on his hands and knees for several moments, ears straining for any sign that someone in the neighboring hallways had heard his fall. When he was satisfied that no one was coming, he felt about, salvaging as much as could and moving forward.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he found the door. Balancing the bundle on his hip, he unlocked the door with some difficulty.

Something crunched under his boot as he entered the room. He looked about to see everything in chaos: furniture overturned and kicked in, glass shattered and ground into the carpet, curtains in a pool on the ground at the window, tapestries ripped from the walls. Adva sat on the bed, which was bare, an embarrassed look mixed with intense loathing concentrated on his face.

He shut the door behind him, taking the bundle from his coat.

“I brought you something to eat,” he said, clearing his throat. He walked to the bedside, her eyes following him the whole way “I'm sorry it took so long.”

She took the offered bundle with two fingers, then hurled it against the wall.

Stefan took an involuntary step back. Her eyes were flashing with an otherworldly fire that caused something in him to tremble. He composed himself quickly.

“I'm sorry you don't like it,” he said, attempting a smile.

A brief look of guilt crossed her features, but then she twisted her expression to anger again, seeming to shake herself.

“I want to see Peter,” she said. “I want you to let me leave.”

Stefan ran his fingers through his hair. “He knows that you're alive, Adva. I told him myself this morning. I even told him that you're here.” He looked away from her. “Adva, I am sorry for the things I said last night. I was...not myself.”

Adva's eyes flew wide. She sprang to her feet, anger melting to anxious joy as she threw her arms around him. “Stefan!” she breathed. “Thank you!” She pushed past him, heading for the door with alarming speed.

Her quickness to believe him, to forgive him, weakened his resolve, and he nearly let her run through the door.

I can't, he remembered, sickened. Not until she releases whatever hold she has on Peter... He winced as Catherine's and Alice's insistent stories flashed through his mind. Whether mystical or material.

He grasped her arm just in time to keep her from the doorway. She looked down at his hand with alarm and anger, doubtless remembering the previous night. Stefan raised a placating hand.

“Please, wait. I won't stop you after this. Just hear what I have to say.”

Adva stilled, hearing the fervor in his tone. She watched his face warily.

“Adva, you love Peter, right?”

Her face softened. “Yes.”

“Well, have you ever considered whether he loves you the same way?”

She blinked. Her expression became troubled. “He does,” she said, voice quivering. “I feel he must.”

Stefan let silence hang between them for several moments before gesturing towards the door.

“Where is he, then?”

Adva looked at him with a frown. “I...” she began.

“If he loved you as you loved him, wouldn't he have run directly to you?”

She shook her little head. “Perhaps he does not believe you. I will make him believe!” she said, hope returning to her eyes.

But Stefan shook his head. “I reassure you. He believes. He has suspected that you were alive for weeks.”

Happiness and distress once again wrestled in her features.

“But he...has not come to see me for himself?”

“Nor did it seem when I spoke to him that he has any plans to,” said the prince, his voice quiet. His hand moved from her elbow to grasp her fingers. “Adva...” he began.

She looked away from him, frightened tears springing into her eyes.

“Perhaps...he is not pleased to hear that I have come here?”

Stefan was silent. He watched her, pain and guilt that she mistook for pity twisting behind his eyes.

Her free hand came tremblingly to her lips as hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt the prince squeeze her hand gently.

“Wait, Adva,” he said, voice pleading. “Don't be so quick to give up.”

She looked up at him, bleary and lost.

“My brother may only be in shock. When he thought that you had died, he took it...rather hard.” He gave her hand another squeeze, self-loathing rising like bile in his throat. “Perhaps he only needs some time.”

Doubt clouded Adva's face. “Perhaps...” she said.

“Listen,” he said, summoning up a comforting smile. “Give him a week. If he comes to you within the week, you will know that he returns your feelings. Wonderful. But if he does not...”

“I shall throw myself into the sea again,” she said quietly, looking away.

He looked stricken.

“No, no. I will find you a place to live here in one of the neighboring kingdoms, far away, so that you won't have to see him again. You may still find happiness elsewhere.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I have to go for the moment. I will leave the door unlocked—”

“Please don't,” she said suddenly.

He looked at her with surprise.

“Only you and Peter have the keys to this door, you said?” she asked, touching it.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“I wish to see no one else... I will wait here until Peter comes. If it was unlocked, I would only be tempted to run to him,” she said, frowning. “And if he truly needs time, perhaps that would displease him...”

Stefan hesitated. But, gathering his crumbling resolve, he pressed her hand and left, turning the lock on the door with shaking hands.

15: Through the Window

 Peter grit his teeth as shards of glass seemed to cut into him from all sides.

The break hadn't been clean at all. Shards of the window still clung to the frame, falling out at the slightest shake. He wiped blood from his forehead carefully. The first time had taken him by surprise.

Now, he stood with a duvet in one hand, shielding his face, and a fire poker in the other, running it along the frame to rid it of clinging glass.

Thrusting his head through the new opening, he considered the distance from the moat to the edge of the forest. He would have to cut through the water in moments to avoid being seen.

I could wait until nightfall...

But there was no time for that. Stefan could move Adva from the mill at any time. He needed to move now.

He cast the poker aside and dropped the blanket, glancing again into the moat and judging the distance. A running leap should get him over the fence and into the water without a problem.

Simmering anger suddenly reached a boil as he looked over his shoulder at the dingy room that he had made into a prison. Except for the desk, flung on its side and spilling its contents, and the shattered window, everything was in order. Perfectly made bedclothes, books neatly stacked in their shelves, the fireplace untouched and swept of ashes, polished ornaments resting orderly on their glossy perches.

Much like a tomb, he thought.

He bent to his knees to retrieve a sheet of paper and a slender black pen, hastily scribbling a few words and resting the note on his upturned desk.

This business managed, he turned his face to the window, eyes narrowing. The last light of the sun was streaming freely through the window, lighting a path from the depths of the room to the edge of the window frame.

Peter braced himself, took off at a run, and soared through the opening.

No turning back—

 

 

“—after this.”

Youngest trembled. She was once again holding herself. The cavern had suddenly become extremely cold. The darkness had not diminished in the slightest.

“Yes,” she murmured.

The sea witch's ears perked at the girl's resigned tone.

“You have second thoughts?” she questioned, carefully. Mathis slid a nail down the length of the glass bottle whose contents she had spent the last several hours creating. Fifteen years living in the dark of the grotto had adjusted her eyes and ears to its tricks, and she could see the girl huddled against herself, biting her lip.

“No!” Youngest exclaimed. “No. Please, what do you have for me?”

Mathis swam around the little princess, grinning fiercely at the girl's shudder, before placing the phial in her hand.

“This.”

Youngest's hands moved to tighten over the glass, but Mathis snatched it away.

“No.”

The princess's face twisted with confusion and distress. “But you said that it was finished! You said that there was no turning back!”

Mathis smiled. “What do you think I have made for you, Youngest?”

The mermaid lifted her hands. “Something to make me human.”

The sea witch tapped her fingers against the bottle idly. “I can give you legs, dear. But I cannot make you human.”

Youngest's hands fell to her lap. “What do you mean?”

“That there is much difference between a mermaid and a human girl in every way. Your aspect, your mind, your affections, are entirely inhuman.” At her daughter's confused look, Mathis chuckled. “If I give you what I have here, you will shed your tail, yet retain the appearance of a mercreature in every other way. Your face will bewitch or repulse every human you meet.” She paused and grinned. “And I assure you, you will not find human emotions to be the same as your own. Greed, ambition, faithlessness, deceit—all those things that are such aberrations in your kind, you will find to be the rule among mankind.”

“Peter is not like that,” Youngest said, eyes softening.

“So much faith!” the witch laughed. Her voice became syrupy. “Yes, dear, you should hope you are right.” She began to hum cheerfully to herself.

There was an edge to her voice that alerted Youngest.

“Why?”

The witch paused her humming long enough to cackle. “Ask! Ask me again, Youngest! Beg me to tell you!”

The princess ground her teeth, unnerved by the dark and Mathis's new antics. “Please tell me, Mother.”

Suddenly the witch's face was a breath away from hers, and in the previously impenetrable dark, Youngest saw a flash of long, sharp, gleaming white teeth.

“Because,” breathed the sea witch, “your mermaid's affections and constitution are such that, should this Prince Peter ever betray you, you will shortly thereafter be reduced to nothing but sea foam, scattered across the seven oceans. Frail human bodies are too weak to hold the heart of a grieving mermaid.”

Youngest inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut. Her heart pounded in her ears.

“Oh,” she gasped.

“The transformation will be permanent. No turning back, as I said. And, of course, we still haven't agreed upon payment.”

Playing with the phial in her hands, the sea witch's smile widened as she removed herself. She waited.

The princess fought to calm her heartbeat, to quell her trembling.

Is this really the right thing to do?

She thought of his smile, his flashing black eyes. Her mind turned to nights spent watching the castle, straining to see through windows as Peter lived peacefully and happily with his brother and father. Following ships at a distance where he directed the crew, played his music, laughed and wept and talked and simply watched the sea. Seeing love, anger, sadness, and joy pass over his face through seasons on the shore in the year since the shipwreck.

Lost. She was lost.

Is this really the right thing to do? her heart repeated.

I don't know, she answered herself silently.

“Name your price.”

The sea witch smiled.

This was going to go perfectly. The idea that had been forming in her mind ever since she had heard Youngest fumbling her way into the grotto had been finished and polished over the past several hours was simple...but she hadn't counted on the mermaid making things as easy as all this.

“I've quite enjoyed hearing your singing these long hours. Perhaps you'll consider exchanging that to me?”

“It?”

“Your voice.”

There was a long pause as Youngest's hand flew to her throat.

“Not...not that.”

Mathis shrugged. “I have given you my price.”

More silence. The princess bit her lip, pressing her palms into her eyes, where tears had sprung up.

“How will I speak to him?”

“That's no concern of mine.”

“This isn't a fair trade!”

“Perhaps not,” the sea witch said, licking her lips. “But there you are.”

Mathis returned to her previous place a hairsbreadth away from the little mermaid. Youngest's tail twitched with aggravation, then she became incredibly still.

“Take it.”

Teeth bared in a wicked grin, her mother reached for her throat.

 

 

As the princess ascended out of the cavern clutching her bruised neck with one hand and a small glass phial with the other, the sea witch turned away to her materials, running her hands along the stone table there until she found what she was looking for under the cover of a cluster of sea-weeds.

There was much to be done, and much to be done quickly.