With a sigh, I turn away from the mirror. “It’s beautiful.
Truly.”
“Excel ent.” Mrs. Wentletrap swims to my back and starts pul ing out the pins that hold the gown form on my body.
“We’l get the dress pieced this week, and as long as you come back for a final fitting before your birthday, it wil be as perfect as we can make it.”
As they peel the dress off me, I ask, “Have you thought about colors?”
I’m picturing the same water-inspired colors as my sixteenth-birthday gown, only in a more adult shape. Maybe more blue toned, with pale sapphires the color of home.
The color of Quince’s eyes.
“Of course,” she says.
“But,” Peri adds, “we’re going to surprise you.” My gaze drifts around the room. Just about anything they could choose wil be amazing, and I definitely trust their sense of color and fabric. If they told me to wear brown, gray, and orange, I’d say okay. They have never sailed me wrong yet.
“I can’t wait.”
And I only let myself have a tiny melancholy moment thinking that this wil be my last royal gown. Ever.
“I’l be back next weekend,” I say to Peri and her mom as I swim out their front door. “I’l come by for the final fitting as soon as I can.”
They wave good-bye and I disappear over the palace wal , intent on heading for my room and a good night’s sleep in my own bed. I push through the palace doors, hoping to sneak up to my room without drawing the attention of the (frequently oversolicitous) palace staff, and stop short when I see a merman admiring the mosaic in the entry hal .
There is something arresting about his posture.
He is near my age, maybe a year or two older, with cinnamon red hair and a flame-colored tail fin, and wearing a jacket of black and red—the royal colors of Acropora, a kingdom to the southeast of Thalassinia. Though I don’t recognize him, there is something extremely familiar about his profile.
He turns my direction, breaks into a grin, and exclaims,
“Liliana!”
Liliana? Only one person ever cal ed me that. A boy I haven’t seen in ages.
“Tel in?” I ask in disbelief.
“The one and only.” He swims the short distance between us and spreads his arms wide, inviting me into a hug.
I kick into his arms. “I can’t believe it’s you!” I throw my arms around his neck with the enthusiasm of the little mergirl I was when I last saw him. “You’re so grown up!” I swim back to get a good look at my childhood friend. He is so very different from my memory. As a merboy, his hair was a brighter, more flamelike red and his fin was a solid orange. I once heard the terrible trio cal him goldfish boy—
behind his back, of course, because, after al , he is a royal prince.
Not only has his hair deepened into a more flattering shade, but so has the tip of his tail fin, giving the impression that someone dipped him in dark red ink. His body has fil ed out into that of a young man, and his facial features are a little more chiseled than a nineteen-year-old’s should be—a little more drawn in the eyes and beneath the cheeks. He looks like life has been hard on him.
The only thing that hasn’t changed is his eyes. They are stil the palest blue I’ve ever seen, kind of like the sky right where it meets the horizon. And they stil sparkle with a mischief that drew me into more games of what if than I can remember.
For a time it felt like we played together nearly every day, from morning until night. Then one day, he was gone, disappearing back to his home kingdom. Daddy told me there had been a disagreement with Tel in’s father and they wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. They never did.
“You’re grown up, too,” he says with a deep laugh. “It’s been more than a decade. You were seven, I think, and I was eight.”
“I can’t believe it’s been that long,” I say. “What are you doing here? I thought our fathers weren’t speaking.”
“They’re not,” Tel in answers, a worried look settling onto his face. “But my father has fal en il , and I am acting king for the time being.”
“Oh,” I say lamely. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I always liked his dad and never understood why the two kings, once the best of friends like their children, had a fal ing out.
“Then are you here in an official capacity?” I ask.
“Of a sort.” He presses a hand to his stomach. “I’m starved. Does your palace cook stil make the best sushi in the west Atlantic?”
“The best in al the seven seas,” I boast.
Moments later, we’re on stools at the kitchen counter, with palace chef Laver serving up dish after dish of sushi delicacies. This alone is worth coming home for. Even under Dosinia-related circumstances.
“So,” Tel in says after swal owing a bite of maguro tamaki,
“I hear you’ve been living on land.”
“I have.” I study the offerings on the platter and select a Philadelphia rol —I’m a sucker for cream cheese.
Tel in grabs the other Phil y rol . “Me, too.” My head shoots up. “Real y?”
“Uh-huh,” he hums around his mouthful.
“Where?”
“Puerto Rico.” He captures a tako nigiri with his seasticks. “It’s the closest inhabited island to the palace.” Puerrrto Rrrico. The words rol through my mind. I wonder how different human life is in Puerto Rico from in Seaview.