“You are what Thalassinia needs,” he says. “Look at the merfolk around us. Spoiled, privileged, and without direction. They have no idea what strife and hardship are.
They need you to guide them into the future.” As Tel in turns us in a slow circle, I say, “Not me.” I think about those times when I sat with Daddy in the throne room, listening to him preside over cases with the authority and magnanimity—woo-hoo, another SAT word usage in real life—that makes him the very best sort of ruler. I could never be as great as him.
“I’m not queen material.”
“Do you think I am king material?” he asks with surprising sharpness. “I was not prepared to lead my kingdom, but when my father fel il , I did not turn away from my duty.” I don’t miss the subtle accusation. That I am turning away from my duty.
I force myself to ignore the jab.
Tel in looks every bit the king right now. There is nothing left of the young boy I used to play what if with.
“How did you do it?” I ask quietly.
“How? I didn’t stop to think about how,” he says. “I just did it. Because it had to be done.”
“I—” I close my eyes. “I don’t have the strength to be the queen. I’m not… I wil never be enough.”
“Lily,” he says, pul ing me close, “there is no such thing as a perfect ruler. Every king or queen has a weakness. The key is recognizing yours and compensating with your strengths.”
“What strengths?” I ask. “What do I have to offer my kingdom?”
“Your compassion,” he says instantly. “Your kindness, your heart, your loyalty, your unique experience.” My experience. On land, he means.
He’s playing to al my doubts, tugging at my guilt. Could I be queen? Wel , I know I could be queen, but could I be a good queen? Am I what my kingdom needs? Daddy has always been opposed to coming out of the ocean, certain that humankind is rarely the most tolerant and understanding of anything different or other. But what if he’s wrong? Should I take up the mantle of my title and use my influence to pul the mer world out of the water?
My head is overflowing with thoughts. Too many things.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pushing out of his arms. “I need to—I’m sorry.”
I leave Tel in on the dance floor, floating in the middle of the swirling and whirling couples. I flee the room, slipping out the back entrance and winding my way through the service hal s to the one place where I’ve always felt safest.
Daddy’s office.
With everyone, including the palace staff, at the party downstairs, I’m not surprised to find the royal wing deserted. Daddy’s office is empty and dark. As soon as I swim through the door, the bioluminescent light in the ceiling comes to life, fil ing the room with a soft blue glow.
I absently drift to the right, to the wal of mosaic portraits depicting my ancestors. The many before me who ruled Thalassinia with varying degrees of effectiveness. They weren’t al perfect, I know, but they were better than me.
First on the wal is Daddy, our latest king. His portrait depicts him seated at his desk, the trident in his right hand and a clump of chenil e weed in his left, representing strength and integrity. He looks so young. He took the throne when he was not much older than Tel in, I suppose.
Maybe Daddy was just as uncertain, and just as determined to do his best.
Next on the wal is my grandfather. He passed long before I was born, so I have no memories of him beyond this portrait. He is standing on the balcony of the royal chamber, presumably looking out over his subjects gathered below.
The people cal ed him Pecten the Generous because he was quite free with the kingdom’s funds. Which is also why Daddy had to spend the first part of his reign restoring the treasury.
Before grandfather, there was Teredo the Just, the Golden Queen Alaria, Marianus the Cautious, and Quahog the Magnificent. He’s the one who got eaten by a giant squid because his guards couldn’t get down the royal aisle
—aka the Bimini Road—fast enough. Not so much common sense. Guess they meant magnificent in other ways. A dozen more faces grace the wal s, ancestors whose names I barely remember but whose blood—and duty—runs in my veins.
Such a legacy.
Am I crazy to give this up?
“Your portrait should be next.”
My entire body sighs.
“I didn’t ask you to fol ow me, Tel in.”
“I know,” he says, swimming up next to me.
I’m staring at the last portrait—which was the first one created. My great-many-times-over grandfather, Chiton, the first king of Thalassinia. The one whom Capheira, our mythological ancestor, first granted the gift of mer life. He doesn’t look that different from Daddy, a similar face with white hair and a short white beard. Same smiling blue eyes.
“Lily, you can’t just let this slip away,” he pleads. “There is too much riding on your future.”
“Thalassinia wil find another heir,” I reply, turning to face him.
“But when?” he demands. “And what sort? You’ve trained for this your entire life. You’ve been bred for this.” He braces his arms against the wal on either side of my shoulders.
“Tel in, I—”
I interrupt my own thought. Here in the utter privacy of Daddy’s office, with the dim lights and in the cage of Tel in’s arms, it almost feels… right. He’s so close and so passionate about making choices for the common good.