Forgive My Fins

“I had no idea, Lily. If I had known, I would have—”

“Forget it,” I snap, kicking back into motion. I can’t take much more of this nice Quince. Rude, obnoxious Quince I can handle, but this is beyond my experience. “It’s over. Done. We can’t change what happened.” Then, under my breath, I mutter, “No matter how much we want to.”

Quince is silent for a minute, hopefully shocked by my outburst, but with my luck he’s just building up steam. As we reach the front entrance, he wraps a warm hand around my arm and tugs me to a stop.

“Why did the bond make them watch you more intently?” he asks.

Maybe it’s because there’s no trace of mockery in his question, or because dealing with this kinder, gentler Quince is throwing me off my game, or because the bond is not only amplifying every emotion between us but also every physical sensation and the feeling of his hand on my arm is really, really nice—Wait, where was I? Oh right. His question. For whatever reason, I give him a fully honest answer.

“Because in this world, a bond is the equivalent of marriage.” I’m impressed that he doesn’t betray a single emotion—in either his face or through our magical connection. “And because I’m a princess and the heir to the throne. One day I will be queen. They think I’ve chosen you as our future king, and they’re trying to decide if I’m crazy or in love or just full-out stupid.”

A little muscle along his jawline twitches, and there’s a protective intensity in his eyes that pulls me in. I want to swim into those Caribbean-colored pools and never swim back out. That scares me.

Which is why I shrug out of his grip and turn away.

As I pull open the door, I hear him say, “And you wanted Brody to be the one at your side.”

Now why does my body shiver all over when I realize Quince sounds jealous? It could be fear…or thrill (which scares me even more).

Thankfully I’m saved from responding.

“Princess Waterlily!” Cid hurries through the hall toward us. “Wait! Your father asks that you join him in court today,” he gets out in gasping breaths.

Carpola, I forgot about Daddy wanting to hang out. “Oh, well, I was just going to show Quince around,” I say. “He wanted to—”

“Don’t sweat it,” Quince says. “I’ll amuse myself. Hang with your dad.”

Although that might have sounded like a laid-back, cool kind of response, there is nothing laid-back about the steady tension swirling around him. I think it has nothing to do with me staying with Daddy and everything to do with that last statement about Brody. His masked jealousy pulls an echoing sympathy from me.

“His highness arranged for an alternative, Master Quince,” Cid says. “The princess’s cousin has volunteered to give you a tour.”

On cue, Doe appears in the hall and swims over to Quince, linking her arm around his and looking me right in the eye as she says, “It would be my pleasure.”

“Sounds great,” Quince says, turning his attention to Dosinia with a charming smile. Son of a swordfish, what am I doing? Feeling sympathy for Quince’s jealousy as if I think it’s real? It’s the bond. The last thing Quince Fletcher will ever be is jealous over me.

As they disappear out the front door, I ignore the sour feeling in my gut. After tonight, Quince will once again be nothing more than a pain in my tail fin. Dosinia can have him.

The Thalassinian throne room is a sight to behold. It is a cavernous dome-shaped room with amber-tinted torches (actually bioluminescent algae within amber glass balls) that cast a warm glow everywhere. The ceiling is covered with intricate coral carvings of sea monsters, ancient gods, and mer people, accented with finely applied gold leaf and coal shading. Under the torch glow, the gold sparkles and the shadows darken, making the carvings seem even deeper.

The floor beneath is a beautiful mosaic of pearly tiles that portray the founding of Thalassinia. At the center, Poseidon hands his trident to Capheira so she can tattoo her descendants with the mark of the mer, giving them the ability to transfigure into human form. She, in turn, spreads her hands to her people, who appear around her in various stages of transfiguration—some in pure terraped form, others fully mer, and still others as terraped with scale-covered finkinis in place. One of the mermen, my great-great-many-times-over-grandfather, is shown with one hand reaching back to his people, the other pressed to the seafloor. That spot he’s touching is the exact spot on which the palace is built. The exact center of the throne room.

It always gives me a little thrill to feel that connection to the ancient past and our mythological origins.

“I’ve missed you, daughter,” Daddy says as he takes his place on the throne. He motions me forward to take the smaller chair to his right. “You have stayed away too long.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” I swim up to him but don’t take the offered seat. Instead, I float at his feet, like I did when I was a little mergirl. “Life on land can get really busy. It’s like time is on super speed compared to Thalassinia’s mellow-slow pace.”

He thrums his fingers on the gilded arm of his throne. “I remember well the perpetual urgency of the terraped world. Perhaps it is because their lives are shorter than ours. They feel the need to pack much more into their time.”

“Maybe.” I muse, but I don’t necessarily agree. Humans could live at a slower pace if they chose. With our extended life span, they would probably just move at their rapid pace for longer. It’s a symptom of the world they’ve built.