My hand clenches tighter on his. How dare he use her nickname, like they’re friends? Or…more.
“Anytime,” Doe replies. “Next time you kiss a mermaid, maybe you can stay longer.”
He laughs. She laughs. I jerk him faster toward the throne.
Brat. She knows that severing a human from the bond is a permanent thing. He’ll be immune—to all mermaids, not just me. Not that I plan on ever accidentally kissing Quince again, but at least I know there’s no way he’ll end up in my court or anything.
“There won’t be a next time,” I mutter under my breath. Then, to Daddy, I say, “Let’s get this over with.”
He has his unreadable king-of-the-ocean face on, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I just hope he’s thinking about getting this done as quickly as possible.
“Lily and Quince.” He looks at each of us, then over our heads at Dosinia, still hovering by the door. She probably wants to gloat over the whole debacle of my accidental bonding.
When Daddy looks back down at me, I get a bad feeling in my stomach. He has a little of that faraway look he had earlier when we were talking about Mom.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly but firmly. “I cannot grant this separation.”
Next to me, Quince frowns. Like he doesn’t understand what just happened. That makes two of us.
“Daddy!” I shriek. I know I should be addressing him as the king right now, but he’s acting like a dad, so I’ll treat him as such. “What are you doing? You can’t leave us bonded forever. You can’t make him my king.” Suddenly it makes sense. I float forward, and whisper, “Is this about my birthday? You can’t tie me to him just so I don’t lose my place in court. I can find a better mate.”
In fact, I already have one lined up.
“It’s not about that, Lily,” he replies. His gaze flicks from Quince to Dosinia and back again. Otherwise, it’s like we’re alone in the room. This is just between Daddy and me.
“Our conversation about your mother,” he says, “reminded me of the serious nature of bonding. A bond is a gift—a connection that has no equal in the seven seas and beyond. I can’t just dissolve a bonding without cause. Especially when you obviously—”
“Without cause?!?” I start swimming up a whirlpool. “There is so much cause, I can’t even begin to list it all. Did you know he throws paper wads at me? And peeps on me from his bathroom window? And last year he spent a week following me to and from school on his motorcycle—ooh, he rides a motorcycle, which is way more dangerous than a wakemaker. And he—”
“Enough!”
Daddy’s royal shout echoes through the room. The witnesses to my humiliation freeze, afraid that the all-powerful king is making an appearance.
“My decision has been made,” he states, in a tone that brooks no argument—although I’m ready to give him one. “You shall return to the sea in one week, and you will have an opportunity to prove that you should not be bonded for life. If I am satisfied that you are unsuitable, then I shall perform the separation at that time.”
“But Daddy,” I whine. “You can’t—”
“I can,” he says. “And I have.” Then his face softens, and I know it’s my dad speaking, not my king. “I want you to be one hundred percent certain about what you—”
“But I am certain,” I insist. “Quince and I practically hate each other. He doesn’t want to be bonded to me any more than I want to be stuck with him.”
I glance at the boy in question. Why is he being so quiet about everything? Shouldn’t he be speaking up in favor of the separation? Maybe he’s too clouded by the bond.
“I know you believe you know your mind,” Daddy says, “but I have doubts. I worry that you are letting other emotions interfere with the clarity of the bond. I will not perform the separation until I am satisfied that you truly know what you want.” He gives me a kingly look. “You will give the bond a week.”
And that’s that.
I know he means well. I mean, he’s my dad. It’s kind of his job to make decisions I hate because he thinks they’re in my best interest. That doesn’t make me like it.
But, as long as we’re separated before the next lunar cycle begins, I suppose one week won’t make that huge a difference in my life. Not in the long run. Not when I get to spend forever with the real boy of my dreams.
“One week,” I agree. “For you.” And, I add silently, for Mom.
Then, before anyone—me, probably—can get all weepy, I turn, grab Quince, and head for the doors.
As we swim past Dosinia, she waves. “See you next week, Quincy.”
When I see him start to smile, I give a powerful kick and we’re out of range before he can respond.
“Careful, princess,” he says as we emerge into the gardens. “Someone might think you’re jealous.”
“You wish,” I snap. The last person I would ever be jealous over is Quince Fletcher. I can’t believe I have to spend a whole week bonded to this shark.
By the time Quince squeals his motorcycle into his driveway, my hair has dried into a frizzy frenzy. The section beneath the helmet is practically glued to my head, while the rest has blown out in all directions. I look like some crazy art experiment gone wrong. It’ll take me an hour just to drag a brush through it all.