Forgive My Fins (21 page)

“If only we could get to the sea,” I say. “We could create some kind of diversion to make them want to leave.”

“But they’d see us,” he says. “It’s not like we can just pop up on the surface unseen. It’s clear as day up there.”

“We need to mask their vision for a few seconds.” I try to imagine what could conceal us from sight. “Just long enough to make a dash for it.”

“Yeah,” Quince says with a laugh. “We could use a thick fog bank right about now.”

Thick fog. That reminds me of something Daddy taught me when I was a little girl, a just-in-case defense mechanism for situations like this.

“You’re a genius!” I squeal, flinging my arms around his neck. “A fog bank.”

“What?” he asks, leaning back. “You got a weather report you wanna share?”

“No, silly.” For the first time in a while, I feel like I have the upper hand between us. “I
am
the weather report.”

He scowls in confusion, but I don’t have time to explain. The sun is rising fast and taking our shadows with it.

“Listen, I can alter the surface temperature of the water enough to make a thick fog. It won’t last long. Ten seconds, maybe fifteen.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “That’s plenty of time. Then what?”

“Well, I think the only thing that will send fishermen to different waters,” I explain, “is the promise of a bigger fish.”

“And that fish would be…”

“Me.”

“Absolutely not,” he replies. “I won’t take the chance that they’ll see you. Or, God forbid”—he winces—“
catch
you.”

I see the real terror in his eyes. His implacable calm is finally gone, and I’m too focused on alleviating his fears to even enjoy the moment. But I’ve outwitted fishermen dozens of times before. They’re probably sun blind and half drunk by now, anyway. Placing my palm against his cheek, I do my best to reassure him. “They’ll never see more than my fin.”

He struggles for a minute, torn between what I think is his trust in me and his desire to protect me. It’s scary how good I’m getting at sensing his emotions. Too bad that insight will end with the separation.

He finally covers my hand with his. “Tell me what to do.”

“Stay here.”

“Are you kidding?” he demands. “I’m not letting you go out there alone and risk your life—”

“I’ll be careful,” I insist. When he looks like he’s going to protest more, I add, “You’ll only get in my way.”

I know that comment hurt. He likes to be the rescuer, the white knight. The thought of being helpless must be completely foreign to a guy as capable as Quince. But this is one situation where he has to let someone else save the day.

When he doesn’t immediately agree, I ask, “Trust me?”

He takes a deep breath and nods.

Then, before we can say more—or change our minds—I swim up to the edge of the shadow and focus on the surface water. If I can cool it to below the dew point, it should create a sudden bank of fog above the pool that will spread out over the island. Like I said, it won’t last. But it should be just enough.

I focus all my energy on chilling the water above.

When the sunlight turns from clear golden beams into blurry gray light, I make my move. As I break the surface in terraped form on the opposite side from the fishermen, I hear one of them say, “Where the hell did this come from?”

I don’t stop until I reach the shore, diving and transfiguring simultaneously. Then, kicking as fast as my fins can move me—because I’m certain that once the fog has cleared, they’ll be peering down into the hole and maybe spying the human-shaped outline at the bottom—I swim for their boat. It’s the longest thirty seconds of my life.

Peeking around the bow of their boat, I see them standing in the dissipating fog and starting to step toward the hole. I slap my fin against the water, making a splash loud enough to be heard across the island. It works. Both men—ridiculously dressed in baggy shorts and brightly colored floral shirts (and Courtney thinks
I
have no fashion sense!)—turn at the sound. I swim out from their boat a short distance before curling into a dive, flicking my tail fin above the surface as I go. As soon as I sink to the bottom, I freeze. Muffled through the water, I hear one man say, “Did you see that one?”

“No way,” the other cheers. “That’s a record breaker for sure.”

I move a little farther out and do my fin-slapping dive again. One more big splash, and then I hear their engine start up.

It’s working!

As their boat takes off in my direction, I swim quickly, fitting in a couple more dives for show. Then, when I’m satisfied that they’re far enough from the island for our safety, I sink to the bottom and watch them speed by.

I wait there for a few minutes, just to make sure I don’t draw their attention back in this direction, before returning to the island. I swim to the far side, putting as much grass and brush between me and the fishing boat as possible.

Now that the threat is gone, I’m left with the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush and racing thoughts of what
might
have happened.

When I get onto land, my legs are shaking so hard, I can barely keep upright. At the pool’s edge, I fall more than dive in.

Quince’s arms are around me before I can fully transfigure.

“You’re all right?” he demands. “They didn’t see you?”

“No,” I manage between terror-induced pants. “It went perfectly.”

As if he’s not content to trust my statement, Quince releases me and checks me over. Making sure there isn’t a hook in my fin or something.

“I did it,” I gasp, still reeling from the thrill and the fear. “I really—”

Quince’s mouth is on mine in an instant.

His arms are around my waist, mine around his neck. It’s the fear, I know it’s the fear. And the bond. And the adrenaline. That whole I-was-this-close-to-death-and-am-really-really-
really
-glad-to-be-alive emotional response. Anxiety and relief and joy swirl between us until I can’t tell which are his and which are mine. I can’t
not
be kissing him right now.

The urgency in his kiss tells me he feels the same.

But before my body can begin to calm, another shadow moves above us. And stays.

My heart nearly explodes in my chest.

“Well, well, well,” Daddy’s voice says from above. “I think this Challenge is over.”

Oh, no! I jerk back and stare wide-eyed at Quince. His mouth is just as red and swollen as mine probably is. I can’t even hope that Daddy didn’t see what just happened because the evidence is still visible. And all I can think is,
Oh, no.

“Daddy,” I gasp, putting as much distance between myself and Quince as possible. “I thought you weren’t coming until afternoon.”

He levels an unreadable look at me. “It
is
afternoon.”

“Oh,” I mouth.

Daddy turns his gaze on Quince, who doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. Instead, Quince straightens his spine and says, “My apologies, sir. Your highness.”

Some sort of patronizing male look passes between them, and I feel like throwing a giant conch at his head. At both their heads.

“It was a mistake,” I hurry to explain. “See, there was this fishing boat, and we were trapped, and I made fog—just like you taught me—and then I ran back, and my legs nearly gave out, and then Quince was there.” I cast an accusing glance his way, certain that he is somehow to blame. A slow, deep breath brings my crazed babbling into check. “Our emotions were heightened by the prospect of getting caught. It was panic.” They are both looking at me with identical blank faces. “Nothing more.”

Goodness knows I wouldn’t knowingly kiss Quince for any other reason.

Right?

I have a feeling that last thought read clear as day across my face because Quince drops his gaze and then swims for the surface. I shouldn’t feel bad—everything I said was the truth—but part of me wants to go after him and apologize. I feel rotten for hurting him.

“Lily,” Daddy says, swimming down to me.

I turn away from the surface to look at him. Like a deflated life raft, I feel all my anxiety and the rush seep away. “It was a mistake, Daddy,” I explain calmly. “Just a mistake.”

Wasn’t it?

“Was it?” Daddy asks, echoing my own question. But rather than sounding regal and authoritative, he sounds just as confused as I am. “Was it all really a mistake, Lily? All of it?”

“Of course,” I say. But it is a whispered protest.

“At first, I thought maybe—” He shakes his head, showing uncharacteristic uncertainty. “But now, after this weekend…and the last…”

“Nothing’s changed, Daddy.” I swim closer, trying to plead with my eyes. “I promise.”

“I know. It’s just that I can’t help feeling that you’re not seeing things clearly. All the signs are there and—” Then, as if he just realized the funniest thing, he laughs. He pulls me into a gentle hug. “Oh, how I wish your mother were here,” he says. “She was far better equipped on the subject of relationships.”

Though I want to insist that Mom would see that this bond was ridiculous, a small part of me refuses to speak for her. I never even met her. How could I begin to know what she would say?

“Let me have a few minutes to speak with Quince,” he says. “He should have a voice in all of this as well.”

As Daddy swims up to the surface, to ask Quince for his opinion—great, now I feel guiltily for never having taken that into consideration—I float over to the pool wall. I can just imagine what they’re saying. Daddy will ask Quince what he wants to do, and Quince will confess some sort of ridiculous undying feelings for me, and Daddy will declare it a match made in heaven. But who knows? Maybe I’m holding too high an opinion of myself. Maybe Quince doesn’t want to be shackled to a mermaid anyway. Maybe he doesn’t want to be doomed to spend the rest of his life in whatever form I’m currently manifesting—soon to be almost exclusively mer—which is what will happen if the bond is formalized.

Did I even tell him about that little problem? No, because I never thought it would be an issue. I never thought we’d be in a position where the bond becoming permanent was even a remote possibility. Well, I need to tell him now so he knows what he’d be giving up.

Energized, I kick to the surface. As I burst into the air, transfiguring on the way and hoping to bring Quince over to my side of the argument, I hear Daddy say, “One week, son. I give you one week to change her mind.”

“No!” I shout, landing feetfirst on the sand and running at them. “No, we have to tell Quince about the form sharing, about how if the bond isn’t severed, he and I would always have to be in the same physical form, and once I return to take my place in court, I’ll rarely use my terraped—”

“I know.”

“What?” I snap my head at Quince. “You know what?”

“About the rules,” he says with a shrug. “About being stuck in the sea whenever you are.”

See, “stuck.” He doesn’t want to be a merman.

“Then why not end it now?” I demand, shoving against his shoulders with all my strength. “Are you insane?”

He looks at me with unwavering intensity. “Probably.”

“Daddy, you have to explain—”

“One week,” Daddy says. “You can wait one more week. I want you to be absolutely certain about what you want. At that time you will give me your final decision, by which I will abide.” He doesn’t look happy about that. “If you choose to separate, I will perform the ceremony on the new moon next weekend. That timing will make the break cleaner, in any case.”

Then, as I stand there, jaw dropped and unable to comprehend how this could be happening—again!—Daddy gives me a hug, kisses the top of my head, and then disappears into the sea.

It takes several long moments for my astonishment to process into anger. Into raw fury. At Quince.

“You!” I roar. “I—This—We—” When no words come, I have no choice but to scream.
“Aaargh!”

This can
not
be happening.

20

I
don’t speak to Quince on the swim back to Seaview. Or the ride back to our street. Or when I leave him in his driveway.

But when he follows me into the kitchen, all the thoughts and words and accusations bubbling inside me finally burst out.

“What did you tell him?” I demand.

“Lily—”

“You told him you were moon-eyed over me, didn’t you?” I accuse. “That you have loved me from afar for three years and you can’t stand the thought of being apart?”

“Now, that’s not fair—”

“Lily,” Aunt Rachel calls from upstairs, “is that you, dear?”

“Yes!” I shout up. Then, to Quince, “What did you tell him?”

He looks furious, standing there in front of the refrigerator with his jaw clenching and unclenching, his hands fisted at his sides, his biceps bulging and unbulging. I almost laugh. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him really, truly angry. It makes me feel kind of giddy.

“I told him the truth,” he says simply.

I cross my arms over my chest. “And what exactly is the truth?” I retort. “It’s getting so hard to keep it all straight.”

“I told him,” Quince says, stepping toward me, “that you can’t stand me.”

Why does that make my heart twist for a second? Maybe because it’s not entirely true. And not entirely fair. But I’m not prepared to admit either of those things.

Holy crab cakes, this bond stuff is confusing and complicated.

I prod. “And…”

“And that I—”

“How was your trip?” Aunt Rachel sweeps into the room, right behind Prithi, who takes up a position at my feet. “Did the separation go smoothly?”

I almost growl in frustration. Not because Quince was about to make his first actual, true confession of his feelings—I don’t care about that, remember?—but because…well, just because. “It didn’t
go
at all.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, pulling out one of the kitchen-table chairs and sitting down. “I thought you were going to sever the bond?”

“It’s a long story, Aunt Rachel.” Too long, too much for me right now. A sudden headache pounds against my forehead, right between my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, hoping to massage it away. Prithi purrs against my ankle, as if trying to help. “I can’t deal with this anymore tonight.”