The thing you might not realize about lobster farmers—especially if you’re a human and you don’t even know there is such a thing—is that they smell like lobsters. If you’ve only seen lobsters either cooked and ready to eat or in one of those little tanks at a seafood restaurant, with their claws rubber-banded, then you have no idea how bad the stench of lobster can be. They make a cattle stockyard seem like a rose garden.
So, after I spend most of the day listening to two quarreling farmers argue about fair grazing rights and whether one had rebranded some of the other’s herd, everything in the throne room smells like lobster—including Daddy, Mangrove, and me.
Thankfully, Margarite called in the housekeeping staff, who unleashed a small school of surgeonfish—distant relatives of those fish that eat scum out of aquariums—and they managed to neutralize the smell in just a few minutes. I’m pretty sure my hair still has a little eau de lobster, but it’s not like I’m going to let the surgeonfish suck on my head.
By the time the throne room is cleared, it’s approaching evening. Approaching time for the separation—and Quince and Dosinia aren’t back yet.
When night falls and the light filtering down from the distant surface is replaced with the bioluminescent glow of the palace lighting system, I start to worry. Not about going home in the dark; we’ll have a royal escort of palace guards to keep us safe. But we have to be in school tomorrow, we still have a three-hour swim to get home—even though Quince’s swimming ability has improved, he can’t keep up with me—and we still have to get through the separation ceremony, which includes a mandatory couples counseling session. It’s a formality, but still it takes time. And remember when I said that mer life is pretty mellow paced? Well that goes for ceremonies, too.
I start swimming circles around the throne. What if they don’t come back? What if Dosinia is keeping Quince hostage as revenge for crashing her party? What if Quince got eaten by a shark? What if—
“Relax, daughter,” Daddy says. “They will be back soon. There is nothing you can do to hurry their return.”
“I know,” I snap, “but I have a major trig test tomorrow. I haven’t studied at all!”
“Your time with terrapeds has made you susceptible to their stress tendencies.” He leans back in his throne, as casually as if he’s watching a finball match. “Relax. If they have not returned in an hour, I will send the guard out.”
“An hour?” That seems like forever from now. “We can’t wait that long! We have to—”
The throne room doors swing open, and Mangrove announces, “Lady Dosinia and Master Quince have returned.”
“Finally!”
Kicking off hard, I jet across the room, reaching the doors just as Quince and Dosinia swim in. They are laughing and holding hands.
“Then she screamed and spat half-chewed jellyfish all over the table!” Dosinia says. Both she and Quince burst into laughter—over an embarrassing story about me. Well, two can play at that game.
“Don’t be telling tales, Doe,” I say, swimming up to her and narrowing my gaze. “Or I might have to share about the time you thought the Loch Ness monster was hiding in your closet.”
Quince, still laughing so hard he’s probably crying—only I can’t tell because human eyes don’t sparkle—says, “Lighten up, princess. It was all in good fun.”
I hold my glare on Dosinia. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
As if Dosinia would ever do anything in good fun. She’s still mad that I didn’t invite her to my twelfth-birthday sleepover. Grudges are her specialty.
“Can’t laugh at yourself, Lily?” she asks in a mocking tone. “How sad.”
“Whatever.” I turn away from her and grab Quince’s hand. It’s time to stop stalling. “We have a separation to attend.”
As we swim away toward the throne, Quince shouts back over his shoulder, “Thanks for showing me around today, Doe.”
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.
His bike rattles into silence.
I unwrap my arms from his torso, leap off the seat, and shove the helmet into his chest, ready to retreat into my house and bury my head under the pillows. But Quince isn’t about to let me get away that easy. He wraps one strong hand around my wrist, shackling me to the spot.
“Not so fast, princess,” he says, tugging me closer.
Rolling my eyes skyward, I notice the position of the moon. It’s late. Too late for me to argue.
I give him a glare.
“I don’t even rate a ‘good night’?” Quince asks as I pull my wrist loose. “I think I’ve earned it.”
I freeze.
How does he always know just what to say to totally set me off? I mean, it’s like he has a special gift for pushing my buttons. Too bad it’s not a marketable skill.
I’m sure it doesn’t help that my temper’s resurfaced because we’re back on land or that I’ve had a few hours of silent swimming to build up my anger about the whole situation. Even though I know none of this is technically—technically—his fault, he’s the nearest available outlet.
“Ha!” I say, trying—and failing—to keep my frustration in check. “How, exactly, did you earn a ‘good night’? By kissing me uninvited? Twice! Or by letting the entire assembly at my cousin’s debut party believe we were a couple—”
“Hey, I was just following your lead on that one.” He climbs off the bike and squares off with me.
“Or, wait,” I say, ignoring his comment and gathering steam. “Maybe it was by spending all day flirting and holding hands with my boy-crazy cousin while I was stuck in the palace smelling like a frogging lobster.” I shove against his chest with both palms. Hard. “You’re right. Good.” Another shove. “Night!”
I turn and stomp away, reveling in my dramatic exit. I’m almost to the front steps when he stops me with a laugh.
“You actually are jealous, aren’t you?”
Jealous? Jealous?!? As if. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I’m not even going to dignify that with a turnaround.
His biker boots clomp on the sidewalk behind me and my shoulders stiffen. If he touches me—
“I’m not interested in your cousin, Princess,” he whispers next to my ear. “She’s a child. Fun to hang with for a day, maybe, but I prefer a little more…depth.”
For some reason, most of my temper melts away. I wasn’t jealous—for the love of Poseidon, I don’t want Quince’s attention—but something about his reassurance calms me.
“The bond,” I mutter.
Between the emotional mess buzzing between us and Daddy’s decree and—I slump—yes, I admit, some bond-induced jealousy of Dosinia, it’s no wonder I feel like I’m on a roller coaster of mood extremes.
For once, I’m not sure if I’d rather fall into a temporary peace accord or revive our regular tension. Whatever the reason, maybe because it’s been a really long weekend, for tonight I just let it go.
“You’ll need to drink a lot of salt water,” I say softly. “Probably a few glasses a day.”
A brief silence pings between us.
“Anything else?”
I resist the urge to lean back into him. The memory of how nice and strong and safe his arms—Stop! It’s the bond. Thebondthebondthebond.
“Take baths,” I blurt. “Every night.” Then, because I’m not used to being nice to him, I add, “Ice-cold baths.”
“Ice-cold?” he asks, his voice full of that ever-present humor.
“Well, maybe room temperature.”
“I can do that.”
“That’ll get you through the week.”
Another ping of silence.
“Thank you.”
Without turning around, I walk the four steps up to my porch. As my foot touches the white-painted boards of the porch floor, Quince says, “Good night, Lily.”
His heavy boots swish through the grass between our houses.
When I’m sure he’s out of range, I whisper, “Good night, Quince.”