I ignore Finn as he knocks and speaks. Sure, I’ll have a “good night” in this dank prison, knowing that the ocean isn’t far away, that Niku might be right and Finn will never save us—a certainty that grows with every passing day.
A scraping sound vibrates through the water as the door slides open, and I uncurl to go back to the tiny tank with Niku. Instead of the door I’m used to, a different one opens, and I recognize the shock of blue hair in the unnatural light of the tube. Finn’s trying to bribe me with Huron. I don’t know whether to be grateful or angry.
“Erie?” Huron says, voice full of trepidation. He’s thinner than last time. His big blue eyes have sunken into his cheeks, and the color of his fins is fading prematurely. I know I said Huron and I were never in love, but I cared about him, and seeing him like this—knowing that it’s my fault—chips away at my heart.
“It’s okay.” I swim to him, but he backs away. “The landfolk are gone for the night.” I glance in Finn’s direction, but he’s walking away, his extra legs clicking against the floor.
Huron peers around the tank; he must be here every day in the sunshine, “performing” for the landfolk. Has he ever been here at night, able to see the stars? Does he know how close the ocean is?
“What’s happening?” Huron whispers, and I glance at Niku, because I don’t know.
Niku shakes his head. “Maybe Finn feels guilty? Or it’s another way to hurt and control you.”
Finn has plenty of reasons to feel guilty, but he hasn’t tried to hurt me since the loop incident. My finger traces the scar of the necklace, and I know—from the horror on his face then, and the fear in his eyes today—that this time is supposed to be a gift. But as I scrutinize Huron—this thin, subservient creature—it’s less a gift and more a reminder of what I’ll become if I stay here too long. Finn may have meant this as a gift, but in reality, it’s a warning. If I don’t play nice, this will happen to me.
I wonder if they’ve broken Clair yet. I can’t imagine her as pitiable as Huron, but a deep ache lodges in my chest at the memory of her jumping when Finn told her to. My oldest sister, a princess of the Seadom, bowing down to the landfolk. She never even bowed to Father.
The screech of a door being shut vibrates through the water, and Huron glances toward his tube. Panic crosses his features. “Wait,” he says. “Clair!”
He swims to the door as every part of me that was left whole shatters. He doesn’t want me; he wants my sister. He’d rather be stuck underground, in a tiny tank with humbled Clair, than be under the stars with me. I reach out a hand that’s no longer stained with ink. Niku swims to it, letting me rest my fingers on his scars—the only thing in this place that won’t change.
“Erie,” Niku says softly. He doesn’t say more; he doesn’t have to. He’s spent the past several seasons protecting me from Huron, a common boy. Now, my common boy doesn’t care a whit about me. Huron’s wandering hands are no longer a threat.
I swallow to make sure my voice is steady. “Is our door open?”
“I believe so.”
“Let’s go, then.” I gaze at the stars one last time, then glance at Huron, whose hands are pressed against the glass of his door. He can follow if he wants, but I don’t think he’ll even notice we’ve gone.
The gray walls are oddly comforting as we swim through the tube to the tank we share. For the first time in days, I curl around Niku’s dorsal fin and trace his scars. “I thought he loved me,” I say after a long silence.
“Huron? Or Finn?”
I don’t have an answer for that.