Ten

 

Later that evening, in the solitude of her chambers, Margareta took a knife and sliced the skin of her arm, letting the blood flow. She was a weak spellcaster with anything that wasn't water, and she wanted this spell to work. What might take another enchantress merely a drop of blood took much more from Margareta.

She wove her magic carefully, making sure the spell affected only herself. When she was done, silence settled over her tongue. There would be no mistakes or changes of heart this time. She would not, nay, could not speak until her brothers' curse broke and they returned to Beacon Isle. Until then, her voice would not be heard.

Not a word or a laugh or a single sound would pass her lips for more than six years, when fate intervened.

For a siren whose voice is never heard is hardly a siren at all. Maybe enough to make a man wonder whether she might make a suitable wife.