I meant to go to Father. It was my initial thought, but seeing the shadow of him on his throne—still the same listless being—I felt genuine hopelessness for the first time. He had not changed, like I had. He wouldn't, ever, understand.

I found Esola drawing images in a small pool of sand with her fins, Lefi and Kindra her less-than-attentive audience.

"I saw a human," I blurted at them. "She had subjects!"

"Royalty of some sort? How intriguing." But Esola didn't sound at all intrigued.

"Lefi?" I said. "I meant to bring you a gift, but there was a storm..."

I didn't dare admit what I'd done—human contact was strictly forbidden—but I wanted to share the rest. I needed to.

Lefi raised a fat red bauble to one open eye. "Perhaps next time," she said.

Kindra gave me one of her faraway smiles. "Was it everything?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Your flower is gone," she said sweetly.

Stricken and wishing for Velde, I swam away.

There was still Grandmother. I'd regret it—she would be in her usual mood—but I had to try.

She sat stiffly on a rock, tail tucked underneath her, gaze expectant.

"Well?" was her snappish greeting.

I told her everything that'd happened before the storm. The beauty of the surface, how lively the humans had been.

Grandmother's under-eye developed a tick as she closed in. "You dare come to me with this nonsense? Humans are always, only, a source of death and disease. Things have become so dangerous for us because of them."

"But we aren't so different from them, or at least we didn't used to be—"

"Not. So. Different? Merkind live a space of time unfathomable to your silly little mind. Humans have a far more brief existence—why? Because they have...no...souls." I shook my head, and her icy rage chilled the water. "Everything, everything I've cherished has been taken or broken by their evil. It's a miracle we haven't all turned to foam!"

I paused, incredulous. "Do we really turn into sea foam once we die?" I'd always considered the idea silly.

"Oh, it's not nearly so pretty as that," Grandmother said with a grim cackle.

"I believe you," I said, unsurprised. "But I don't believe humans are soulless...I can't after what I've witnessed."

She bared her teeth. "What a waste my youngest granddaughter has revealed herself to be. Weak with a head full of fancies. Your mother named you after her love of land and poisoned you with it!"

"Hate is poison. She used to say that," I said calmly. "You're the one who needs the antidote, Grandmother."

Grandmother rose to sneer down at me. "You will never be a proper mermaid. You should have been born human! And why not? Go on and cut off your tail, see how you fair on land. The reality won't match the dream, I promise you."

Of course it wouldn't, if I severed myself in two.

At a wave from Grandmother, the oysters ripped themselves from my tail. I gasped, too shocked to scream. Her own tail twitching agitatedly, she left me in a trail of her fury, bent by the pain.

Carried only by instinct, I rushed to the surface.

The sky had transformed again, twinkling now. The ship was gone.

I wiped at my eyes with one hand and rubbed my stinging tail with the other.

Grandmother was bitter. Bitter about Mother's death, Father's disinterest in revenge (after his initial Earth-shuddering storms), and the gradual collapse of our kingdom as humans continued to do "what they do best" while he languished.

I still had faith in mankind, as Mother did. She had often posed as a human woman among them and held entire conversations while hiding her tail. She grew fond of them, realizing they were similar to us in vital ways—they, too, although capable of great and terrible things, could be loving and joyous. Many stood against the destructive force she'd been told they were.

Humanity couldn't just be tucked away like I'd thought. I had convinced myself that if I finally got a glimpse, I'd be satisfied. But the pure life I'd sensed from them was like the echo of a distant memory, and I yearned for it more than ever.

Grandmother was right about one thing: I should've been born human. Her scathing suggestion that I cut off my tail stirred something in my mind.

When we were children, my sisters told stories about the legendary sea witch—or the witchsea, as she was known. The stories centered on "bad" or "ungrateful" mermaids who were turned into humans to be taught a lesson. Grandmother herself warned that the witchsea lived not so far beneath us, saying that we'd either be used as meat for her magic, or end up like Kindra. It was all about putting fear in us.

I pulled in the cool air and nodded. I wasn't afraid.