“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.