It’s reassuring when he calls me princess—as opposed to Princess or, worse, Lily. One seems too mocking, the other too intimate. His ironic nickname feels safe.

I look down, away, and see his bruised left hand—knuckles scabbed over now—braced on the front of the step. Great white shark, how had I forgotten about the fight? Too wrapped up in my own issues, I guess.

“Did you break anything?”

He looks at me with raised brows, and when I nod at his battered hand, he frowns. “No. The idiot might need an ice pack or two, but nothing requiring medical attention.”

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing at the fact that Quince thought I was asking about Brody.

I lean across his body and lift his hand for inspection. As I run my fingertips over his broken skin, careful not to cause more pain, I say, “I meant you, blowfish. Your bones.”

His hand trembles a little in mine. Somehow, that rattles me more than anything else. I could deal with losing my fantasy Brody more than I can face a very real, trembling Quince.

“No,” he whispers. “I pulled my punches.” Then, with some of his usual humor, he adds, “Principal Brown already thinks I’m one step away from juvie. Don’t need to put myself there.”

I look up, ready to argue, when a lumpy spot in his heather gray T-shirt catches my eye. Lifting my fingers to the place just beneath his collarbone, I’m both surprised and not to feel a sand-dollar-shaped object. My gaze continues the journey up to his.

“You’re still wearing it.”

We both know it’s not a question, just like we both seem to have lost the ability to breathe. A whole sea of emotions washes through his eyes—fear, anger, pain, trust, love. Love. It’s when I see that last one that I close my eyes.

He whispers, “Always.”

That’s what I was afraid of.

My confusion rushes back, shoving all other thoughts aside. I pull away, staring down at my hands folded tightly in my lap. I’m not ready for this, not ready for him. I can’t be.

“Quince, I—”

“I get it, Lily,” he says, my name giving more weight to his words. “Really I do. You’ve been through a lot in the last two weeks. I know you need some time to process.”

I feel like relief should sag through me, but it doesn’t. Still, I say, “Thank you.”

“But,” he says, his voice shifting back to the strong, powerful Quince, “that doesn’t change how I feel. How I’ve always felt. I care about you, Lily. I—”

“Stop!” I can’t hear the words he is about to say. My mind is muddied enough already, without his feelings coming into play. But when I imagine the hurt in his eyes—eyes I can’t look into right now—I add, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he insists. “I don’t have to say the words. You know.”

Yeah, I do. And that just makes everything a million times worse.

“Are you ready to go back to Thalassinia?” I ask, needing to take some action to make this confusion, this ache in my chest, go away.

Now I finally do look at him, and he’s studying me. He’s got his thoughts carefully masked, though, so I can’t guess what he’s going to do until he says, “Sure. Just let me go tell Mom I’ll be gone.”

As I watch him walk across the lawn between our houses, I think I should feel more relieved. The mess of the bonding, the muddle of magic and emotions and royal expectations, is finally going to be over.

Hopefully, by the time we get to Thalassinia, I’ll have decided what I’m going to do.

22

As we reach the outskirts of Thalassinia, I’ve slipped into delay mode. I still haven’t made my decision, and I need a little extra time to think. Although, with emotions involved, it’s not like thinking is going to be a major help, but it can’t hurt to try. So I do something I’ve never done before. I take someone to my secret spot.

We’re getting closer and closer to summer, so there is still plenty of sun filtering through the waves as we swim into my sacred retreat. My personal haven.

Quince seems to sense the awe-inspiring nature of this place, because he doesn’t say a word, just looks around at the bounty of colors and textures and contrast that fill my spot. Then, as if he knows how I spend my time here, he corkscrews onto his back and gazes longingly up at the sky. At the world above the surface.

The world where he belongs. And I don’t.

I float up next to him, pondering that thought. It’s something I’ve always believed, even after I found out Mom was human and I have family on the mainland. I’m a Thalassinian princess, and my place is beneath the sea. Below the surface.

A tiny fishing boat passes overhead, its bright red hull shining like a stop sign in the reflected light from the reef below. I feel Quince tense, probably thinking of the last fishing-boat encounter, but I lay a reassuring hand on his arm.

“It’s fine,” I say. “A lot of fishing boats travel this route between Bimini and Nassau. They won’t be stopping to drop line.”

“Oh,” he says, the word somehow full of self-mocking. Like he feels foolish for worrying.

“But it’s always better to be on alert,” I say, mostly to make him feel better. “You never know when the current will change.”

We float in silence, watching as the red boat passes out of view and a yellow follows shortly after, then turquoise, magenta, and bright, bright green. A rainbow parade.