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Every nerve in my body is telling me to run. I’m so awash with emotions I could drown just fine without water. But I think I know what went wrong for my parents. I think I know what to do.

My father was a Shark. Ophelia is an Orca and a Shark. Luca is a Cephalopod. All of them would have seen theNautilusas a prize to be opened and explored. My mother, Sita, was the only Dolphin in the group. I doubt she had time to think or act like one when they raised theNautilus. My father was too impulsive. He rushed in and died. My mother died trying to save him.

‘Hello,Nautilus.’ I speak in Bundeli.

That was Nemo’s native tongue. He would have grown up speaking it, along with English, back when India was under British subjugation. If Nemo spoke any language to his creation, I’m guessing he would have chosen the language he dreamed in.

‘I am Ana Dakkar.’ I try not to feel self-conscious about addressing an open hatchway. I have talked to dolphins, dogs, orangutans and even students from Land Institute. Talking to an antique submarine shouldn’t be any sillier.

‘I know you lashed out when my father woke you up.’ I worry that theNautiluswill hear the rage in my voice, but I decide I have to be honest. ‘You killed my parents. I don’t think I can ever forgive that. But I understand you were probably confused, scared and angry.’

The submarine does not respond. Obviously.

‘My ancestor,’ I continue, ‘the one who called himself Nemo, he left you alone for a very long time. I am sorry for that. The thing is … I’m the last of the Dakkars. I’m alone and unique, just like you. We’re kind of each other’s last chance. I’d like your permission to come aboard. I promise I’ll do my best to respect you and listen to you, if you’ll do the same for me. And if you could refrain from killing me that would be great.’

There is no way to tell whether the sub has heard me or understood.

Does it have little coppery ears somewhere on that hull? Does its artificial intelligence even recognize voices?

Only one way to find out.

I step onto the ramp.

I am not immediately electrocuted. I decide this is a good sign.

‘Thank you,’ I tell theNautilus. ‘I am coming aboard.’

And I step over the last threshold my parents ever crossed.

Two things I do not associate with submarines: elegance and air freshener.

From the main hatch, a circular stairwell descends into a grand foyer that looks more like part of a cruise ship than a working sub. I half expect a steward in a white uniform to offer me a tropical beverage.

The black walls gleam like polished ebony, bordered with golden nemonium beams. On the other side of the room, a second spiral staircase leads down to a lower level. In the centre of the marble floor (at least itlookslike marble) is a mosaic crest: a large golden cursiveNin a circle of black, wreathed by golden squid. Underneath is the mottoMOBILIS IN MOBILE.

Latin. Difficult to translate. Something likemoving through the moveableormovement in motion, neither of which makes much sense.

Seeing that motto in person gives me a punch in the gut. I remember reading it in20,000 Leagues Under the Seathe summer before eighth grade, just after my parents left home for the last time … before I got the news that I was an orphan. My life was moving through the moveable, and I didn’t even know it.

Now I’m standing in the actualNautilus. Cyrus Harding and Bonaventure Pencroft passed through this room. So did Ned Land and Pierre Aronnax. Not just as characters in Jules Verne’s novels, but asreal people.

My head spins. The smell from the air fresheners doesn’t help. They are the cheap kind you might buy at a car wash – cardboard cutouts shaped like Christmas trees. Some dangle from the stair railing. Others are taped to the nemonium wall beams. The cloying fragrances of pine and vanilla wage a war for dominance in my nostrils.

Behind those scents, I catch a whiff of mould and decay. Luca and Ophelia have tried their best, but theNautilusstill smells like a mixture between a rotted-out fishing wharf and somebody’s great-aunt’s house. It’s going to do a number on Robbie Barr’s allergies.

Top seems to think the foyer smells marvellous. He sniffs the air like he’s balancing a ball on his nose. Nelinha studies the walls without touching them, her eyes tracing the path of the air ducts. Ester stands in the middle of the coat of arms and turns in a full circle. Then she turns in reverse, as if unwinding herself.

‘This ship is angry,’ she decides. ‘It feels angry to you, doesn’t it?’

I’m not sure how to answer. My senses are overloaded. I do feel a heaviness in the air, like just before a thunderstorm. I may have bought a temporary truce with theNautilus, but I suspect it is watching me, waiting for my next move. We are not friends yet. Not by a long shot.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Scary. Overwhelming.’

‘And angry,’ Ester insists. ‘Please be careful, Ana.’

Ophelia is the last one down the stairs. The hatch rises shut behind her.

‘So far, so good.’ She gives me an encouraging smile, but shelooks tense. Every muscle in her body seems coiled for action. I imagine if a firecracker went off behind her, she’d jump so high we’d have to prise her off the ceiling. ‘Let’s find my husband.’