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“I am home among loved ones.” Raphael surveyed the cottage fondly, his hands on his hips. “That is all the sustenance I need. But also, we brought plenty of delicacies with us. We will have quite the feast.”

The afternoon was long when the siblings sat at the scrubbed wooden table, orange sunshine angling through the diamond-paned windows. True to his word, Raphael had unpacked rare foods from a saddlebag, including smoked pork sausages, spiced pistachios, pickled artichokes, plump sun-dried figs, candied cherries, and a slab of vanilla bean fudge. Colette poured mugs of mead while Amelie laid plates and cutlery.

“Where did all this come from?” asked Colette, marveling at the spread. “You were only supposed to collect Papa’s insurance coin. Was it such a large payment, to afford these luxuries? What a nice surprise. And what’s in the other bags you brought back? They were positively bulging.”

Raphael chuckled, raising his mug. “We’ll tell you everything. First, let us toast. To family.”

The others echoed his toast, clinking their mugs. Marcel drank the deepest, which Amelie noted with a flicker of concern. Perhaps attending to their late father’s affairs in Port Hyacinth had stirred up painful memories. Marcel had taken their Papa’s death particularly hard.

Raphael rubbed his hands together. “In Port Hyacinth, we stayed at an inn by the water, so that we could easily meet with Papa’s shipmaster. The town was bedlam, because of the annual jousting contest. Still, as you both well know, we had a couple of souvenirs to acquire.”

“Ooh, what did you find?” asked Colette, nibbling a fig.

She had requested a seashell, and Amelie a rose. Neither sister had ever been to the ocean, and roses typically did not grow in their kingdom. Amelie wore a rose-perfumed oil, but she longed for a fresh bloom.

“We got what you asked for,” said Raphael. “More or less.”

He glanced at Marcel, which coaxed a small smile from the younger brother.

“I want to place the shell over my ear and hear the ocean,” said Colette. “You can do that, you know.”

Raphael brought a knapsack from the floor onto his lap. He reached inside, his sisters watching intently. First, he withdrew a life-sized rose, hewn from silver, removing the bud of the rose to reveal an aquamarine stone. The gem’s facets flashed and danced in the low light of the kitchen.

“Your rose, Amelie,” he said.

Her mouth dropped open. “I did not expect a rose made of silver and a jewel. It’s beautiful. But Raphael, you should’ve saved the coin for something more useful.”

“Ah, but appearances can be deceiving, sister,” replied Raphael. “In the hands of a man, this is a pretty curio. But the stone is no ordinary jewel. It is a Sirenstone, from the cities beneath the sea.” He replaced the bud on the rose and offered the stem to Amelie, who took it with uncertainty. “Now, let’s see what happens when a woman wields the Sirenstone.”

He stood up and took several steps back. Marcel did the same, taking his mead with him. Colette and Amelie raised their brows at each other across the table.

“Well, go on!” said Colette. “What are you waiting for?”

Amelie removed the bud, as she had seen Raphael do just moments ago. She gasped and scrambled to her feet, as did Colette. Instead of the faceted aquamarine stone, a luminous blue blade extended from the stem, turning the silver rose into a sword unlike any Amelie had ever seen.

A beautiful, haunting song filled the room, making Amelie’s blood tingle. She tilted the rose stem, which was now the hilt of the sword, to examine the blade. It glowed vividly, and flashes of fins and cryptic symbols moved along the length as if being carried by a tide.

“What a sweet song,” exclaimed Colette, her face glowing blue from the sword. “I’ve not heard anything like it.”

Laughing in delight, Amelie swung the sword to and fro. It felt natural and light in her hand, unlike the clunky steel sword she usually wielded. The blade seemed like it could pass through anything.

Only then did Amelie notice her brothers backed right up against the wall. They crouched with their hands over their ears, and their faces in identical pained grimaces. Marcel’s mug of mead sat forgotten on the floor.

Amelie returned the bud to the rose stem, the blade disappearing. The lovely melody stopped and the rose looked like a simple ornament again. Raphael and Marcel relaxed and stood up.

Amelie peered into their faces. “Are you alright?”

They returned to the table, visibly relieved.

“Quite alright,” said Raphael, gulping mead. “As I said, the Sirenstone is something very different in the hand of a woman. The sword and song are powerful weapons against any man, demon, or beast. Bury the blade in them, and they will surely perish.”

Raphael and Marcel shared another unreadable look. What on earth was going on with them?

“It’s incredible.” Amelie turned the rose over, touching the ornate metal leaves. “I do think I’d like to meet a siren.”

Marcel’s serious expression broke, and he laughed. “Better you than me. I long to be a sailor, but Papa always warned that sirens are fiercer than any creature you’d find on land.”

“Aye, they are lovely to behold. Before they flay you alive, at least.” Raphael dipped his hand back into the knapsack. “And Colette, here is your seashell.”