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She feels it start to happen. First, her ragged fins harden, turning stiff and heavy. Nevertheless, she persists, eyes forward and mind determined.

The rest of her tail becomes rigid and unfeeling, and she cries out. For her witch. For her love. She punches a hold in the sand and hauls herself forward, the muscles in her arms burning.

The marble crawls up her waist, and she knows it will reach her heart soon. But it does not matter—it belongs to the witch, and no stone can claim it.

The siren is almost at the edge of the beach, arm outstretched and a deep trail in the sand behind her when she is finally stopped. Her statue lays there, unmoving. A small marble tear rests on her cheek.

Above her, the Saints watch, intrigued. The Idol, charged with strength and endurance, looks fondly at the siren. They reach down with a golden finger and gently tap the marble.

At once, the rock turns back to flesh. The siren gasps, the air rushing back to her lungs, and she feels her tail split into two legs. Without another thought, she stumbles onto her new feet and rushes to find her witch.

It takes her a full day and night, and when she does, the witch is lying in her bed, tired and sick. The siren sinks to her knees.

“My love,” she whispers, grasping her hand. The witch is feverous and she cannot see but she knows who has come. She can smell the salt of the sea.

“My love,” the witch whispers back. When the siren presses their foreheads together, her heart is full again.