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“What story?” Aunt Meena queries,nibbling on a biscuit.

“The Siren and the Witch,” I tell her and watch her face brighten.

“Ah! You used to love hearing me tell you that tale.”

“Well, do not keep us in suspense!” Inez leans forward. “Go on.”

“Very well.” My cheeks ache from smiling but I smile nonetheless and begin the story. Theo clasps my hand as I look around at my family. Happy. Safe.

Free.

Appendix

The Siren and the Witch

Awitch walks the golden sands of an isolated beach. The only footprints are her own. The sun shines and the air is clear, thick with salt. She comes across a small glass bottle, half-buried in the sand. Curious, she picks it up.

It is empty. But there is something distinct about it. A ringing in her ears, soft and sweet. And then she hears a voice from the sea.

It calls out to her. A greeting, the witch thinks, but she cannot quite hear. Slowly, curiously, she walks towards the water. There, amongst the gentle waves of the sea, a head bobs above the surface. Almost like a human, but not quite. Green-skinned and scaly.

The witch is at the edge of the land, the water lapping at her ankles. She holds the empty bottle in her hand, and she can still hear theringing in her ears. So beautiful. So tempting. It calls to her. The person in the water smiles at her.

“Join me!” the mysterious figure calls, her head bobbing along with the waves. The witch is tempted, the beautiful melody still playing through her mind, but as soon as she drops the glass bottle, it disappears.

“I cannot,” she calls back. “I will drown if I join you.”

The strange figure contemplates this, but before the witch can say anything more, she disappears beneath the surface of the water. The witch searches the horizon but can see no sign of them. She begins to wonder if they had been there at all—the waves are hypnotic and constantly shifting. It is difficult to see anything.

And then, just as suddenly as she had left, the figure reappears. She is closer now, close enough for the witch to see the glistening green scales running along her skin. Her hair is dark as emerald, hanging down her back and over her shoulders like seaweed. The witch has never seen anything like her.

“Here, come a bit closer,” she says to the witch, beckoning her. The witch hesitates, water swirling around her ankles.

“I should not trust you,” the witch replies, to which the figure cocks her head.

“Why not?”

“Because I do not know you.”

The figure grins.

“Then how do you know not to trust me?”

The witch stands still, uncertain, but she is dazzled by the way the sun catches the scales of the figure's skin, causing a hazy glow around her.

“Look.” The figure throws something at the witch, and instinctively, she catches it. It is another glass bottle, like the one she found before, but filled this time with a strange, iridescent liquid. The witch tips it sideways, watching it swirl, and the melodic ringing reappears. She canhearthe liquid.

“What is it?” the witch asks.

“I do not believe land folk have a word for it,” the figure replies. “But we call it bahk. It is our magic.”

The witch is, of course, familiar with magic. But her kind does not come in bottles. She regards it warily.

“What does it do?”

“It will let you breathe underwater.”

The witch’s eyes snap up.