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It was with trembling fingers that Helma helped Clara out of her robe in her bedchamber. They had come in through the back,

Clara begging Helma to be quiet so that they would not wake any of the servants, or God forbid, her parents. Clumsy with anger,

Helma had nearly knocked over a vase and awoken the whole household.

“Helma, please, I wish you would let me do it. There’s no need for you to. Won’t you sit down?”

Helma didn’t resist as Clara guided her to the edge of the bed. “How... how long has it been going on?” she asked Clara,

and then to herself, added, “Right under my nose! How did I never see it?”

“Hush, now. You’re making a fuss over something which I think you must realize is really a very little thing.”

Helma’s eyebrows shot up. “Where does your mind travel on Sundays in church? What is the world coming to if maidenly virtue

amounts to only ‘a very little thing’? I might understand if you had no one to teach you better, but you’ve had me. Child,

you’ve had me!”

Clara was not untouched by Helma’s concern, but Helma failed to understand that there was a difference between polite conduct and passionate matters of the heart.

“There now,” Clara said as if she were comforting a child, “dry your tears. I’m not a lost soul, nor a fallen woman.

” She didn’t add that if Helma had not come upon them when she had, that she very well might have been.

“But do you expect me to enter my marriage a complete innocent, without any taste of the ways of the world?”

“I expect you to enter your marriage a virgin and an obedient woman! As does God, and as do your parents and your poor intended.”

“Do you think Hendrik has never had his own... adventures?” Even as she said it, Clara couldn’t quite picture Hendrik with

a woman, or enjoying anything besides business, for that matter.

“I’m sure it’s not my place to think anything about what Mr. Edema does or does not do. Besides,” Helma added with an uncomfortable

sniff, “it’s different for gentlemen.”

The thought of Maurits with another woman in his arms made Clara’s stomach tighten. For as little as she knew about him and

as thinly acquainted as they were, she couldn’t deny the way her whole world turned brilliant and exciting when he was near.

“You can’t speak a word of this to my mother,” she said in deadly earnestness.

Helma nodded. “I will not tell your mother. For all your folly, I wouldn’t see you beaten at her hands, or your marriage put

at risk.”

After Helma had insisted on praying with her and finally left her alone, Clara lay in bed. Sleep would be impossible, not

just because of the racing of her heart, but because of the lingering sting from Maurits letting her go so easily.

Maurits’s mother came to him, as she always did, in a school of darting fish, then transforming into her true form with a

bright flash of sea foam. He was on the sandy ocean floor, leaning against a rock as he recovered his bearings, letting the

water seep into him, revive him.

“When will you learn that land holds nothing but pain and disappointment?” she asked him by way of a greeting.

Her voice was the thunderous sound of waves crashing on rocks, the whisper of rainfall on a placid canal.

“You return spent and half-dead, yet you cannot wait to go back at the earliest opportunity. It pains me to see you thus.”

There was nothing he could say that would satisfy her, so he remained silent, letting the waves high above gently massage

away his aches and pains.

She sighed, adjusting a tendril of flame-red hair into her pearl crown. “You only make this harder for yourself by growing

attached.” Maurits snapped his gaze up to meet hers, and saw the corner of her lips pulling into the smallest of smiles. “Yes,

of course I know what is transpiring up on land. I have eyes everywhere. Did you really think I wouldn’t discover your infatuation?”

There was no anger in her sea foam eyes, no malice. Just sharp interest. “Why does it have to be her?” he couldn’t help himself

from asking.

Queen Maren glided closer to him. “You know why. Her father was one of the architects of the contract. He bargained away the

poor children, smug that his own child was untouchable. These debts must be called in, as much for their future as for ours.

If the men are allowed to regard the treaty with impunity, they will continue taking and taking and taking, until there is

nothing left for the Old Ones. It is a balance that must be kept in check.”

It was nothing Maurits hadn’t heard a hundred times before, but now her little speech hit closer to her heart. “You could

take her yourself,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I could, Minnow,” she said, using his childhood endearment, “I know that you do not wish to sit on the throne.” He looked at her sharply, wondering why he was ever surprised at the breadth of her intuition.

“I see myself in you, when I was younger. As a girl, I thought myself uninterested in the mechanisms of politics. But gradually I came to see that this inheritance is not just a burden, but a gift.”

Maurits knew little of his mother’s childhood, and less still of how she had come to the throne. He couldn’t imagine that

any part of the process had been peaceful.

They watched as a pike swam by, snapping at an unsuspecting bluegill before disappearing into a crevice in the rocks. “We

all have a part to play, and play it we must. For if we don’t, everything falls apart—the treaty, the lands and the sea, the

Old Ones... all of it.”

“Then perhaps it is time for a change.”

There was an assessing look in his mother’s eye that made Maurits’s chest constrict with anxiety. He knew that look, and it

was never good. “I have been good to you, have I not?” She did not wait for an answer. “I have granted you the form you so

desire every week of the full moon, turning a blind eye to whatever it is you choose to do on land. Now I wonder if I have

been too indulgent.”

His mother was many things, but he would never accuse her of being indulgent.

“With Thade fulfilling your duties, I suppose you are right—I have little need of you here. I think that I will give you leave

to return a little longer, at least for a time.”

“Your favors are never given freely,” Maurits said, suspicious. “What is your game?”

“There is none,” she said, twining a strand of seaweed absently around a long, shallowly webbed finger. “You receive a valuable

lesson in obedience and loyalty, and I don’t have to hear your whining about not being on land.”

Before he could question her any further, she was gone in a flash of silver fish and swirling kelp, leaving Maurits alone

on the sandy floor with a sinking feeling in his chest.

The next few weeks passed in a haze for Clara.

At first it had seemed as if her wedding day would never come, and now the date loomed large and final, like a death sentence.

What had started as an innocent diversion had taken a sharp turn into obsession after her midnight rendezvous with Maurits, never mind that she had told him she could never see him again.

Even if it was just for a stolen kiss and a goodbye, she had to see him one last time.

Helma’s interruption had ruined the romance of it all, and she longed for one last, perfect moment to remember him by.

The sound of Helma’s knitting needles clicked from across the room. Since discovering Clara that night, Helma had only let

her out of her sight long enough for her to attend to her necessary functions. She had even moved her pallet bed right next

to Clara’s bed, sleeping beside her like a guard dog. If Clara had felt stifled before, she was downright caged now.

With a quick glance about the room to be certain there were no hovering servants, Clara lowered herself down beside Helma

on the bench. “That’s very pretty. I’ve never seen you do such fine work,” she said, leaning over and inspecting the cap.

The little silver needles flashed in the mellow window light, but Helma did not look up. “My sister just had her first grandchild.

It is to be for him.”

“Mm, lucky little fellow then.” Clara measured her next words carefully. “Helma, I need to ask you a favor.” She could practically

feel Helma stiffen beside her. “I need you to take me to town.”

At this, Helma finally put her down her needles. “Why?” she asked warily.

The desperate look on Clara’s face must have given Helma her answer, for she said, “Oh, Clara, you cannot be serious.”

“Shh, not so loud. Please, Helma. It will be the only time I ask it of you. I only... I just need to say goodbye. And then it will be over. I swear it.” She didn’t know where Maurits lived, but it had to be in Franeker. How else would he have been able to come by way of the canal so often?

Helma bit at her thumb. “Why can’t it be over now? It’s a miracle your mother hasn’t found out. You can’t risk everything

just to see him again when you’ve already gotten away with it. Besides, what do you know of this man? There is something about

him... I don’t like it.”

“Please,” Clara said again, her voice reaching a wheedling pitch. “Please, help me. I’ll be married soon and tucked safe away

in my new home, out of trouble. I’ll never ask anything of you again. Only please don’t send me off to my marriage with a

heart full of doubt and wondering.”

The needles fidgeted nervously in Helma’s fingers. “If I say no?”

“Then I’ll find a way to go myself and my mother may very well find out.”

“You would risk your ruin?”

Clara thought about it, but only for a moment. “Yes, I would.”

Helma’s shoulders deflated. “Very well. Tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank you!” Clara threw her arms around Helma and squeezed. “You are my angel.”

Her visits to town usually restricted to church on Sunday, Clara was not prepared for the flurry of activity that surrounded

her as they alighted from the carriage. Hawkers sold their wares from clever little carts, and children darted underfoot,

forcing lazy pigeons into flight. The square in front of the city hall was bursting with every sort of shop, the canal wending

lazily through the center under bridges bedecked in flowers.

A lie to her father about needing something for her trousseau had been all it had taken to secure permission, and thankfully

her mother had been too preoccupied with her own preparations for the wedding to insist on coming.

“We’ll go to the fishmonger’s first,” Clara said, gazing about the bustling square for an indicator of where it might be found. Perhaps Maurits truly did work there and that much had not been a lie, at least.

“First?” Panic flashed across Helma’s face. “Do you mean to say you don’t know where he is?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” Clara answered, wringing her hands. But then she nodded, and said with more conviction, “He’ll be

at the fishmonger’s, I’m sure of it.”

Helma heaved a sigh. “Follow me,” she grumbled.

They made their way through the strolling couples and women selling vegetables from baskets on their arms, Clara occasionally

stopping to peer into shop windows. If it had not been for the promise of seeing Maurits, she would have been sorely tempted

by the sparkling jewelry and mouth-watering pastries. There was a whole world that existed outside the stone walls of Wierenslot,

and she knew so little of it. Someday she would patronize all these shops, have accounts, and run up extravagant bills that

Hendrik would graciously discharge for her. That was what ladies did, wasn’t it? That was what she had dreamed of for so many

years, so why did the idea now fill her only with apathy?

A large wooden fish, painted turquoise and gold, swung above the fishmonger’s shop. When they pushed open the door, a bell

tinkled and a big man in a dirty apron looked up in surprise from behind the counter. “Vrouw Helma,” he said pleasantly. “I

was not expecting you. Was there some mistake with your order?” When he saw Clara enter behind her, he swept off his cap and

dipped his bald head. “And this must be mistress Clara, a true surprise. But a pleasure, of course.” He looked between them

quizzically.

Helma shook her head, and Clara could see she was struggling to find her tongue.

Helma had never been a good liar. Clara swooped in.

“No, there is nothing wrong, sir. We have only come because as you may know my wedding is next month and your delivery man told me that you had some mackerel that must be tasted fresh at the shop.”

The man’s thick brows drew together. “Dirk said that, did he?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and shook his head.

“Can’t see why he would—we haven’t had any mackerel these past weeks, and if we had, he could have brought it to you.”

“I believe his name was Maurits?” she said, her voice rising at the end in a hopeful question.

“I don’t know of any Maurits.” He frowned. “But it matters not, and you’re here now. Allow me to offer you some cod instead,

just caught.”

The fishmonger was elbow deep in a barrel, pulling out fish for her to examine, but she hardly heard him over the blood pounding

in her ears. She hadn’t really thought that Maurits would be here, had she? He had lied about who he was twice; why did she

think that this would be any different? Worse still, she had no other clues, no way to find him.

She nodded absently as the man wrapped some fish up in paper, until she felt Helma tugging at her sleeve, silently begging

her to leave off this foolish errand.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, mistress?”

Clara realized he was staring at her, awaiting her answer. “Oh,” she said weakly. “Yes. I mean, no. That will be all, thank

you.”

Ignoring his peeved expression, Clara plunged back into the square, Helma on her heels. Her mind spun as she made her way

back to the carriage, the afternoon sun bathing the crooked brick buildings in sanguine gold. What had she expected? Why was

she so disappointed when she had only wanted to see him one last time to say goodbye?

“Perhaps there is a reason he lied about his identity,” Helma said, breathing heavily as she struggled to keep up with her mistress.

“Why would you risk your reputation and future for a man who will not even trust you with his name? What do you know of him? A thief, that is what he must be, or an outlaw.”

Clara did not dignify Helma’s baseless accusations with a response. If her maid had seen the earnestness in Maurits’s beautiful

eyes, she would not be so quick to paint him in such poor light.

The carriage ride back was silent, prickly with tension. They rattled past the same old fens, the same old fields stretching

endlessly to the horizon, back to her monotonous life of disappointment.