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chatter of birds had tapered off, with only the occasional rook sending out a cutting rasp into the damp air. Moss grew thick

along the tree trunks and old stone wall. Clara pulled her cape tighter as the breeze whipped up. As if sensing the change

in atmosphere, the hair along Pim’s back rose, his lips curling.

“Come, you can’t be so scared of a little wind as all that, can you?” Clara asked the dog, as if he could understand her. But the truth was, a prickling sense of foreboding had begun to creep down Clara’s back, and she wondered if she had been too rash in coming here.

If the old road beyond the gatehouse had been a landscape painting in her father’s hall, the artist would have included some

little touches of humanity, perhaps a windmill in the distance or a drainage ditch, to allude to man’s mastery over nature.

But man had no sway here, and the only sign that humankind had ever set foot here was the overgrown path that was growing

fainter by the moment. Even the canal had broadened into a stream with a current that sent leaves rushing past her.

“Perhaps we had better go back,” Clara murmured to herself, and reached down to scoop up Pim. The dog’s warmth and strong

heartbeat against her chest gave her fresh courage.

But when she turned around, the path seemed to have closed up around her, brambly plants tangled where there used to be clear

grass. Unease sat heavy in her chest. The clouds were growing darker, as if in preparation for a reckoning, and the wind bit

at her cheeks.

She was not alone, she was certain of it, yet there was no sign of life save for her own shallow breaths and Pim’s growling.

He struggled to free himself from her grasp, and landed by her feet with his hackles raised. Oak trees stretched out before

her, and though she caught glimpses of the carriage house roof in the distance, she was not sure how to reach it. Where was

she that there was such an expanse of woods? She had lived on this land her entire life, and could think of nowhere so thickly

grown with trees. The water here was not the lazy, lily pad–flecked water of the canal; this water moved swiftly of its own

accord, flowing to or from some place of which only it knew the source.

Despite the cool nip of air, she grew drowsy, lightheaded.

Oh, why was everything so still, so quiet?

Clara leaned her head back against the rough bark of a tree and closed her eyes.

The air conspired to suffocate her, blanketing her in never-ending fields, black skies as thick as velvet, stagnant canals.

She thought of the beached whale, how terrible it must have been for the creature’s life to end in painful gasps of breath, so close to its home yet so far away.

She took a deep breath, as if making certain that she was still capable of such an act.

What was it like to live under the water?

Her mind filled with briny sea air. Behind her closed eyelids, sunlight filtered through green kelp reaching ever upward, searching for the same sustenance as the plants on land.

It was not so different from her own world, perhaps.

A flash out of the corner of her eye and she spun around. Trees stood silent, passive yet with a heavy watchfulness. There

was no one, though she could have sworn that she’d seen the sweep of hair, a long arm disappearing behind a trunk. She thought

of Helma’s stories of mist maidens and little folk. But it was not misty out, and Clara was not a child who believed in such

tales any longer. Another movement out of the corner of her eye, too fast for her to catch, and then a rustle. Pim’s ears

lay back, his teeth bared as he protectively circled Clara’s ankles. “Who’s there? What do you want of me?”

The wind rushed in reply, the sound of water running on fish scales, musical and old. It was like nothing she had ever heard

before, beautiful yet terrible. If she hadn’t run from the canal that fateful day, would this have been the eighth sound she

heard? Clara reached down to pet Pim, her fingers tightening in his fur.

The rushing came again, carrying whispers that folded over each other like bolts of silk. Hairs on her neck stood on end,

and her hand instinctively went to the little gold cross at her neck. If Helma were here, she would have known a protective

charm or prayer to say. If Helma were here, Clara wouldn’t be by herself in the middle of the woods.

She closed her eyes. Deep breaths. Count to seven.

The wind stopped, the rushing water calming, yet the feeling of being watched had only grown stronger. Heart pulsing in her throat, Clara slowly opened her eyes.

A woman, as green and downy as moss, stood among the poplars, her eyes boring into Clara. Pim was pacing now, putting himself

between Clara and the woman, a dangerous growl low in his throat. Every instinct told Clara to flee, yet she could not look

away. The woman was beautiful, ethereal with her long, silver hair twined with glittering crystals and ripe red berries. Her

eyes were as clear and sparkling as diamonds, and seemed to stare right down into Clara’s soul.

Was this what Fenna had seen? Was this graceful woman who had yet to utter a word the siren that had lured an innocent little

child into the water? Clara could hardly resist taking a step toward her, what chance would Fenna, a child, have had? But

the woman was not of water; she was most definitely of land. Moss grew up her legs, patches of lichen and tree bark on her

arms showing from beneath her gauzy white gown.

Clara’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. This woman was not of her world, but she could not begin to imagine what world she

did belong to. What did she want of Clara? It was only when the woman extended one pale arm draped in squirming worms and beetles,

did the spell finally break. Turning, Clara stumbled back through the bracken, Pim close at her heels, barking all the while.