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He raised a brow in irritation. “I’ll not intrude on Mr. Edema’s hospitality, not when my own bed is not ten miles from here.”

Proud and sure as ever that nature would submit to his whims just because it suited him.

Clara was just about to try her mother, when a servant, drenched to the bone, stumbled into the hall. “The dikes,” he managed to gasp out. “The dikes have given way and the sea is at our door.”

There was an uproar as guests scrambled to peer out the dark windows. Hendrik shouldered his way past them to see for himself.

“It’s impossible,” he murmured. “The dikes are strong, and we are nearly a mile yet from the sea.”

But even as he spoke, water was seeping in through the door, rising with alarming speed. Women screamed, grabbing their skirts,

and scrambling atop chairs. Ignoring Hendrik’s protests, Clara ran upstairs and found Pim stalking back and forth in the chamber.

“There is water coming into the house,” she told him. “You must stay here for now, where it is dry yet.” Satisfied that Pim

would be safe, she quickly shut the chamber door behind her so that he could not follow. As she hurried downstairs, she could

hear him piteously howling and throwing his small body against the door.

Clara had to elbow her way past guests pushing and shoving their way up the stairs. The water was up to her knees now, her

gown heavy and cumbersome as it gathered between her legs. In the space of five minutes it had risen to an incredible level,

and already the house had the feel of an abandoned ship. She found her father sitting atop the dinner table, his face drawn

and pale. Her mother was nowhere to be seen.

“Papa, what are you doing? We must find high ground, or a boat. We must do something.”

But he made no indication that he’d heard Clara. “She’s come back,” he whispered.

A silver platter that only an hour before had held grapes and cheese drifted by, empty. They had little time if they were

going to escape the house. “Who has come back?” she asked.

Theodor turned a vacant look on her, took a long, dragging breath, and discarded his wig.

He ran a shaking hand through his balding hair.

“You have to understand, Clara, there were orphanages full of poor children who would never have a home or a family. The cities took care of their street children as best they could, but...” His words trailed off.

She threw a harried glance at the door where a few brave souls were making an attempt at reaching the stables. “What are you

talking about? Papa, we must leave, now.”

“What does it matter? Here or there, she will take me regardless. You, at least, might have a chance, if you flee now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I won’t leave you.” The despondence in his voice gave her pause. “Papa, are you well?” He did not look

feverish or sick. Indeed, he looked remarkably calm, resigned almost.

But he didn’t answer her. He wasn’t going to try to escape, she realized as she watched him mutter to himself. Clara would

come back, try to persuade him again, but first she needed to find her husband.

Tearing herself away, she began wading through the waist-deep water. “Hendrik?” The house had gone eerily silent, the only

sound the rushing of water. Where was everyone? She tried to make her way to the stairs, but it was dark, the lamps having

all gone out, and indistinct shapes in the water slowed her progress.

Silver streaks ran through the water, glistening like pearl threads despite the lack of a moon. Voices, soft and slippery

as fish scales, whispered through the dark air. Her neck prickled, certain that someone was watching her even though there

was not a living soul left downstairs.

Clara. The voice was haunting and rang clearer than church bells, soft as petals falling on water. Clara, your time is come. Come with me, child. Come join your brother. Come join your little friend Fenna.

A twinkling laugh, closer but still faraway and dreamy.

Then there was a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, and Clara could have sworn she saw the pale face of a child peering out from behind an upturned chair.

But when she looked closer, she found it was simply a white table linen, balled and caught in the arm of the chair.

Water swirled around her waist, pulling at her. Some deep-rooted instinct told Clara that she must not succumb to the lovely

voice, but she swayed all the same. Her brother, who she had never met. Fenna. Were they somewhere just out of reach, waiting

for her? She put her hands over her ears, desperate to block out the singsong voice.

Her skin puckered with cold, her toes grew numb. Seaweed pulled at her legs. How odd that there should be seaweed in the house.

From somewhere deeper in the house she thought she could hear the frenzied barking of a dog. It pulled her out of her daze

and she freed herself from the seaweed. “Pim,” she called, her voice shaky. “Stay where you are, I’m coming.”

Trudging through the ghostly shapes of bobbing furniture, her outstretched hands touched against something soft and cold.

Recoiling, she was met with the bloated face of Hendrik, his eyes rolled back, his mouth frozen in a grotesque howl. He couldn’t

have been dead more than a matter of minutes, but he looked as if he had been in the water for days, if not longer. He looked

like Fenna.

Clara opened her mouth to scream, but water rushed in, gagging her. It was no use. This had always been her fate, hadn’t it?

Ever since the water had called to her and Fenna that day. She could fight it all she wanted, but eventually, it would come

for her. Even as she came to this realization, her body fought for air, and she struggled to keep her head above the surface.

But in the end, the water won. The water always won.