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Maurits did not know what he was doing.

The swim back to the cave was a pensive one, as thoughts of Clara swirled through his head. He was not proud of the inventory

he kept of every look she had given him and the inflection of her voice in every word she had ever uttered, a means to measure

her possible interest in him. It had been so much simpler on land, in the days before she knew who he truly was. She had been

happy enough to walk beside him and kiss him when she thought he was a man, even if that man had been a servant or a fishmonger.

From every crevice, every bed of seaweed, eyes watched him. He supposed he had Thade to thank for the audience. But if what

Neese had said about his brother was true, then why was he helping Maurits protect Clara?

He had just come to the narrow crevice that would open out to the entrance of the secret cave when a wavering smudge of white

caught his eye against the dark weeds and rocks. He stopped. No, it couldn’t be... Clara couldn’t have been that foolish.

But as he shot closer, her pale face, her unmoving chest, came into view with sickening clarity.

Snatching her into his arms, he began ascending, putting his mouth to hers as they shot upward. What had she been thinking?

She was thinking that you are a monster, and that she had to get away from you , a little voice told him from the recesses of his mind. She was thinking that she would rather die trying to escape than submit to your company a moment longer.

They surfaced, but she was still limp, no sign of her lungs expanding on their own. Her skin was so cold that he could not

tell where his touch ended and she began. What had he been thinking bringing her down here? He hadn’t been thinking, not with

his head anyway. On land, she at least had a chance. She was not tethered to him, would be harder for his mother to find.

Her people were up there; they would take care of her, wouldn’t they? As much as the humans intrigued Maurits on a singular

basis, he did not have much faith in their institutions as a whole. He’d seen the orphanages, the poorhouses. The thought

of Clara left to the mercy of one of those heartless places made him feel ill.

Laid out on the ground, Clara looked like a marble effigy, completely lifeless. But he put his ear to her chest, heard the

faint flutter of life deep within. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, not just for what he was about to do, but for all that he had

put her through already. With reverent hands, he placed his palms flat against the cold skin of her chest and began massaging.

A moment later her eyes flew open and she began coughing. Flipping her quickly to her side, he watched as she coughed up a

prodigious amount of water. When she was heaving with emptiness on her elbows, she cut him a caustic look.

“I need to give you air again,” he explained, a hint of apology in his voice. “Your lungs are weakened.” She stared back at

him, all the light from her eyes dull and flattened. It hurt him in a visceral way; she could have died, and she simply didn’t

care.

But she gave a short nod, her body stiffening in anticipation.

Tender, hesitant, he bowed his head to hers.

If he could only give her more than his breath.

But now he knew the painful truth—she would rather die than accept anything from him.

The most he could hope for was her safety.

He would watch her from afar, try to protect her as well as he was able.

She accepted his mouth on hers, but it was a cold exchange. Still, he thrilled at the sensation of her soft lips, and tried

to savor the taste of her until he could no longer justify his embrace. It would be the last time he held her in his arms,

the last time he would know the feeling of her smooth cheek beneath the grazing of his thumb.

“You tried to escape,” he said, when he’d reluctantly let go of her.

She looked off toward the misty woods through the gloaming, her throat bobbing, but no words coming out.

His body was aching, not just from the cost of shifting his form, but from holding in all the feelings that she engendered

in him. He could feel them building inside, looking for some sort of release. If he could just tell her how he felt, let the

words pour out and share the joyous burden of his love with her. But as he followed her gaze to the trees shivering in the

wind, he swallowed them back down. “I shouldn’t have brought you to the water, it was wrong of me. You’re free to go,” he

told her, the words costing him almost everything in his chest.

A strip of lavender light glowed on the horizon, the last vestige of a rainy day. Soon what little light there was would be

gone, and the air would turn cold. If she was truly free to go, she needed to go now. She was still on the ground, propped

up in the cold mud where she had arisen from the dead. Scrambling to her feet, she immediately canted to the side. Her body

felt light and unbalanced, like she’d had too much wine at one of her father’s interminable dinners. Maurits shot out a hand

to steady her, but she recoiled, sent him a cutting glare.

“Don’t touch me,” she rasped.

He folded his hands behind his back, as if it was the only way to force himself to obey her command. He was doing a fine job of looking for all the world like he was in anguish, though with himself, or at the prospect of losing her, Clara didn’t know. She didn’t care.

“That way is the coast,” he said pointing beyond the tree line when he saw her looking about in a daze. “Don’t go that way.

Head toward the south. Even better, leave the low countries all together.”

Did he know how ridiculous he sounded? What sort of world did he come from that he believed that she could simply pick up

and start a new life, a lone woman with nothing to her name except an outlandish story and the clothes on her back? Helma

might have been able to fend for herself, find a new position and start over. But Clara had been gently bred for marriage

and wifehood. She couldn’t even make a loaf of bread, let alone make her own way in the world. She was as free as a bird with

clipped wings being thrown out of its cage.

She wobbled again, this time catching her foot on a stone and losing her balance. Maurits caught her neatly, pulling her close

to his body. His face was an inscrutable mask, but somewhere deep in his canal-green eyes there was a pooling of sadness.

Gently setting her right again, he stepped back. “I’m sorry, Clara, for everything. Here,” he said, handing her a brace of

fish. “If you make a fire, you can roast them.” Mute, she accepted the fish. She was still hungry—ravenous—but she couldn’t

even begin to think how to start a fire, and her pride and anger would not let her ask him to help. Taking another good step

back from him, she fisted her hands into the wet cloth of her skirt. Nothing good would come from lingering in his hold, and

she was already so tired, so close to letting her defenses fall. If she was to survive, it had to be away from him. Far away.

He seemed to sense that she had come to some kind of conclusion, because he gave a short nod, and stepped back into the shallow

water.

There was a taught pause, the only sound the light breeze through branches and the far-off cry of a bird. “I know I have no right to ask it of you, but—”

She stopped him with a swift shake of her head. He may have saved her life, but it was only because he had interfered with

it in the first place.

His response was infuriatingly even-tempered. He simply folded his hands, his elegant fingers white at the knuckles. “Very

well, Clara. As you wish.”

As she began walking, her scowl faded and tears rushed to fill her eyes. Eventually there was the softest splash and she knew that he’d returned to his world, leaving her alone in hers.