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A soft green light was diffusing through the grotto, hazy orbs sparkling like the heralding of the widde juvven in the clearing.

But no women materialized here. It was only Clara and Maurits, alone again. She quickly wriggled out of Maurits’s arms as

they surfaced, and hauled herself up onto the rock before he could help her.

While she took a moment to wring out her skirt and put herself to rights, Maurits inventoried the grotto. He would have liked

to have warm blankets and more of the comforts she was accustomed to already prepared for her down here. But there had been

no time, and besides, he thought bitterly, she would not be here for long if she had her way. Instead, he rifled through his

childhood collection for anything that might be useful to her, which was admittedly not much. A comb. A bent spoon that, with

some polishing, could be used as a mirror.

Clara gave a soft clearing of her throat, signaling that she was done. When he turned, he found her staring at the small seaweed

bed where she had slept when he’d first brought her here. He had often wished that he had the ability to know what she was

thinking, but now that he had sharpened his powers, he found that he could not bring himself to violate her in that way.

“I don’t think I shall ever get used to the cold here,” she said, heedless of the turmoil brewing within him. “It seeps into me, down to my bones.”

She was only a little distance from him; he could have swum closer, and taken her by the hands and drawn her into him. But

he had no warmth to offer her. Instead, he settled for nodding and watching as she lowered herself down onto the seaweed with

a tired groan. He could feel her stiffness, her coldness, in that one little sound and it winnowed through his heart. He had

so little time left with her. Everything he had done thinking that he could protect her, keep her safe, and here she was,

ready to walk into the jaws of a hungry shark. Let the land flood for all he fucking cared. Let his mother’s curse choke him,

let Thade keep his bloody voice. He could not let the object of all his desires, the reason for his heartbeat, do something

so reckless.

Clara gave in to her shivering. The first time she had been in the grotto, she had been so tired, but so determined not to

let Maurits know how uncomfortable she was, lest he thought her weak or pitiful. Now she found she didn’t care if he saw her

shaking, or even letting a stray tear slide down her cheek. Nothing seemed to matter much anymore.

She did not bother asking if they were safe here; she knew the answer by now. Nothing was guaranteed, and if Thade found them

it would only accelerate what was already going to happen. It was freeing in a way, though, a different sort of fatalism than

her old life had afforded her, where she’d had no say in her marriage or her future. She had been but a pawn in a game of

wealth and greed and accumulation. If she were to die in a cold grotto below the sea, at least it was on her own terms, and

at least it was in service to something greater than herself.

Maurits’s emerald tail glinted in the dark as he sat on the opposite rock ledge, gently flicking it in the water.

The more she studied his tail, the more colors she began to see.

An iridescent rainbow of blue, green, and purple jewels.

She did not think that he could see her from there, so she allowed herself to stare, to try to make sense of the body that at once fascinated and confused her.

If she had a graceful tail that allowed her to slice through water, she thought she should never want legs again.

But Maurits seemed determined to hide it from her, as if it shamed him.

“You aren’t really going to sleep over there, are you?” Clara called softly from across the ledge.

Maurits jerked at the sound of her voice, his lips parted in surprise. Shrugging, he pantomimed sleeping with his head on

the rock.

“Don’t be silly,” she chided, though her heart had started to beat a little faster. “I don’t believe for one moment that can

be comfortable.” She honestly wasn’t certain that it wasn’t comfortable for him. Did he need to sleep near the water? In the

water? Would his tail dry out if he was on the stone all night? Something told her that he was keeping his distance out of

consideration for her, though. The small sacrifice was unexpectedly touching.

Besides, she was cold, and more than a little frightened despite her resolve to meet the morrow with a brave face. Inside,

she was still a little girl who craved the touch of a loving mother, or a kind word from a devoted nursemaid. She had never

been a wife in the proper sense of the word, so she could not rightly say that she missed the touch of a husband. She would

never know if Hendrik would have pleased her, but she did not think he would have. Perhaps it made her wicked, but she did

not miss him, and she was glad that she did not know his touch.

“I’m cold,” she said, her voice dropping lower. Maurits went very still, and even in the darkness she could feel his gaze

heating. “Will you come to me?”

Her question hung in the air for an unbearably long moment in which she could feel every painful beat of her heart and ache of cold in her muscles.

But then there was a soft splash and he was slipping into the water and swimming to her.

He gracefully hoisted himself up on the ledge nearest to her, water

falling onto the rock in a gentle shower. He was close enough that she could have reached out and touched his slick chest,

close enough that she should have been able to feel his heat if he was a man. Her heart began to steady, the knots in her

hunched shoulders loosening.

The darkness, the fact that she knew he would not—could not—speak, made her grow bold. “I never dreamed about the marriage

bed,” she told him as she ran her fingers through the dry seaweed. “I suppose no young woman is supposed to imagine or look

forward to what will transpire between her and her future husband. It is an act of duty, and if there is enjoyment to be had,

it is on the part of the husband.” She knew this much from the little bit that she had managed to extract from Helma, and

the rest she had extrapolated from listening to Atty and Inka whisper between themselves in the kitchen.

As she spoke, he had slowly moved nearer, closing the remaining distance between them. Her hand fell upon his chest as naturally

as if it had rested there a thousand times before.

“Do you remember our kiss?” she asked. Under her fingertips, she could feel the muscles of his chest tense, his breath catch.

Of course he remembered their kiss. He thought about it upward of ten times a day, conservatively. He dreamed of it when he

closed his eyes at night and the current lulled him to sleep. Swallowing, he managed the smallest of nods.

“I think I would like to do that again,” she said.

He could hear her give a swallow of her own in the darkness. “But right now, I don’t want more than that. Do you understand

me?”

His heart kicked a little faster. He gave a nod, his throat tight.

As he was now, he could not be a husband to her in the way in which humans understood it.

There could be no consummation. He was letting his mind race ahead of himself.

She hadn’t declared her love, or even invited him to share that most sacred of rites with him.

But if he was understanding her, then his form didn’t matter to her.

Hope flared in his chest. Not just that she might lift his mother’s curse, but that she might accept him truly as he was, love him even.

If he were a man, he would not be able to see her so clearly in the dark, nor discern the soft shadows and pale, gentle curves

of her in the green glow. He wanted to tell her that whatever happened tomorrow he was proud of her for coming this far, that

he would protect her and honor her in whatever way she allowed him.

Instead, he took her chin in his hands and gently tilted her face up so that she could meet his gaze.

The coldness of his fingers sent shivers down her. They weren’t unpleasant though, and Clara found herself leaning into his

touch. Emboldened, he drew her closer until she fit snugly against his chest. He was a familiar link to her old life; she

did not have to trust him completely to find comfort in his touch.

Yet, she did trust him, or else she would not be inviting him into her bed, revealing her most precious secrets to him. She

would not be here at all, standing on the precipice of death if she did not trust him to catch her when she inevitably fell.

When his lips found hers, the kiss was tentative. Contrite and achingly tender. He did not press her, nor rush ahead, but

allowed her to explore him as much or as little as she cared to, occasionally giving a little breath of pleasure.

Her hand wandered lower down his abdomen, some instinct telling her that the emptiness in her would be staunched the further

she went.

With surprising speed, Maurits grabbed her wrist, halting her progress. A little gasp escaped her and she pulled back, searching his face.

He gave the smallest shake of his head.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked softly. The thought of offending him was less troubling than the possibility of losing

his touch. She was achy and unsettled in a way that made her reach for him again, her fingers grazing the hard planes of his

chest. She had thought she only wanted a kiss, but she felt greedy and desperate now that she was so close to him.

He made a little noise in the back of his throat, but did not move away from her touch. Closing his eyes, he gathered her

to him, and tenderly laid her back down on the seaweed bed.

His message was clear: it was time to sleep. As she lay her head on his chest, and the heaviness of sleep quickly overtook

her, she knew that she would be satisfied with whatever he would give her, in whatever form. Love was such a fleeting thing

in a world so cruel, and it was best not to squander it, not when the next day was not even guaranteed.