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There was nothing for her here.

Maurits was dead. Thade was dead. The queen was probably likewise dead. She had hardly had time to let the grief soak into

her. Clara picked up the crown, weighed the copper and pearl design of braided seaweed in her hands. But what of the land?

A crab scuttled over the upturned rocks, but otherwise it was silent. Clara replaced the crown on the throne with a clink . It would have sat on Maurits’s head someday, but now none would wear it.

The flickering blue light caught her eye from behind the throne. Reaching for the bubble, she watched as Maurits’s voice danced

within its translucent prison. She cradled it in her hands like a mother might a newborn, overcome with awe and love and terror.

It had not died with him. She could have wept for the words he would never speak to her, the words that even now shimmered

within her hand but had no mouth to give them life.

She had loved him, given him a piece of her heart whether she had known it or not at the time. How else could every memory

of him, every breath, evoke such a burning ache in her? Why else did she feel like dropping to her knees and howling from

the pain of it all?

But there was no time for grief. A loud groaning above her head snapped her from her thoughts and sent her hurrying out of the throne room. A moment later, a pillar fell and shattered where she had been standing. Land. She would go to land. There was no other choice.

She made her way through abandoned halls, sometimes swimming as she was able, somethings walking through knee-deep water.

Her fingers were numb, her mind was numb. Later, there would be time later to understand what had just happened and its implications.

For now, she had only to find her way back to the surface.

Another groan sounded, and Clara dropped to her knees, hands over her head as she braced for more debris to come crumbling

down on her. But nothing happened, and when the sound came again, she recognized it for what it was.

She followed the voice. Someone was here, and they were in pain. Trapped, perhaps, by one of the fallen walls or pillars.

“Neese?” Clara rushed to the other end of the corridor, picking her way over debris as she went. A slender arm was draped

over a pile of rocks, disappearing into a pile of rubble. Crouching down, she could see a red eye peering back at her. “Are

you hurt?”

“No, but my leg is pinned.”

The rocks were heavy, but Clara put her shoulder against the largest of them, and with her counterweight, was able to roll

it off. Then it was just a matter or digging out the rest of the rubble. Neese watched her work patiently, only occasionally

letting out a little wince when the weight of the rocks shifted.

When Clara was nearly to the bottom, Neese wriggled free, the rest of the rocks falling away. The nixie stood on swaying legs,

cuts and bruises painting her body. “Come,” she said, head cocked as she listened to the groaning of the palace. “There’s

no time.”

Clara followed Neese down the hall, water tugging at her hem, until they reached a flooded passage. Taking her arm, Neese hooked her arm around Clara’s waist and they shot up and out of the palace. Behind them, a pillar came crashing down.

Neese brought them to a rocky overlook where a handful of other merfolk were watching the last great gasp of the palace as

it returned to rock and sand. Schools of fish darted wide, giving berth to the plumes of debris. An empire was falling, but

life went on.

“There will be a flood,” Neese said, unflinching as she watched, “a small one. Perhaps the dire whale will break a dam, but

there will be no loss of life.”

Clara wanted to ask how she knew that, and what made the dire whales such great purveyors of justice. “But why? Why had they

never intervened before?” Clara asked.

“There needs to be some form of reckoning, else when will it end? Shall the lesson the humans learn come at the cost of the

whole earth and all its creatures?” Neese shook her head, her dark hair swinging. “No, it is better that it is now. A council

of seven creatures from both land and water will be formed, and rule just as once was the custom. Justice will be restored,

and a ruling reached.”

“There will be no revenge,” Clara said quietly. “The dire whale said as much.”

Neese only gave a slender shrug. “Well, it is a question for the council when it is formed.”

Clara did not have much use for councils and rulings and faraway pronouncements made in the name of justice. Whatever the

future held, it would be bleak and narrow without Maurits.

She pushed down the heavy knot of grief in her stomach as they watched in silence as the last remaining wall of the palace

swayed and then buckled, a cloud of sand blooming around it.

“Are you angry with him?” Neese asked.

Clara watched as the rest of the merfolk gradually dispersed, returning to their homes in the secret caves and tunnels of the sea.

“I am angry that I never got the chance to know him, the real him,” she said quietly. “I don’t even know his real name.” Mostly

she was surprised, though. Surprised at how keenly she felt the loss, as if part of her soul had been ripped away, a part

she hadn’t even known existed. All of the little moments that she had analyzed a thousand times for proof of deceit were now

thrown into the golden light of the past, rosy and lovely. She clung to them desperately.

Their last night spent together... that was one memory that did not need to be gilded with longing or regret. It was a

dream that had ended too soon, the hazy threads of memory already slipping away. She had wanted more of him, and he had been

unable or unwilling to share it.

“Come,” said Neese gently. “There are many awaiting your return on land that will be glad to see you.”

Neese brought Clara to the heart of the city, gliding through canals and dodging boats. The water level was a little higher

than when she had last been here, but otherwise, nothing had changed. If the dire whale had not come, it was possible that

the entire city would have been under water. And just as Neese said, the people here went about their lives as if nothing

extraordinary had happened, unaware that they had been spared.

This time, Clara knew better than to ask why Neese knew where Helma would be, or why Helma was back in the city at all. Like

with so many others in her life, Clara had lacked curiosity about her friend, about who she truly was. And now she had been

given the gift of more time, of a second chance, and she would not squander it.

It was gray and chilly in the streets of Amsterdam. Clara emerged from the canal to see a familiar sign with a tulip on it creaking slightly in the breeze. “Is this Alida’s studio?” she asked, turning to Neese. “What are we doing here?”

Neese only jutted her chin toward the door, more of a command than an invitation to go in. Too curious to waste any more time,

Clara put her hand on the door and pushed. Behind her, she heard the splash of water, and turning, saw Neese’s slender legs

disappearing under the surface.

Inside, the kitchen was just as warm and welcome as she had been dreaming. It seemed that wherever Alida went, a home sprang

up around her. A fire crackled in the hearth, a pot of something rich bubbling above it. From somewhere deeper in the house

came the creaking of footsteps on the stairs.

And then Helma was hurrying into the room, her wide skirts swaying, arms outstretched. “Oh, my little sparrow,” she cried

when she saw Clara. “You’ve come back.”

After Helma had given her an embrace that threatened to snap her ribs and steal her breath, Clara let her hold her at arm’s

length for inspection. “Yes, I’ve come back. And I shall not leave again.”

Helma’s gaze sharpened as she studied Clara. “It is over, then?”

With a nod, Clara slumped heavily onto the wooden stool that Alida kept near the fire. Her clothes were still wet, crusted

in salt. She felt as if she had been holding her breath for an eternity, and it was only just starting to rush out of her.

“It is over for now.”

“And Maurits?”

If she was not so tired, the tears probably would have come then. But as it was, all Clara could manage was a shake of her

head. “No,” she said in a whisper.

Helma looked as if she wanted to say something, but then there was more creaking and Alida came hurrying down from the studio,

swiping away the paint from her hands on her apron skirt. She stopped midstep when she saw Clara.

“Clara? Is it truly you?”

Clara rose, and the force of her small friend’s hug nearly knocked her backward.

“When you didn’t return home I was convinced that you had run afoul of thieves or something more sinister,” Alida said. “I

searched everywhere for you. Helma came to bring me news of your... your sacrifice,” she added, darting a glance at Helma.

“She said that you had come looking for me at the old studio, but that I was already gone.”

“And it’s a good thing I came,” Helma said bluntly. “She cannot cook. I found only a rind of cheese and some cured pork, more

salt than meat.” Punctuating her opinion, Helma gave the pot over the flame a good stir.

Alida rolled her eyes, but did not argue when Helma bid them all sit down at the table, and ladled out steaming bowls of rich

pottage. The edge of Clara’s hunger had been dulled by her welling grief, but she forced herself to lift the spoon to her

mouth.

“There have been many sightings of creatures in the city since your disappearance,” Alida continued. “I’d heard stories when

I was a child, but I never thought...” She bit at her lip. “Well, the job of the artist is to see what is truly there,

and I suppose I was doing my job poorly that I never saw the world for what it was before.”

Helma gave a snort and muttered something under her breath.

“But there is news since you left, not just of the creatures,” Alida said. “I have been accepted into Saint Luke’s Guild.”