A framed photograph catches my eye, and I carefully return the book before moving closer. It shows a younger Ashe in diving gear, posed beside a woman who must be her mother. They share the same stormy eyes, their skin sun-browned, both grinning, both clearly in their element near the water.
Looking at their easy companionship, I wonder about Ashe’s solitude here. A woman like her—fierce, capable, with a wit sharp as a marlinspike—surely had her choice of companions.
Yet she keeps to herself in this tower, watching over waters that have taken as much from her as they’ve given.
Perhaps that’s why she helped me. She knows what it is to be caught between land and sea, between solitude and belonging.
The photograph slips from my hands as voices drift up from below—tourists gathering early for the morning tours. My body instinctively compresses, an old reflex from years of hiding. Thesound carries clearly through these old walls, reminding me that discovery lurks around every corner.
It’s almost amusing being forced into hiding again. Almost. I spent years after the Great Unveiling in my secluded cabin, watching ships pass from behind drawn curtains, missing the days when magic let me walk among humans as their equal. As their captain, even.
Now here I am, crouched in a lighthouse keeper’s quarters, trying not to knock over her pottery with my tentacles.
At least the cabin has space. Her quarters, though charming, weren’t built with eight-limbed occupants in mind. I adjust my position for the dozenth time, careful not to disturb the stitches Ashe had so delicately placed.
And that is when my tentacle brushes the table where Ashe and I… Where we…
Gods of the deep. Even thinking about last night makes my skin flash with patterns.
I press a tentacle to my face, embarrassed by my own thoughts. Years of solitude did nothing to prepare me for the way she responded to my touch, the sounds she made when my suckers found sensitive skin, the trust in her eyes even as my limbs wrapped around—
A book tumbles from the shelf, startled loose by my unconsciously moving tentacles. I catch it before it hits the floor, my captain’s reflexes still sharp after all these years.
“Mysteries of the North Atlantic,” the cover reads. Of course she’d have this. Of course she’d be drawn to the very waters that claimed her father.
I return the book to its shelf, only to discover a well-worn paperback tucked behind it. “The Captain’s Tempestuous Heart,” declares the cover, featuring an impossibly muscled man in a period naval uniform embracing a woman in a billowing dress. The pages are creased, the spine cracked from multiple readings.
Well, well, well.
I flip through it carefully, amused by the dramatic declarations of love amid historically inaccurate sailing terminology. No captain worth his salt would ever describe the sea as “a tender mistress awaiting his firm hand.” The ocean suffers no masters, tender or otherwise.
Still, I’m oddly touched that Ashe harbors such romantic notions beneath her practical exterior. Does she imagine herself the heroine in these tales?
My enhanced hearing picks up voices from the shoreline below—tourists, by their eager chatter about tide pools. I drift to the window, and sure enough, a small group clusters around therocks far below, pointing at something in the water. Even at this distance, their presence sets my skin rippling with unease.
These past years since the Great Unveiling have been an exercise in invisibility. When the magic failed and my human disguise melted away, I retreated to my cabin deep in the coastal wilderness.
Gone were my days as Captain Roark Sterling, respected navigator of the Atlantic trade routes. Gone were the evenings at port, sharing tales with fellow captains who never suspected their colleague was anything but human.
Even Iris, the fairy who’d gifted me that glamour so long ago, couldn’t help when the magic collapsed. She had originally found me in my darkest days after losing my pod as an adolescent, and offered me a chance at a human life in exchange for helping her with her own troubles.
Neither of us expected the Unveiling to shatter all magical disguises at once.
I trace the window glass with a tentacle tip, watching the pattern of light shift through the sea-weathered pane. Beyond lies the ocean, my true home, my territory. Yet for the first time since losing my human form, I find myself wanting more than just the sea’s company.
When I’m healed, perhaps Iris can help again. She’s always had a soft spot for outcasts like myself, though we’ve lost touch sincethe Unveiling threw the magical community into chaos. Until then—
The sound of approaching footsteps draws me from my reverie. Two sets—one light and familiar, the determined stride I already associate with Ashe, and another that stirs something deep in my memory. A man’s voice carries through the door, cultured and smooth in a way that makes my suckers contract involuntarily.
“At least let me help you carry those supplies up, Miss Morgan.” The tone is solicitous, but there’s an underlying note that sets my guard up—like the false calm before a storm.
“Really, Sebastian, I’ve got it handled.” Ashe’s voice holds forced politeness, the kind I remember using in port when dealing with particularly persistent harbor officials. “And you know the living quarters are off-limits.”
Sebastian. It couldn’t be… After all these years…
“Of course, of course. Though I do hope you’ll consider my proposal about expanding the maritime exhibits here. The tourism board has been quite impressed with similar installations in other lighthouses along the coast—”
“I’ll think about it,” Ashe cuts him off, her words clipped. “Thanks for the offer. Really.”
