His gaze lifts and settles on mine.
I barely have a second to brace myself before he sweeps an arm toward me with a flourish.
“There he is now!” he announces, his grin unwavering. “Wren, come tell these people about the tour.”
Every head in the room turns.
I clench my jaw so hard it aches.
It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I’ve told him I don’t want to be an act the way he inexplicably does. When I was a kid, I tolerated it. Barely. I preferred reading, combing through the museum’s original collections—the ones with actual historical value. But as I got older and my resemblance to my many-times-great-grandfather increased, Dad stopped letting me stay in the background.
I finally agreed to take over the boat tours, not because I wanted to play into any of this, but because they get me out of the museum. On the water, nobody complains too much about the actual history I choose to share as long as it all ends with a mermaid sighting, which, thanks to Eryn, it always does. At least I got him to stop insisting I dress up the way he does.
Dad calls my name again, his voice thick with expectation.
I don’t say a word. Instead, I jerk my chin toward the gift shop, where Tate and Bethany are already handling customers, before pushing my chair in the opposite direction, ignoring the way Dad’s grin falls as several people, including Tourist Girl, take flyers.
Five
Lili
The morning fog still clings to the edges of the island, blurring the world as Goldie and I pedal down Madaket Road toward the Walter S. Barrett Public Pier on Saturday. The air is thick with salt and sweetly damp from last night’s rain, and yet, even with the fresh sea breeze in my face, my stomach turns at what I’m about to do.
I am voluntarily getting on a boat. Again.
I’d gone back and forth about this at least a dozen times since my somewhat disappointing visit to McCleave’s a few days ago. But somewhere between prying off old baseboards and measuring for the new ones, I made the mistake of leaving the flyer for the mermaid-sighting tour in view of Goldie.
That was the end of the debate.
“Do you think she’ll look really real?” Goldie asks, pedaling faster as we pass the Stop and Shop and fire station, her oversized Nerissa T-shirt flapping against her arms like a sail, “or like somebody’s sad Halloween costume?”
“The skeleton looked pretty real.” Unsettlingly so. Sadly, not much else in the place did.
But I keep coming back to what I read in the gift shop—how McCleave’s was once a historical museum before they went all-in on the fantasy. Since it’s still run by the family, there’s a chance they still have some of those original pieces in their collection.
It’s a long shot, I know. But the guy dressed as Poseidon did specifically say they’d be talking about more than just mermaids on this tour. I’ll just keep my eyes on the horizon and my ears trained for anything about smugglers. And if the guide doesn’t know anything that can help me? At least Goldie will get to see more of the island she barely remembers.
“There it is!” Goldie practically skids to a stop, pointing ahead.
TheSiren’s Callbobs at the dock, its navy hull trimmed in white, the name painted in gold across the stern. A sign on the dock announces:McCleave’s Famous Mermaid-Sighting Tour.
I grip my handlebars tighter as we coast down toward the bike rack, passing a bright white-and-turquoise ice cream truck parked nearby, its side labeled Hang Loose Helado. The striped awning shades a growing crowd of customers, the sweet scents of vanilla and melted waffle cones clashing pleasantly with the sharp bite of salty air.
I fully expect Goldie to beg to grab something, but she just looks.
“You don’t want any?”
She side-eyes me. “I don’t want you eating ice cream before I have to sit next to you on a boat for an hour.”
I elbow her. “Wow. The concern.”
She grins and runs ahead, flashing our ticket confirmation before boarding.
I hesitate, watching the boat rock gently in the harbor. Even with zero dairy in my system, I already feel my stomach preparingto stage a rebellion. I stare across the deck, and for a second, ice cream or not, I don’t know if I can actually do this. But then I think of Mr. Fanning and his pinched, patronizing face.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and step on board.
Goldie beelines for the front, weaving through the narrow rows of benches until she claims a spot right next to the guide.
