Wren.
I follow, forcing myself to sit down calmly beside his wheelchair, determined to make a better impression this time. And who knows—maybe I imagined his irritation the other day. I knowIwas occasionally short with customers for no reason back when I worked retail. I flash a warm smile. “Hey. Remember me?”
His expression says he does, and not fondly.
I push forward anyway. “I didn’t get to introduce myself the other day. I’m Lili, and that’s my sister, Goldie.” I nod toward her, though she’s too busy kneeling on the bench, practically vibrating with excitement as she stares at the water.
“Um, listen,” I continue, shifting slightly. “I wanted to apologize for any misunderstanding in the gift shop. I have a—”
A crackle of static cuts through the air as Wren’s headset comes to life.
“Eryn’s in place. Just saw we had two last-minute cancellations, so we’re setting out with eighteen.”
“All accounted for,” Wren responds, pressing a button on his mic.
A Black guy in a captain’s hat hops on board, squeezing down the narrow aisle until reaching the front. “Well, all right then.” He straightens his hat, then steps forward, addressing the passengers with a broad, practiced grin.
“Good morning, lads and ladies! Mermaid lovers from near and far! My name is Captain Tatum Raleigh, Tate to my friends, and I have the great honor of being your captain for today’s adventure! And yes,” he adds, winking at an older woman seated near the front, “I am a real captain.”
She giggles.
I’m pretty sure Wren rolls his eyes.
Captain Tate launches into a very well-rehearsed introduction, pacing the deck with a theatrical flourish. “I will keep you safe, secure, and smiling as we travel all around this faraway island of ours. So! Get your cameras out, your eyes trained on the water, and let me hear how many of you are ready to see a real mermaid!”
The chorus of excited cheers is loud—louder than I expected. Goldie practically screams in my ear.
“Oh, so it sounds like some of you don’t really care about mermaids,” Tate continues, letting his shoulders sag dramatically. The passengers play along, responding with an exaggeratedBoo!
“I mean, we could cancel the tour,” he says, turning as if to head back to the wheel. “Maybe try and find some other folks who would appreciate seeing the family of our fair Nerissa swimming in these very waters...”
“No! No!”
A few of the younger kids look genuinely panicked at the thought.
Tate sighs, shaking his head. “Maybe I should ask one more time, just in case anyone wants to change their mind.” He sucks in an exaggerated breath, then booms—“How many of you are READY to see a MERMAID?”
The deafening roar that follows physically startles me.
Tate beams. “That’s more like it!” He claps his hands. “Then let me introduce you to the man who’s going to guide you back in time through treacherous tales of pirates, smugglers, shipwrecks, and, yes, mermaids. Not only does he know more about this island’s tumultuous history than just about anyone, but he is, in fact, the many-times-great-grandson of Captain Lawrence McCleave—the very man who discovered the world-famous Nerissa skeleton nearly one hundred and fifty years ago!” He points two fingers in Wren’s direction. “Wren, take it away.”
Eighteen eager faces swing toward the guy sitting beside me, primed and pumped for the show.
Wren clicks on his mic, leans forward slightly, and—in the flattest, most uninterested voice I’ve ever heard—says, “Yeah, thanks. This is your reminder to remain seated when the boat is moving and not to crowd your fellow passengers when our mermaid appears at the end of the tour.”
I blink. Even airline pilots giving tired safety speeches have more enthusiasm. The contrast between him and Tate is so jarring, I almost laugh. But then the boat starts moving and my stomach lurches with it.
“Nantucket, which means ‘faraway land’ in Algonquin, the language of the native Wampanoag people, wasn’t inhabited by Europeans until the middle of the seventeenth century. At that time, it’s estimated that there were around three thousand Wampanoags on the island. Due to European disease, and specifically an epidemic known as the “Indian Sickness” in 1763, they were all gone in less than a century. Abram Quary, the last Wampanoag in Nantucket, whose portrait you can find in the Atheneum, died in 1854.”
Momentarily distracted from cold sweat starting to prick along my neck, I quietly tell my sister, “That’s wrong. Dorcas Honorable outlived him by six weeks.”
Goldie slow blinks at me. “What?”
“Just tell him.” I nudge her arm.
With a sigh, she raises her hand. Wren stops mid-sentence, frowning.
“Um, what about that dork lady?”
