As a kid, I thought the taxidermy lab was some unholy mix of Dr. Frankenstein’s black-and-white movie lab and an unaired episode ofHoarders, the kind deemed unfit for television. The space used to be an old rendering room where whale blubber was boiled down in massive cauldrons, and even though it’s been more than 150 years since it was operational, it still feels like the walls, the doors—hell, even the air—are slick with grease. The acrid stench of formaldehyde slaps you the moment you step inside, clawing at your throat and stinging your eyes and nose. There are no windows. Not even a skylight. Dad says he’s fine with it, swearing his dozens of lamps do the trick, but to me, the room feels like a tomb. Glass-eyed animals stare blankly from every surface, their stiff bodies trapped midsnarl or frozen in eerie calm. Jars filled with murky, amber-tinted liquid line theshelves, their floating contents just indistinct enough to trigger a visceral unease.
Dad’s hunched over something with his rotary tool when I come in, the whir of the motor drowning out the sound of my movement until I’m halfway across the room. He makes a half-hearted show of brushing what looks like white powder off his chest and arms, raking it from his dark hair and the beard he hasn’t shaved in over a week. He doesn’t come close to getting it all and it doesn’t matter anyway because I can now see exactly what he’s working on. The stone table in the center of the room—the one with the deep scars and grooves from years of use—holds the remains of what I’m guessing are a grouper, a pelican, and—shit—an eel. My entire body clenches at the sight of that long, spindly eel skeleton, perfect for shaping into mermaid tails.
“Making a sister for Nerissa?” I ask flatly. Already I can feel the chemicals starting to sting my eyes and nose.
“This one’s going to be male, so he’ll be her mate,” he says, offering me his safety goggles. I shake my head. “It’ll be quite a few more weeks before Nereus here is ready for any kind of introduction, but...” Dad leans back so I can see the size he’s going for—easily eight feet—and I’m already envisioning the schlock accessories we’ll end up selling because of Nereus. Seashell slingshots? A seaweed lasso? “Once he’s part of the display,” Dad continues, “we’ll need to revisit Nerissa’s story to incorporate him into it.”
My voice is deeply suspicious. “What does that mean?”
“New T-shirt designs, for one, a second mermaid for the tours, and a new tour script focusing more on the story of the two of them.”
“The current script is fine.”
“We’ll give you some time to think about it.”
“Dad, no. I barely have enough time as it is to cover a fraction of the island’s history before we get to Eryn on her rock.” I pause to eye him. “And why do you keep saying ‘we’?”
Dad sighs, the sound deep and resigned. “I mentioned the idea to Eryn and she offered to come up with a backstory for how they were star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet style, got separated, but are now reunited forever. I’m not asking you to recite all that,” he adds, no doubt seeing the look of disbelief on my face. “I thought Eryn and whoever plays Nereus could act out a scene. She’s on board.”
“Yeah, Eryn would ‘be on board’ for anything you asked because she’s a sweet person who likes helping people.” I try not to let myself get worked up here, but it’s an effort.
I know the pattern. After my accident, Dad and Eryn got used to figuring things out for me, and while some of that may have been necessary back then, it hasn’t been for a long time. I’m sure Dad knows that. He also knows that I’d have a harder time pushing back against something he’d already gotten her to agree to.
Dad’s safety goggles are back in place as he continues shaping the skeletal structure with his rotary tool. “Did it ever occur to you that we’re all just trying to help you invest more in this place?”
I side-eye him. “How does cutting part of my script help me do that?” He glances my way, and I know instantly that isn’t the only change he wants to make. “What are you saying?”
He lowers the rotary tool and looks at me. His face is tired, like this conversation has been brewing for too long. “I figured you’d be grateful to let the tour go. You’ve never liked it. I knowyou’re trying to find your place here and I’m trying to help you, but the tour needs something different, and you... you could use a break.”
I inhale through my nose and fight to keep my voice even. “You wanted me to lead the tours, I did. I finally found a way not to hate them and that’s when you decide to pull the plug?”
He doesn’t rise to this at all, and why should he? We have some version of this same fight every few months. I get angry; he finishes a new specimen. That’s it.
Finally—and clearly with great reluctance—he says, “We’re starting to get more complaints. About you.”
“Like what?” I don’t exactly yell, but with the acoustics in the rendering room, it’s close enough.
“Low energy. Off-topic discussions. Arguing with guests.”
“I argued with one guest on one tour,” I correct. “And the situation’s been resolved.”
“Well, it was mentioned in one of the reviews. And overall, our bookings are down compared to last season, not much, but some.”
“So your immediate answer is to cut my tour?” The tendons in my neck start to tighten and clench up along my jaw, and my teeth grind together.
“Not cut. People love seeing Eryn. And they love something else too.”
I scoff. “Let me guess, the discount you offer when they wear our T-shirts?”
“No, Captain Tate. Several have suggested he lead the whole thing.”
My stomach drops before I even understand why. It’s not that I don’t know Tate’s good at what he does. He’s a crowd-pleaser,gets laughs, keeps the tourists engaged. He’s made for this. But hearing that people want him to take over...
I try to breathe evenly, but something in my ribs feels wrong. “Have you talked to Tate?”
“We haven’t decided anything yet, but he’s open to the idea if you are.”
My voice is quieter now. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
