It’s quiet here, just a few couples trailing along the rocks, none taking any notice of me. I remove my shoes and stockings and place them in the same spot as yesterday, and I hop between the smaller footstep islands to the big one, Picnic Rock earning its name yet again. The strong sun and calm tide has made the rock almost completely dry, so I lie on my back, face to the sky, and shut my eyes.
Though I don’t want it to, my mind shifts to Iker. He still hasn’t returned. I am already anxious, and the samepanicky feeling quickly returns.
What if something’s gone wrong?
What if the steam stack exploded?
What if the whale crashed into the ship’s hull upon capture?
Am I at fault?
I know I’m being ridiculous, but worst of all, we would never know. All of us are here, for once our eyes inward instead of turned to the sea.
That sends my mind into a downward spiral about Father, and then suddenly a shadow falls across the backs of my eyelids, the direct sun blotted out by a passing cloud. It’s as if the weather worries too—
“Excuse me, miss?”
That voice.
My eyes pop open, searching for the face of a friend who I know in my heart is long gone.
But there, leaning over me, is the girl.
The girl from the porthole.
The one who rescued Nik.
Yet that can’t be right, either. I really am losing my senses today.
I sit up and rapidly blink my eyes in the sun, but when they refocus, the same girl remains. She shifts back, long blond hair swinging.
Her face is like the singsong of her voice—so much like Anna’s, but more mature. The smattering of freckles around her nose is familiar too. She wears a gown that’snicer than all of mine put together, and her shoes shine with new leather.
Shoes. Feet. No fin—she can’t be what I saw. My stomach sinks, but I don’t know why.
“This is quite embarrassing, but...” The girl’s eyes fall to the strawberry in my hand. “I haven’t eaten in more than a day.”
I’m so stunned, I just hand over the strawberry. She isn’t ready for it and bobbles it in her fingertips before taking a bite. I shove my whole meal toward her.
Anna loved cheese and fruit.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to, I—”
“I insist,” I say, and I’m surprised that’s what comes out because there are so many other words on my tongue. So many questions. But I’m almost terrified to ask them because I know what word will fall out—Anna.
The girl eats, and I try to figure out what to say next.
Did you save Nik?
Were you a mermaid?
Are you Anna?
Don’t you remember me?
All would make me run if I were her. So, as she chews a hunk of rye bread, I open the jar of slid.
“Do you feel better?” I ask.
