Now that the summer season was dwindling down, the short-let cottages and the boardwalk gradually seeming larger and emptier, Bram had plucked up the courage to take a boat out. Just a small one, just by himself. He had moored it a ways out, away from the guests and the main beach, and let it bob gently in place, the waves barely enough to rock it. For a while he had just sat and looked, inhaling and exhaling and watching the sun’s rays dapple every surface differently.

Then he had withdrawn his sketchbook, and set his eyes upon a patch of coastline, carefully demarcating it on the page, until –

The clifftop veered sharply into the land in a way not reflected by reality when Bram’s hand jerked at the boat’s sudden tipping. Well, not tipping exactly – he had barely breathed a sigh of relief when a face appeared out of the water. Bram stilled immediately. He had seen the merpeople before, from a distance – had stayed away from them on the mornings he went swimming – but never quite so close as this.

And he didn’t know if – were you supposed to stare at merpeople, or avert your eyes and pretend they were ordinary? This one was not like the selkies he had once or twice observed in the Black Lake. They were easier to think of as creatures, with their yellow eyes and greenish hair; this one was more like a man, decorated with pearls and an iridescent tail only visible for a split-second, and he was – singing now. Bram stared back, dumbfounded. Surely that wasn’t a bad sign – the song itself was hauntingly lovely – but Bram tightened his grip on the sketchbook almost reflexively, in case this aria was only a prelude to another attack. Hoping to ward one off if it was coming, when the merman paused Bram cleared his throat, crafting something to say against the sudden swell of silence. He didn’t speak Mermish, but – the song had been in English, so maybe he was expecting a response?

“Y–you’re a good singer,” he managed, and, all awkwardness aside, he meant it sincerely.

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