Somehow that doesn’t happen. I look at the Nautilus. I feel smoldering resentment, even hatred, but I also feel more certain than ever that this weird submarine and I are connected by fate. I have to make my parents’ sacrifice mean something.

“All right,” I say. “Where’s the entrance?”

It isn’t obvious.

There is no conn tower, no visible hatch, no rails. There isn’t even a gangplank.

Ophelia leads us to the middle of the ship. Ester takes my hand, which is completely unlike her. Her palm is warm and moist. I’m not sure who is comforting whom, but I’m glad to have her with me. It occurs to me that this is the first time a Harding and a Dakkar have been in this cavern together since the day Captain Nemo died.

After a moment, narrow slits like gills open in the side of the ship. Metal tendrils unfold, weaving themselves into a stairway. At the top of the ramp, a circular section of the hull irises open.

My ears roar. It takes me a moment to realize Ophelia has just asked me a question.

“What?” I ask.

“Would you like me to go first?” she says again. “It might be safer if—”

“No, I’ll do it,” I say.

Nelinha shifts uncomfortably. “Ana, you sure?”

I step to the edge of the stairwell.

Every nerve in my body is telling me to run. I’m so awash with emotions I could drown just fine without water. But I think I know what went wrong for my parents. I think I know what to do.

My father was a Shark. Ophelia is an Orca and a Shark. Luca is a Cephalopod. All of them would have seen the Nautilus as a prize to be opened and explored. My mother Sita was the only Dolphin in the group. I doubt she had time to think or act like one when they raised the Nautilus. My father was too impulsive. He rushed in and died. My mother died trying to save him.

“Hello, Nautilus.” I speak in Bundeli.

That was Nemo’s native tongue. He would have grown up speaking it, along with English, back when India was under British subjugation. If Nemo spoke any language to his creation, I’m guessing he would have chosen the language he dreamed in.

“I am Ana Dakkar.” I try not to feel self-conscious about addressing an open hatchway. I have talked to dolphins, dogs, orangutans, and even students from Land Institute. Talking to an antique submarine shouldn’t be any sillier.

“I know you lashed out when my father woke you up.” I worry that the Nautilus will hear the rage in my voice, but I decide I have to be honest. “You killed my parents. I don’t think I can ever forgive that. But I understand you were probably confused, scared, and angry.”

The submarine does not respond. Obviously.