“Is that so surprising?” Her smile was pensive. “Tears are born of our deepest emotion, whether joy or grief. They are a part of us, just like our blood through which our magic flows. It is said the tears of some immortals possess great power, that manifests in unexpected ways. For us of the Southern Sea, our tears can transform into pearls—though it is a rare occurrence, perhaps only once or twice in our lifetime. A gift to our loved ones and also a key to our realm, so they can always find their way back to us.”

My hands moved to my necklace, unclasping it. Cradling it in my palm, I held it out to her, though it pained me to yield it. “I was unaware of its meaning when Ping’er gave it to me. Please take it.”

Her fingertips brushed the pearl’s lustrous surface. “She must have loved you greatly. And no, I will not take my sister’s gift to you.” She inclined her head to me. “I must attend to my mother. She is distraught.”

“I am sorry.” The words were torn from deep within.

“I’m sorry too. For driving her away, for not telling her how much I loved her, and most of all, for not asking her to come home.” Her shoulders tensed, her fingers curling. “I don’t know how she died or why, but don’t let it be for nothing.”

I nodded in silent assent, holding fast to this fragile solace. I would not flinch from the hurt or tuck Ping’er away in some untouched part of my mind. I would embrace the pain, for it meant that I loved her—and I would never forget.

Chapter 14

I pulled the gossamer curtains around the bed, sinking upon the soft mattress. Exhaustion pressed upon my limbs, yet sleep eluded me—the pain in my chest sharpening each time I shut my eyes. A gentle clinking broke the stillness, the strands of beads that fringed our doorway knocking together with the breeze. This deep underwater, how could there be a wind? Perhaps it was some enchantment like the glowing coral that illuminated our room, or the floor, speckled like sunlit sand.

Finally, I rose and headed to my mother’s chamber, just down the corridor from mine. She had changed into a fresh set of garments, provided by the attendants. The pure white brocade was a color my mother often wore, yet devoid of her usual vivid underrobe and bright-colored silk ornaments. She was winter, snow, and ice. The moon in mourning.

“Could you not sleep?” I asked.

A shudder ran through her. “There would be no rest in it.”

She was right, for too many nightmares would haunt us tonight.