“I am thinking we must be nearing Culinnon,” Vada said. “The passages around it have been closed, yes? And we have seen no ships.”

“True,” Agnes said. There was a faint rumble in the sky and Errol popped up, flashing purple, the colors of Culinnon.

“Will we make it there before the storm?” Agnes asked, but he only gave the clouds one sullen look and then vanished beneath the waves.

“It makes no matter to him,” Vada pointed out. “He’s always wet.”

There was a flash of lightning and then a great clap of thunder and the heavens opened and rain poured down on them. There was nothing for Agnes to do but sit there and shiver. Rivulets ran down her back, her clothes soaked in minutes, her hair plastered to her face. Lightning streaked across the sky as the sea grew rougher. Agnes gripped the sides of the sloop tight, her knuckles white.

“Don’t be falling in, little lion!” Vada called. Agnes glowered and Vada laughed. “It’s only a bit of water,” she shouted over the pounding of the rain.

Agnes wiped her eyes, which was pointless because the rain kept on falling. “A bit?” she shouted back. Vada grinned and shrugged.

The storm raged and the waves crashed against the hull, sending sprays of water onto the sloop so that Agnes was being doused from above and below. She tried to think of warm things, of thick soft blankets and roaring fires and hot mugs of tea. Her teeth were clenched so hard her jaw ached, shudders ripping through her in violent bursts.

Just then Vada cried out, “Land!” and Agnes saw lights shining on the horizon. The water around them began to churn, and not just from the storm; Agnes leaned over the hull and gasped as she saw hundreds of colored lights.

“Mertags, Vada!” she yelled. “Look!”

The ocean was full of them, flashing and twisting, lighting up the water in colors more brilliant than a sunrise so that Agnes felt they were sailing through a living rainbow. Errol was wriggling his way among them, and the two girls watched as he flashed at this one and that, and the joy that radiated out from his scales was palpable.

It suddenly occurred to Agnes that he was home.

“Who goes there?”

The ship came upon them out of nowhere, the voice almost swept away on the howling wind. Agnes looked up to see a sleek schooner painted in muted colors with a Misarro with gold disks at her neck staring down at them.

“My name is Agnes McLellan,” she shouted. “I am the daughter of Alethea Byrne. I’ve come to—”

But the Misarro cut her off. “Agnes!” she cried. “Your grandmother has been so worried about you. Come!”

The schooner turned and Vada adjusted the tiller to follow. Agnes felt a flurry of nerves in her chest.

Her grandmother was here, and Agnes was going to meet her at last.