She might have to do what she could to protect the other mermaids someday, but she couldn’t tell him that. He’d only get angry if he knew she was considering doing anything as dangerous as throwing herself into battle.

She couldn’t realistically hope ever to change back, of course. Almost certainly not. But even so she pictured herself walking barefoot up to his door, his old olive parka hanging to her thighs; how astonished he would look as he realized it was her standing there . . . Would he still love her as much if she had an ordinary human face again, though, and if she lost the power in her singing?

They were lying on their secret beach. Dorian was stretched out parallel to the shore while Luce’s head rested on his stomach. On one side a motionless fountain of dripping ice hung in permanent suspense from a jumble of high roots, and on the other the pale fallen tree sprawled in the water like the diamond-crusted spine of a murdered giant. The rowboat jerked in the grip of its stripped, ivory branches. “This is amazing,” Dorian admitted. “It’s all more gorgeous than anything I ever thought would happen to me. Except it’s so damn cold.” He laughed.

“And anyway,” Luce pursued doubtfully, “if I got to be human I wouldn’t be able to sing to you anymore. Not, like, real singing anyway . . .” She was surprised at how anxious she felt to hear what he would say about that.

“That would suck,” Dorian agreed. “I’ve kind of imagined that maybe you’d get to keep your voice. But if you didn’t I’d really miss it.” He was quiet for a moment, his fingers brushing across Luce’s naked shoulders. “Sing to me now?”

Luce was a little disappointed by his answer, but she sang anyway. She sang a cluster of delicate notes as pointed as the light of stars, then idly used her voice to pull a sphere of water free of the ocean’s surface. Dorian let out a faint cry, and Luce began carefully shifting the tone of her song. She sang several notes at once and gathered some of them into tense bundles, let others blow and belly outward, all to sculpt the blob of water that was trembling in midair. It looked ebony black and gleaming in the dimness, but a few hints of crimson glow slipped from the far-off aurora and curled in the watery head. She gave it broad high cheekbones, wide-set eyes, and then with some difficulty managed a large, slightly crooked nose. Shaping the sculpture with her voice felt almost like caressing Dorian’s head with her fingers, tracing the familiar curves and planes.

“Oh my God!” Dorian whispered after a minute. “That’s me! Luce, how can you . . . I mean, it’s so incredible . . .”