Only in the abrupt silence that followed did Luce understand that she was the one who’d screamed. There was a kind of lull as the strands of wind gradually vacated her head. She could feel them go, hissing out of her nostrils and cascading over her lower lip. Tears flooded her cheeks. Her heart was beating so fast that it felt like one sustained, rolling roar in her chest. More than anything she wanted to dive, to slash away from this haunted, hideous place and never return. But as long as her father was trapped here that was the one thing she couldn’t even consider doing . . .

The muttering winds backed off a little, and Luce could hear them hissing again as if they were debating something. And Luce’s terror began to yield to rage. Whatever these airy presences were they had control of her father, and they’d torn his mind apart until it seemed that he couldn’t even recognize his own daughter anymore. She could hear a cluster of voices just above the steeply sloping beach and feel a subtle flickering motion in the air as they approached her again. Luce sat up straight, low waves curling around her waist, and faced in the voices’ direction. It was hard to glare at them when they were invisible, but she did her best. They stopped in front of her, moaning and sighing, and Luce got the distinct impression that they were making an unaccustomed effort.

“Child of Proteus,” one crackled, old-sounding voice breathed distinctly, and a fingertip of oily wind stroked along Luce’s closed lips. “We have no need of you.”

A sensation like freezing gusts of static swept through Luce’s skin, and at the same time outrage flared inside her. What did she care what these uncanny voices needed?

“We have the man. We have the memory. We have the man,” the voice pursued. Its speech was halting and ragged, as if forming these words was an act of strenuous labor. “He has lost much. We do not need you here.” Now the voice sounded very determined; its tone was that of someone entirely convinced that everything was settled and that no further argument was possible. Luce considered the best way to respond, but she could already hear the airy babble sailing away from her. The ash-colored grass at the top of the beach churned in one abrupt swirl as it passed. The voices were almost at the edge of the forest. They were heading the same way her father had gone.

“Wait,” Luce called after them. Her voice still sounded strange, broken and peculiarly empty. “What are you?”