There was no response. The empty gray sky rolled over the island’s snowy peak, and the sickly trees groaned and fidgeted in the wind. They bent as if they were trying to scratch themselves and couldn’t quite reach the spot that itched so terribly. Everything was gray and ash and dull, sad green apart from a few blots of golden lichen growing on the boulders. Still, Luce realized, the day was a little brighter than it had been recently, and it seemed to be lasting longer as well. The night’s door was starting to swing slowly open again.

A miserable thought occurred to Luce: she’d blamed Catarina for murdering her father. Even worse, Miriam had committed suicide in the belief that the mermaids were responsible for making Luce an orphan. And now Luce knew that wasn’t true at all.

Her father was still alive, and dark, delicate, vulnerable Miriam—Miriam who’d cared for Luce and tried to be friends with her—had died for nothing.

∗ ∗ ∗

Each day the sun flung itself a bit higher above the horizon. Each day the patch of brightness where the sun burned behind endless clouds hovered for a little longer before dusky blue swallowed the sea again. Luce circled the island restlessly, always looking for her father. But it was soon clear that he was looking out for her as well. Whenever Luce glimpsed him on a distant beach he’d be scanning the waves, and the instant he caught sight of her he’d hunch his shoulders angrily and stomp off into the woods. It was impossible for Luce to guess how much he understood about the girl in the water, but two things were obvious: he was determined to avoid her, and he’d figured out that she couldn’t follow him inland. Luce got the impression that he came to the beach now only to get fish and then left as quickly as he could.