“Really?” Thomas asks, surprised. He cocks his head to the side in a movement reminiscent of my mum’s old Cocker Spaniel. “I didn’t know that.”

“Aye,” I nod, biting my lip to keep from breaking my blank expression. “It’s a whole thing. You get a tiara. A seagull chorus sings you goodbye and a tidal wave carries you to land.” I mimic a wave with my hand. “All the seals on the rocks slap their flippers in congratulations.”

Thomas furrows his brow.

“You’re fucking with me.”

I grin at him.

“Maybe.”

Thomas huffs and shakes his head, then grabs the lump that he’s had thrown over his shoulder and hands it to me. It’s a large green parka.

“Here, put this on so you don’t freeze. Nighttime on Mab is frigid, and Cormac’s old jumper isn’t going to keep you warm.”

“Where did that come from?” I ask, eyeing the coat.

“I stole it from the lost and found. Just put it on,” he says, thrusting the jacket at me again.

“Why?”

Thomas closes his eyes and sighs.

“Because it bothers me when people dress like idiots. Just put it on and be warm.”

I accept it and pull it on over my shoulders eagerly, thankful for the extra layer. The soft, downy parka settles around my body and it’s almost like having my pelt back. Like a layer between me and the human world. When I shove my hands into the pockets, I could cry from the warmth. I’m never taking it off.

“Thanks. I’m still figuring this human stuff out.”

“Mhm,” Thomas says, looking out over the water. “I wouldn’t bother, if I were you. Not really worth it.”

I don’t really know how to answer him, so I don’t. I just huddle down further in my new jacket. It’s a bit long in the sleeves and smells vaguely of cigar smoke, but I like it.

I think it’s the first thing that’s ever been mine.

We stay silent for a time, watching the waves and listening to the nighttime water. My herd’s song is getting clearer and easier to hear, even over the constant mechanical roar of the ferry engine. It’s not a sound you have to be in range to hear; it’s a song you have to feel.

“The singing is beautiful,” Thomas says, tapping the box of cigarettes against his palm before pulling one out. “I always miss it when I’m not on the coast.”

“You can hear it?” I didn’t think magicians could hear selkie songs. I didn’t think anyone could hear selkie songs except for people born with selkie blood, like Kit. And me.

Thomas nods, sticks a cigarette in his mouth, and then scratches at his neck.

The cigarette flares to life.

“I have since I was a kid, actually. Kit used to…” he trails off and his expression hardens. It’s one I’ve been seeing a lot — every time Kit gets mentioned, Thomas’s face gets all pinched and nervous. He looks like he’s about to be sick. The long drag he takes from the cigarette probably isn’t helping.