Kit never really talks about his parents, since he didn’t know either of them. His grandpa Cormac raised him and never told him much; just that his mum had been a selkie and had returned to the ocean after having him, and that his father left shortly after. His dad was a magician, but Kit doesn’t have a drop of the magic in him. Selkie blood and magic don’t always mix well.

It’s still weird that Thomas is this clueless about selkies and selkie magic, though. Maybe Kit didn’t talk about it with him. Maybe Kit only talks about being a selkie with me.

“No,” I answer him, saving Thomas from his awkward fidgeting. “No, we’re not from the same herd.”

He makes a small noise of interest and looks sideways at me. Suddenly his eye twitches and he stares at something over my shoulder. His face twists into a quick mask of fear, and then just as quickly it settles firmly back to impassive. I turn to follow his gaze, but there’s nothing there. When I look back, he’s staring stonily out to sea.

He crushes his cigarette against the railing of the deck and flicks the butt out into the water.

A grunt of surprise bursts out of me before I can stop it. What kind of person throws cigarettes in the ocean? Oh my God. What did Kit see in him?

“So tell me how you know him, then,” he commands, crossing his arms across his chest and ignoring the look of absolute horror that I know has to be on my face right now. “When did you meet and fall madly in love?”

“It’s not like that,” I say, shaking my head. “No, I don’t have a mate. Don’t plan to either.”

I don’t want him to think about us like that. Kit is like another brother to me; I’d do anything for him. Sometimes leaving him was painful, because I’d be so caught up with the desire to bundle him up in my pelt and smuggle him back to the ocean. Set him free in a world where he wouldn’t have to look so sad.

But it wouldn’t have worked. He’s only half selkie. He couldn’t wear my pelt, even if I would give it to him. Which I won’t. I’m never giving up my pelt, no matter what. I’m never sentencing myself to a permanent life on land. Not even for him.

I push away from the railing and wander to the other side of the deck. There’s a pile of luggage stacked up under a low overhanging, and one of the bookbags has a white plastic bag peeking out of the top that I’ve been eyeing.

Looking around, I bend down and pull the plastic bag out of the bookbag and open it up, praying for food. A packet of crisps. Something to drink. A bagged lunch.

It’s just socks.