I start swimming circles around the throne. What if they don’t come back? What if Dosinia is keeping Quince hostage as revenge for crashing her party? What if Quince got eaten by a shark? What if—
“Relax, daughter,” Daddy says. “They will be back soon. There is nothing you can do to hurry their return.”
“I know,” I snap, “but I have a major trig test tomorrow. I haven’t studied at all!”
“Your time with terrapeds has made you susceptible to their stress tendencies.” He leans back in his throne, as casually as if he’s watching a finball match. “Relax. If they have not returned in an hour, I will send the guard out.”
“An hour?” That seems like forever from now. “We can’t wait that long! We have to—”
The throne room doors swing open, and Mangrove announces, “Lady Dosinia and Master Quince have returned.”
“Finally!”
Kicking off hard, I jet across the room, reaching the doors just as Quince and Dosinia swim in. They are laughing and holding hands.
“Then she screamed and spat half-chewed jellyfish all over the table!” Dosinia says. Both she and Quince burst into laughter—over an embarrassing story about me. Well, two can play at that game.
“Don’t be telling tales, Doe,” I say, swimming up to her and narrowing my gaze. “Or I might have to share about the time you thought the Loch Ness monster was hiding in your closet.”
Quince, still laughing so hard he’s probably crying—only I can’t tell because human eyes don’t sparkle—says, “Lighten up, princess. It was all in good fun.”
I hold my glare on Dosinia. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
As if Dosinia would ever do anything in good fun. She’s still mad that I didn’t invite her to my twelfth-birthday sleepover. Grudges are her specialty.
“Can’t laugh at yourself, Lily?” she asks in a mocking tone. “How sad.”
“Whatever.” I turn away from her and grab Quince’s hand. It’s time to stop stalling. “We have a separation to attend.”
As we swim away toward the throne, Quince shouts back over his shoulder, “Thanks for showing me around today, Doe.”
My hand clenches tighter on his. How dare he use her nickname, like they’re friends? Or…more.
“Anytime,” Doe replies. “Next time you kiss a mermaid, maybe you can stay longer.”
He laughs. She laughs. I jerk him faster toward the throne.
Brat. She knows that severing a human from the bond is a permanent thing. He’ll be immune—to all mermaids, not just me. Not that I plan on ever accidentally kissing Quince again, but at least I know there’s no way he’ll end up in my court or anything.
“There won’t be a next time,” I mutter under my breath. Then, to Daddy, I say, “Let’s get this over with.”
He has his unreadable king-of-the-ocean face on, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I just hope he’s thinking about getting this done as quickly as possible.
“Lily and Quince.” He looks at each of us, then over our heads at Dosinia, still hovering by the door. She probably wants to gloat over the whole debacle of my accidental bonding.
When Daddy looks back down at me, I get a bad feeling in my stomach. He has a little of that faraway look he had earlier when we were talking about Mom.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly but firmly. “I cannot grant this separation.”
Next to me, Quince frowns. Like he doesn’t understand what just happened. That makes two of us.
“Daddy!” I shriek. I know I should be addressing him as the king right now, but he’s acting like a dad, so I’ll treat him as such. “What are you doing? You can’t leave us bonded forever. You can’t make him my king.” Suddenly it makes sense. I float forward, and whisper, “Is this about my birthday? You can’t tie me to him just so I don’t lose my place in court. I can find a better mate.”
In fact, I already have one lined up.
“It’s not about that, Lily,” he replies. His gaze flicks from Quince to Dosinia and back again. Otherwise, it’s like we’re alone in the room. This is just between Daddy and me.
“Our conversation about your mother,” he says, “reminded me of the serious nature of bonding. A bond is a gift—a connection that has no equal in the seven seas and beyond. I can’t just dissolve a bonding without cause. Especially when you obviously—”
“Without cause?!?” I start swimming up a whirlpool. “There is so much cause, I can’t even begin to list it all. Did you know he throws paper wads at me? And peeps on me from his bathroom window? And last year he spent a week following me to and from school on his motorcycle—ooh, he rides a motorcycle, which is way more dangerous than a wakemaker. And he—”
“Enough!”
Daddy’s royal shout echoes through the room. The witnesses to my humiliation freeze, afraid that the all-powerful king is making an appearance.
“My decision has been made,” he states, in a tone that brooks no argument—although I’m ready to give him one. “You shall return to the sea in one week, and you will have an opportunity to prove that you should not be bonded for life. If I am satisfied that you are unsuitable, then I shall perform the separation at that time.”
“But Daddy,” I whine. “You can’t—”
“I can,” he says. “And I have.” Then his face softens, and I know it’s my dad speaking, not my king. “I want you to be one hundred percent certain about what you—”
“But I am certain,” I insist. “Quince and I practically hate each other. He doesn’t want to be bonded to me any more than I want to be stuck with him.”
I glance at the boy in question. Why is he being so quiet about everything? Shouldn’t he be speaking up in favor of the separation? Maybe he’s too clouded by the bond.
“I know you believe you know your mind,” Daddy says, “but I have doubts. I worry that you are letting other emotions interfere with the clarity of the bond. I will not perform the separation until I am satisfied that you truly know what you want.” He gives me a kingly look. “You will give the bond a week.”
And that’s that.
I know he means well. I mean, he’s my dad. It’s kind of his job to make decisions I hate because he thinks they’re in my best interest. That doesn’t make me like it.
But, as long as we’re separated before the next lunar cycle begins, I suppose one week won’t make that huge a difference in my life. Not in the long run. Not when I get to spend forever with the real boy of my dreams.
“One week,” I agree. “For you.” And, I add silently, for Mom.
Then, before anyone—me, probably—can get all weepy, I turn, grab Quince, and head for the doors.
As we swim past Dosinia, she waves. “See you next week, Quincy.”
When I see him start to smile, I give a powerful kick and we’re out of range before he can respond.
“Careful, princess,” he says as we emerge into the gardens. “Someone might think you’re jealous.”
“You wish,” I snap. The last person I would ever be jealous over is Quince Fletcher. I can’t believe I have to spend a whole week bonded to this shark.
By the time Quince squeals his motorcycle into his driveway, my hair has dried into a frizzy frenzy. The section beneath the helmet is practically glued to my head, while the rest has blown out in all directions. I look like some crazy art experiment gone wrong. It’ll take me an hour just to drag a brush through it all.
His bike rattles into silence.
I unwrap my arms from his torso, leap off the seat, and shove the helmet into his chest, ready to retreat into my house and bury my head under the pillows. But Quince isn’t about to let me get away that easy. He wraps one strong hand around my wrist, shackling me to the spot.
“Not so fast, princess,” he says, tugging me closer.
Rolling my eyes skyward, I notice the position of the moon. It’s late. Too late for me to argue.
I give him a glare.
“I don’t even rate a ‘good nig
ht’?” Quince asks as I pull my wrist loose. “I think I’ve earned it.”
I freeze.
How does he always know just what to say to totally set me off? I mean, it’s like he has a special gift for pushing my buttons. Too bad it’s not a marketable skill.
I’m sure it doesn’t help that my temper’s resurfaced because we’re back on land or that I’ve had a few hours of silent swimming to build up my anger about the whole situation. Even though I know none of this is technically—technically—his fault, he’s the nearest available outlet.
“Ha!” I say, trying—and failing—to keep my frustration in check. “How, exactly, did you earn a ‘good night’? By kissing me uninvited? Twice! Or by letting the entire assembly at my cousin’s debut party believe we were a couple—”
“Hey, I was just following your lead on that one.” He climbs off the bike and squares off with me.
“Or, wait,” I say, ignoring his comment and gathering steam. “Maybe it was by spending all day flirting and holding hands with my boy-crazy cousin while I was stuck in the palace smelling like a frogging lobster.” I shove against his chest with both palms. Hard. “You’re right. Good.” Another shove. “Night!”
I turn and stomp away, reveling in my dramatic exit. I’m almost to the front steps when he stops me with a laugh.
“You actually are jealous, aren’t you?”
Jealous? Jealous?!? As if. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I’m not even going to dignify that with a turnaround.
His biker boots clomp on the sidewalk behind me and my shoulders stiffen. If he touches me—
“I’m not interested in your cousin, Princess,” he whispers next to my ear. “She’s a child. Fun to hang with for a day, maybe, but I prefer a little more…depth.”
For some reason, most of my temper melts away. I wasn’t jealous—for the love of Poseidon, I don’t want Quince’s attention—but something about his reassurance calms me.
“The bond,” I mutter.
Between the emotional mess buzzing between us and Daddy’s decree and—I slump—yes, I admit, some bond-induced jealousy of Dosinia, it’s no wonder I feel like I’m on a roller coaster of mood extremes.
For once, I’m not sure if I’d rather fall into a temporary peace accord or revive our regular tension. Whatever the reason, maybe because it’s been a really long weekend, for tonight I just let it go.
“You’ll need to drink a lot of salt water,” I say softly. “Probably a few glasses a day.”
A brief silence pings between us.
“Anything else?”
I resist the urge to lean back into him. The memory of how nice and strong and safe his arms—Stop! It’s the bond. Thebondthebondthebond.
“Take baths,” I blurt. “Every night.” Then, because I’m not used to being nice to him, I add, “Ice-cold baths.”
“Ice-cold?” he asks, his voice full of that ever-present humor.
“Well, maybe room temperature.”
“I can do that.”
“That’ll get you through the week.”
Another ping of silence.
“Thank you.”
Without turning around, I walk the four steps up to my porch. As my foot touches the white-painted boards of the porch floor, Quince says, “Good night, Lily.”
His heavy boots swish through the grass between our houses.
When I’m sure he’s out of range, I whisper, “Good night, Quince.”
14
As far as Mondays go, today is pretty par for the course. I woke up late to find Prithi licking my ear, I smeared lip gloss on three different shirts before washing it all off and going bare, and I accidentally froze my orange juice into a solid block. So by the time Shannen finds me at my locker before first period, I’m about ready to slam my head in the door.
“What happened to you?” she demands.
I fling my locker door shut and then hoist my unzipped backpack over my shoulder, sending half the contents flying through the hall. My shoulders slump. After we’ve gathered up my textbooks and binders, I say, “What hasn’t happened?”
“I mean at the dance,” Shannen says. “You went to meet Brody in the library and never came back. What happened? How did it go? How did you get home? I tried to call, but your aunt said you went to stay with your dad for the weekend.”
We fall into step on our way to class.
“Quince gave me a ride,” I admit.
“Quince?” Shannen hurries in front of me and turns so she’s walking backward. “Quince Fletcher?”
As if there are any other Quinces around.
“Uh-huh.”
“On his motorcycle?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Quince?” she repeats, unbelieving. “Fletcher?”
“Yes, Shannen,” I say, exasperated. “Quince. Me. Motorcycle.”
“What were you—”
“Lily!”
Speak of the devilfish.
A groan seeps from me. I know that ignoring him won’t make him go away—in fact, I’m starting to think it only encourages him—but I just can’t formulate a response. I was so not prepared to deal with the inevitable questions from Shannen. Especially not after the morning I’ve had.
“Wait up,” he calls to us.
Shannen, still walking backward, looks over my shoulder—presumably at Quince hurrying to catch up.
“What’s going on?” she mouths.
As if I could explain. I just kind of roll my eyes and shake my head.
“Hey,” he says as he reaches my side. “You left before I could offer you a ride to school.”
“I prefer walking,” I reply, avoiding Shannen’s wide-eyed, questioning gaze. “A unicycle would be safer than that death trap.”
Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have insulted his baby. He loves that bike more than just about anything. Still, I think I underestimated his retaliation skills.
“You didn’t seem to mind the death trap last night,” he says smoothly, with a hint of innuendo that I know does not escape Shannen’s notice.
I stop in the middle of the hallway outside my American government classroom. A stunned Shannen stumbles a few steps back before catching herself, then watches, jaw dropped, as I turn on Quince.
“Did you want something?” I demand. “Or were you just trying to make my morning even worse?”
A spark of something—pain? or maybe sympathy?—flashes in his eyes. When he opens his mouth, somehow I know he’s going to apologize. Damselfish, this bond is making me way too in tune with his feelings.
“Forget it,” I interrupt before he can speak. “I’m having a rotten morning. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
Shannen makes a kind of choking sound.
Quince steps closer and, in a low voice that doesn’t carry beyond the two of us, says, “I’m sorry.” (See, I was right.) “I know this whole mess doesn’t change things between us.” He looks down, his eyelids lowering until his dark blond lashes fan out over his beautiful eyes. “But I keep having this urge to stick close. To protect you, or something.”
“I know,” I whisper. “It’s the bond. Magic.” Then, as I remember Shannen watching from a few feet away, I hurry to add, “We can talk after school.”
I rarely look into his eyes when I’m not furious with him. I feel the pull of his emotions mingling with mine and magnified by the bond. It’s hypnotizing. Especially since he looks just as drawn in.
Thankfully, his gaze shifts over my shoulder to Shannen, and when he looks back at me, he’s got some of that trademark attitude in place. He shakes his head. “Lunch.”
Unprepared to argue, I nod. He sidesteps and disappears into the crowded hallway. I can still feel him, though.
Great white shark, I need this separation before I get totally bondwashed.
“Excuse me?” Shannen blurts, stepping up to my side. “Did I miss something? What happened Friday night? Did something go wrong with Brody in the library?”
“No,” I insist. Not eager for the entire school to hear this tale, I drag Shannen into our classroom. “No, he never showed up. Quince did.”
“And…”
I twist into my desk, dropping my bag on the floor with a defeated thump. “And he kissed me.”
“What?” she squeals, dropping into her desk across the aisle. “Oh my God, how was it? Was he good? I bet he was good. He looks good, like he knows—”
“Shh!” I lean in close so she gets the clue to turn down the volume. “It was what it was. I’d rather forget about it.”
“Then what was that in the hall just now?” she asks, observant as always. “And why were you on his bike last night?”
“It’s complicated,” I say. How on earth can I ever explain the situation without telling Shannen my secret? I should have been thinking about this on the swim home last night, but I was too twisted up and turned around to think about much of anything.
“What?” She leans sideways so far, I’m afraid she’ll tip over. “Are you two dating now?”
I almost shout, “NO!!! Omifreakingod, are you crazy?!?”
But then I think, How else can I explain the situation? And things are only going to get worse over the next few days. The bond will continue to pull stronger every day. Since I can’t just say, “When he kissed me, we were instantly joined by a magical mermaid bond that Capheira created to encourage mermate fidelity and stave off loneliness in the cold, vast ocean,” this might be the only logical explanation we can offer.
Quince will just have to go along.
So, as much as it goes against my every Quince-hating principle, I hang my head and mutter, “Yeah, kind of.”
I’m saved from further explanation by the bell, a pop quiz, and a notes-intensive lecture on the Bill of Rights. But the instant the dismissal bell rings, Shannen has her bag on her shoulder and her questions ready.
Forgive My Fins Page 11
