Page 3 of 'Til All the Seas Run Dry

“Margaritári,” she whispered.

As his eyes closed, he whispered back, “Marjory.”

The syllables trilled from his tongue against his teeth and the front of his palate, where the name she’d been given by her parents lived more to the back of the throat. They were both beautiful, but the way the r’s had rolled from beneath his teeth had thrilled her.

Margaritári, with its soft sounds, felt like the depths, beautiful but muted. The harsh syllables of thisMarjorygliding from teeth and tongue felt like this world above the water’s surface, with its sharp edges and brilliant light and crashing sounds.

She smiled to herself as she stoked the fire and washed her hands in the surf, testing this new name against her own teeth. As she stood to return to Callum’s side, her father rose from the water, his dappled skin burnished in the early morning light.

“Come back,” he said in the old language.

“I cannot leave him,” she replied.

“You saved his life, now leave him to keep it if he can.”

But she shook her head, looking back at Callum’s sleeping form, his face and torso shaded by her skin, his long, powerful legs sprawled out beyond the reach of the shade.

“You are not responsible for him, daughter,” he said, his voice sharp like a knife.

“I am,” she replied softly. “Fate brought me to him.”

“No,” her father insisted. “Your curiosity brought you to him. Your kindness made you stay. But let your wisdom guide you now. Away from him.”

“He needs me, Adda.”

“Your mother and I need you safe.”

“I feel his destiny twines with mine.”

“Your destiny is tolive,” he bit out. “That man will bring you nothing but misery. He will hurt you.”

“He will not hurt me.”

“Hewillhurt you. Mark me, daughter. He will hurt you. He will keep you from us. He will bring about your misery.”

The words became prophecy as he repeated it again.

She reached out and placed her hand over her father’s heart, where it pulsed violently in his chest, but not with the rhythm of a human heart. It didn’t beat with a steady drum pulse like Callum’s, but rather with a rush and ebb, like the waves crashing around his feet. The clouds gathered angrily behind him and the sea began to churn. But he was not angry with her. He was frightened, and she knew him well enough to know the difference.

“Adda,” she whispered. “I must stay.”

Her father clenched his jaw, covering her hand with his own and pressing it against his chest.

“Adda,” she said, moving to embrace him, to be folded in his arms and held close, as he had done since she was born of the sea and her mother and his sheer force of will. “What can he do to me? He is a man,” she said quietly. “He will live sixty more years at most. When you next blink, I will return to you. To Ama.”

But her father shook his head.

“I feel his fate woven with mine, Adda,” she whispered again.

“You could cut the thread,” he said, his jaw tight, his eyes clenched shut.

It was her turn to shake her head.

“You are the lifeblood of our hearts,” he said sadly.

“And I will return to you.”

She saw a single tear trickle down his ancient cheek. He hung his head sadly and whispered, “May it be so.”