So this is what drowning feels like.

The delicate membranes of my gills strain to pull in water, but all they meet is air—hot and dry in the summer sun. My vision is always poor above water, but it’s blurring worse than usual right now. Hopelessly, I open my mouth and draw in air, but it does nothing to dull the pain in my head and chest. Just because I appear human from the waist up doesn’t mean my lungs can absorb oxygen. . . .

“What’s wrong with it?”

A man’s boot collides with my bare side, and I gasp, rolling away and curling into a tighter ball.

“Careful, now,” another voice cautions. “’is Majesty won’t want ’er damaged.”

My head is pounding, darkness closing in on my vision as my gills flutter helplessly in the dry air. I can smell the water, mere yards from where I lie. If only I could reach it. . . .

“Hey, now.” A third voice. Another foot, gentler than the first, pushes me back to the pier, resting lightly on my stomach. “None o’ that.”

“It’s not like it can understand you.” The first voice, scornful. “Mermaids don’t have souls.”

A faint breeze brings with it a dash of sea spray, and my gills suck in the moisture, clearing my head enough for me to smile. Funny. I was always told men were the ones without souls. . . .

“Let’s get ’er up the castle.” The second man’s voice, urgent. “She don’t look too good.”

The first man snorts. “It’s a monster, Jenkins. What do you expect.”

“Gentlemen.” This fourth voice is smoother than the others, quiet and confident. “What have you found?”

Silence as the men scramble back. I turn my head to face the sky, wincing at the blinding light that only exacerbates the band of pain around my forehead.

A man’s face appears above me, blocking out most of the sunlight above. He’s young, and his brilliant blue eyes seem kind despite his frown.

“She can’t breathe.” His tone is quiet but dangerous as he turns to the men. “Put her back.”

There’s a pause before the third man says, “Your Highness, your father—”

“Blast my father.” The young man turns back to me, his frown deepening. Then, with a sigh, he steps around me towards the edge of the pier.

I exhale and allow my face to fall back against the filthy cobblestones. Already black is spotting my vision, and the roaring in my ears is louder than the distant voices of the men.

What a fool I was to ever come here. But then, I never expected a mermaid could drown. . . .

Calloused hands lift my lank hair from my gasping gills, their touch surprisingly gentle. The pain of suffocation is worse without my damp hair, and I fight back a sob of despair. At least it will all be over soon.

But something cool and blessedly wet settles over my neck. Water, trapped in fabric—water all the same. I pull it in through my gills, feeling the strength return to my mind and body with even that one breath, drawing in water again and again. . . .

“You didn’t even think to cover her?” The young man’s voice again, indignant.

The first man mumbles something about monsters, but the young man turns back towards me. His expression is disgusted, but it relaxes as he studies me, finally crouching beside me and unclasping his cloak.

“Here you go,” he says softly, draping it over my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

His sea-blue eyes widen, and he glances at the men. They’re watching from a cautious distance, and he lowers his voice as he asks, “You can talk?”

I’m alert enough to feel disgruntled, and I eye him with annoyance as I prop myself into a sitting position, clutching the cloak around my shoulders. “Of course I can talk.”

He glances back towards the men, then back at me, a faint smile curving his lips. “Do you have a name?”

For a moment, I don’t answer. Men are the enemies of mermaids—they always have been. But this one is . . . different. Kind, even. My eyes skim over his bare chest, and I realize that the cloth still dripping on my neck is his shirt. “Isla.”

“Isla,” he repeats. “I’m Martin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Your Highness.” The third man approaches us again, expression dogged. “We’re taking the mermaid to your father. At once.”

For a moment, Martin looks about to argue. Instead, his jaw sets obstinately. “I suppose you must. But you can hardly carry her all the way—go fetch a cart or something. I’ll wait with her.”

The man snorts. “And slip her back into the water while we’re gone?”

Martin eyes me thoughtfully, and I can tell he’s considering just that. Hope leaps in my heart, but it fades just as quickly. The sea isn’t safe for me anymore. Nowhere is.

“No,” he says finally, “I won’t. I give you my word.”

The man looks doubtful, but he nods and turns away. Martin is still watching me, his eyes steady and as blue as the water my body so desperately craves.

“Isla,” he whispers, “I can’t promise what my father will do with you. When it comes to exotic creatures, he can be very . . . inquisitive. But I promise you that I will do everything in my power to protect you. And if I can, I’ll return you to where you belong.”

For a moment, I’m silent, gazing up into his face—so earnest, so anxious. I don’t know how to tell him it’s pointless, that he can’t protect me whatever he does, that even my home isn’t safe for me anymore. But his expression is so eager that I don’t even want to tell him.

Instead, I smile—my first real smile in what feels like days—and whisper the only two words that really need to be said.

“Thank you.”