I'm not sure if this spell is even going to work. I'm trying to track Amanthara through the shell necklace, which already has a spell on it. When the one I have in my possession doesn't explode from having two layers of spellcraft, I count that a reasonable success. Now, to see if it will lead me to her.

I step out early in the morning, after grabbing a quick meal in the dining hall. There are a few patrons already up and about, but I ignore them and they don't seem to be paying attention to me. I have on the same brown dress, the tear mended in the few minutes before I went to bed, and a kerchief around my head. The clerk on duty is a sleepy-eyed young man in a white shirt and pressed brown trousers; he barely acknowledges me as I exit the inn and make my way to the castle, following the subtle pulse from the shell in my satchel.

The shell tugs me to the right almost immediately. I frown, eying the satchel. Already, I'm worried if this is a failure. The castle is ahead, not back towards the inn.

This early in the day, I encounter few people. Those who are working in the factories don't live here; only garbage men and manure sweepers can be seen, completing their rounds before the more respectable folk emerge from their homes. Maybe the spell is retracing Amanthara's path, I think as I turn in the indicated direction. The spell isn't perfect; it's not one I've tried to do before, especially on something I already enchanted. So I decide to follow it to the end. If it leads me somewhere other than the castle, I'll just head there and figure out what to do on the way.

Thinking on my feet doesn't sit well with me. I prefer to plan and perfect my ideas before turning them loose on the world. There is less room for error.

I turn down a street that goes behind the other end of the inn, passing several row houses. In the distance, I see a series of familiar buildings and banners—I'm headed toward the market. Well, the housekeeper did say she saw Amanthara there yesterday afternoon.

At the end of the street, I can go either left or right, or down a narrow alley. The shell tugs me forward, but I hesitate at the junction. Seeing such a tight, enclosed space is an unwelcome reminder of yesterday's events with the would-be rapist. People in plain, functional garb walk past me, around me, ignoring my little psychological dilemma.

My hesitation lasts long enough to see a young woman carrying a large canvas sack on her back cut through the alley. Well, Sina, I tell myself, if she can go, so can you. And you have magic.

Lifting my chin, I weave through the pedestrians and join the other woman in the alley. My boots on brick cause the woman to turn around and look at me over her shoulder. I stare past her, to the market beyond. Deciding I'm no threat, she continues on.

We pass by stairways built on either side of the buildings; laundry hangs from ropes anchored between walls. Little bits of water drip on my head as I walk beneath them. A small shower rains down as a matron jiggles her laundry line on the third floor. Ugh.

I take off the kerchief, give it a little twirl to shake off the water, then retie it around my head.

The alley abruptly ends and the young woman and I part ways—she to a dyer's stall on the left, and I straight ahead. The market is relatively quiet as the merchants set up their wares and the first carts from the other towns have yet to enter. No one pays much attention to me as I appear to aimlessly wander, dragged hither and yon by the seeking spell.

I walk past a cabinet-maker's stall—and the shell tugs me backward.

What?

I turn around and retrace my steps. Maybe I missed a turn. But no, the shell brings me back to the cabinet-maker's stall.

"Can I help you with something, mistress?" the old grandfather, partially hidden behind a large chiffarobe, asks.

I hate having to think quickly. "Uhm, I may have dropped something here the other day," I lie.

"Oh?" His expression is honest, open—unlike the sharp, shrewd gaze of the inn's clerk.

"Yes, a small conch shell pendant—about this big, pink in color." I mime the size with my thumb and forefinger. "Would you happen to have it?"

The grandfather pinches his nose between two fingers and squints at nothing in particular. "Can't say I've seen something like that. But you can look if you'd like." He gestures around the small stall.

I thank him and hunch down, peering into drawers and into boxes of scrap. An ill feeling settles in my stomach and I hope that I've simply botched the spell. I don't like where this trail is leading me.

The shell in my satchel tugs me toward a little basket next to the chiffarobe. The ill sensation intensifies as I dip my hand into the basket and pull out Amanthara's shell. It glows faintly from the inside and I hastily turn it towards me to hide that little bit of magic from the old cabinet-maker.

"Ah," he remarks, surprised. "You found it." He peers myopically at what little can be seen between my hands. "Pretty little thing. No wonder you were looking for it."

"Yes," I mutter. "Thank you for letting me look."

"No problem, dearie. Enjoy your day."

I nod and turn away from the stall, heading back up toward the alley and the duke's castle. A sense of dread follows me, curls around my body like mist. Amanthara deliberately dropped this here. If it happened to fall off or was ripped from her neck, why was it hidden so carefully?

I've lost the mermaid, but the question now remains—why did she do it?

I study the duke's castle from a safe distance. Nothing about the façade has changed—same iron gates, same liveried guardsmen standing out front. Amanthara had been so eager to exact revenge in my name; was there another reason behind that desire?

A yawn escapes my lips and I quickly cover my mouth, lest I seem uncouth. The discarded shell is clutched in my other hand and I turn it over, studying the bits of pink shell that can be seen between my fingers. I wonder if I can craft a spell to track the wayward mermaid through the conch? It's not a part of her, but she had it in her possession for at least a few hours. In one of my books, there is a whole section dedicated to such spells—but those are typically reserved for earth witches.

Earth and water are opposites on the elemental wheel, so I doubt I'll be able to make it work—if I can even figure out how.

Well, I can't waste any more time than I already have. The hours are dwindling towards the duke's deadline. If I walk quickly, I can get back to the inn and at least give psychometry a try.

I tuck the shell into my satchel and turn to go when a soft voice causes me to stop in my tracks. "Sina?"

I freeze, every muscle and fiber of my being locked into place.

"Sina—is that you?"

No, it can't be. By the Grey God—!

"You have someone else, my lord," I mutter quickly, keeping my back to the man and taking a step forward.

"Then how do you know I'm a lord if you haven't looked at me?"

I grit my teeth and grind my heel into the cobblestone. "Every man here is a lord. Good day."

"Sina—please." I feel him move closer.

A sob lodges in my throat. "People are bound to stare, my lord. It wouldn't be right for His Grace's son to be caught with a known criminal—and a woman who isn't his wife."

I feel his flinch as tangibly as if it were happening in my own body. "Then meet me somewhere else. Out of the public eye." I remain silent, staring into the distance. "Sina. By the gods, please."

Where was his compassion, his empathy, when his father said those awful things to me in the courtyard? When he sent the ships to harass me?

"Fine," I say, and it hurts to speak the word. "Where?"

"Kretcher's Tavern, on Speedwell Street. Tell the clerk on duty that you're there for Pellor Nielsen. I'll meet you there."

I keep my lips shut and start walking again, not bothering to look over my shoulder. I don't have time for this; I should just head back to the inn and work on the spell. But my feet betray me—treacherous things—and I find myself headed towards Speedwell Street, which is conveniently located far from the castle.

The factory chimneys rise in the distance, spilling heavy black smoke in the air. Here, the folk are less refined, their clothes in muted greys and browns, patched and worn at the elbows and knees. In the middle of the dull laboring class, Kretcher's Tavern sticks out with its red brick façade and a jaunty sign that depicts a voluptuous serving girl.

My stomach curls as I realize what sort of place this must be—and what the viscount has been doing here. Still. I've come all this way.

I enter a world that is a far cry from the subdued inn I left a few hours ago. Music spills out into the street and even though the sun has barely risen, wine and beer flow freely. Girls move between patrons with their bodices cut very low, their skirts hanging above the knees. They serve patrons wearing high-heeled shoes that emphasize their bare legs—and other assets.

"You're a little older than we typically hire, sweetheart," a man wearing a crimson suit coat and black trousers remarks, leaning against a nearby wall. A cigar is balanced between his teeth, the end glowing red.

I'm not a whore!—rises to my lips, but instead I say, "I'm here for Pellor Nielsen."

The man's heavy blond eyebrows lift and he takes a long drag on his cigar. "He's never come this early," he mutters, more to himself than to me.

I hope.

"Well, coin is coin, after all," the proprietor says, blowing a long cloud of smoke towards the ceiling where it joins the heavy miasma already gathered there. "Fiona!"

A woman breaks away from the illicit dance in the main hall and wiggles her way over to us. "Yes?" She sticks a hand on her hip and cocks her head impertinently.

The man jabs his cigar at me, bits of ash dropping on the floor. "Show this lady up to Nielsen's room."

"You're getting ash all over my nice floor, Gregor," she chides.

"Don't care," he retorts. "Show her up."

The woman looks me up and down, then shrugs. "Follow me."

We push through patrons who stare everywhere but at me, thank the gods, and up a flight of stairs. Then another flight of stairs, and one more before Fiona leads me to a room at the far end of the hall. She pulls a key from between her large breasts and unlocks the door, gesturing me in.

I step inside and she shuts the door behind me. Despite myself, I jump. Gods, what a fool I've become, scared of everything.

Once my heart slows back to normal, I take a look at the room. Surprisingly, it's not all scarlet brocade and silk. Rather, it's arranged just like my room back at the inn—simple bed, chair, table. There's a fireplace instead of a stove, but that's it. Not exactly how brothels are purported to look.

I cross the room and pull back the curtain to look out the window. More people file by down below, along with sad-looking horses and carriages.

The door opens and I whirl around, hand coming up to defend myself. Klaus pauses, leaving the door slightly ajar. "It's me," he says in a voice I strongly remember, firmly closing the door and locking it. "Sina—"

"Don't," I say sharply, keeping my hand up.

Klaus stays put and I stare at him. He's older, of course, but time has been kind to the viscount, adding maturity to his face and breath to his shoulders. He's slightly taller, more muscular than he was sixteen years ago. His hair is no longer tied in a queue, but shaved close to his head—like his son, I realize belatedly. There are faint lines at the corners of those blue eyes that so captivated me and a few around his mouth.

"Sina," he begins again and I groan internally. How many blasted times must he say my name? It's like his words are a cannon, chipping away at my defenses each time he speaks. "I never thought I'd see you again."

I scoff and spread my hands. "And whose fault is that, Klaus? Oh, I mean, my lord?" I correct sarcastically. "I seem to remember a certain viscount turning his back on me."

"And I've regretted that every single day. Every day," he repeats, banging a fist against his heart. "Sina, I've tried—"

"Tried?" I interrupt, feeling a well of emotion bubble up inside and spill out like a boiling cauldron. I laugh bitterly. "You repudiated me in front of dozens, let your father insult me, and didn't do one gods-damned thing to stop him from harassing me and forcing me out of my home! Do you know what he plans to do, Klaus?" I don't give him a chance to answer. "He is going to blow up my home! Did you even try to stop that?"

I spin in a circle. "And why are we even here—in a brothel, no less? Is this how you spend your days?"

Klaus's face hardens. "As if you haven't had your share of lovers, Sina. I hear stories from the sailors who make it back from your island."

I snap, "I have been lonely."

"So have I!" he declares, pointing at the rug.

"You?" I sneer. "You're married."

"To a woman I do not love," he parries. "Do you know what it is like to be told that you are going to marry a stranger?"

I'm silent.

"It is agony," he tells me. "I did my duty and once she bore Matthias, we went our separate ways. She has her lovers, I have mine. Do you know that I have two daughters, as well? They aren't of my blood, but I have raised them as such."

I can only stare at him.

Klaus takes in my silence and crossed the divide between us. He takes up my hands and I can smell the familiar scent of sandalwood upon his person. "My father has done everything in his power to keep me from you," he says, squeezing my hands. "I have done nothing but think of you these last sixteen years, Sina." He reaches out and tucks a lock of hair that has slipped from the kerchief behind my ear. I tremble, feeling the familiar tug between our bodies.

He feels it too, for Klaus leans down and presses his face against my neck. "How can I trust you?" I whisper, staring at the wall over his shoulder.

Klaus takes a deep breath and draws back. "I deserve that," he says. There is a pause, then he continues. "I could ... set up a meeting between you and my father."

I laugh and shake my head. "Your father and I have had many meetings over the years. He has no interest in compromise, Klaus. He merely seeks to destroy me because I am a woman—a powerful woman."

A wave of sadness crosses Klaus's face. "Then ... then I shall go with you—back to your island."

I look up sharply. "You—what?"

His large hands squeeze mine. "I'll go back with you. With your powers, he cannot stop me."

My eyes widen. It's so perfect—the most perfect plan I could think of. With the duke's son on my island, there is no way he would launch his armada.

"Not yet," I say, causing the lines of sadness to reappear on his face. "I have to return a wayward mermaid to her father."

Klaus looks at me, confusion writ large in his eyes. "A ... mermaid?"

"Yes, the youngest daughter of Leonaris the Sea King. I have reason to believe that she is with your son."

"My—son?" He blinks. "You mean, that strange girl with pink hair that showed up yesterday is—is a mermaid?"

So Amanthara did meet up with Klaus's son. "Yes. I need to bring her back immediately."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" The dashing viscount that I fell in love with makes a reappearance—all exuberance and optimism. He suddenly bends down and kisses me; all the promises that we made that night coming back in full force. "We'll grab your mermaid and be on our way. Two problems solved at once."

I rock on my heels, so giddy from the kiss that I actually believe this can work.

It has to.

It will.

Feeling lighter than I have in more than a decade, I throw my arms around his neck and kiss Klaus again.