And then: a strong hand closing around her arm, hauling her over the rail to safety. Hanid.
“Get below!” he bellowed.
But she couldn’t. Her mother was alone in Captain Oblaine’s cabin or, gods forbid, somewhere on deck.
Lightning split the sky in half, and the answering thunder seemed to crack directly overher head. The wind lashed ice at her face and it was so cold she could barely move. But she bent her head into the wind and doggedly clawed her way toward the great cabin, sickeningly certain she was already too late.
Ten steps. Eight. Another wave crashed over the ship, knocking Talia to her knees. Her hands grasped the deck. She pulled herself forward, crawling across the sea-drenched woodas wave after wave broke over her.
And then suddenly she’d made it, grasping the handle of the cabin door, pulling herself to her feet. She shoved the door open, and fell into the room.
She wrested it shut again, and turned to see her mother sitting calmly at the table. She was absurdly drinking tea, steam curling up from the spout of a cracked earthenware pot, while the green glass lanternburned bright overhead
Outside, the storm raged and the world wheeled. Here, everything seemed impossibly still.
Her mother raised the cup to her lips and drank, watching Talia with dark eyes. “I told you she was angry. She will never let us go.”
Lightning flashed outside the windows.
“What do you mean?”
Her mother looked at Talia, her face wracked with impossible sadness. “It’s because ofwhat happened in the story I wrote down for you, the story of the youngest Wave. How could you forget?”
“Forgive me, Mama. I’m afraid I lost your paper. Won’t you tell it to me now?”
Her mother rose from her chair and turned to look out over the raging sea. Tears dripped down her cheeks. She unlatched the window, rain lashing her face and her hair.
“Mama, come away from the window!”
But hermother opened it further, and stepped onto the sill. She teetered there precariously, the wind ripping through her purple skirt, waves and rain drenching her. “Listen, Talia, can’t you hear it?”
“Get down from there!” Talia sprang around the table, but another wave slammed into the ship and knocked her to the floor.
“The Waves are singing!”
“Mama, what are you doing?” She scrabbled to get upagain, the ship tilting and lurching beneath her.
Her mother looked back, a brilliant, dazzling smile touching her lips. “My darling girl. I’m saving you.”
She turned once more to the sea, roaring and black beyond the ship.
And then she jumped.
“Mama!” Talia screamed, leaping toward the window, lunging to grab her hand.
For an instant, she saw the silhouette of her mother against the storm—theedge of her dress, the tip of her shoe.
Talia reached, screaming, but her fingers grasped emptiness.
Her mother spiraled away into the darkness, the hem of her purple gown just out of reach.
She was six or seven when her mother first told her the story of how the world was made. Her father was in Eddenahr instead of at home in Irsa, so it was just the two of them.
It was winter, not cold enough for snow but cold enough to sit in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket and sipping chocolate, rich and hot and sweet.
“In the beginning there wasn’t anything,” said her mother, sitting beside Talia. Her skirt pooled around her in a perfect circle of dark-green silk. “No light, no trees, no world. Just darkness.”
Talia drank more chocolate and scooted closer, eyes wide, ears alert and listening.
