I nod, silently thanking her. “Family tradition. Sometimes I speak as if I lived it myself.”
The man chuckles. “Know the type. My old man was the same way—couldn’t talk about fishing without sounding like he’d stepped off a whaling ship from 1850. Well, enjoy yourselves.”
As we move away, Ashe nudges me gently with her elbow. “Maybe dial back the ‘in my day’ comments? Unless you want people thinking you’re a time traveler.”
“My apologies,” I say, unable to suppress a smile.
We wander through a row of artisan booths, where local craftspeople display their wares—intricately knotted rope work, sea glass jewelry, and painted scenes of maritime life. At one booth, I find myself examining a collection of miniature ships in bottles. One looks much like my old Crown of Nova, but I set it aside, not wanting my sentimentality to draw too much attention.
As we continue through the festival, I relax into this temporary human experience. We try salt water taffy, which I declare “absurdly sweet, yet strangely compelling,” causing Ashe to laugh again. We watch children participate in knot-tying contests, where I resist correcting a young boy’s attempt at a sheet bend.
At a ring-toss game, the barker challenges me to win a prize for “the pretty lady.” I hesitate, unfamiliar with the game’s parameters, but Ashe encourages me with a playful push.
“Three rings on the bottles gets you a prize,” the barker explains, handing me wooden rings.
I assess the distance and angles with the precision that once made me a respected captain, then toss the rings one by one. Each settles perfectly around a bottleneck, drawing surprised applause from onlookers.
“We have a winner!” the barker announces. “What’ll it be for the lady?”
Ashe selects a small plush octopus with comically oversized eyes, accepting it with a straight face that cracks into laughter only when we’re out of earshot.
“Really?” I ask dryly, eyeing the caricature of my distant ancestors.
She hugs the toy to her chest. “It reminded me of someone I know. Thoughhiseyes are much more handsome.”
The genuine affection in her voice catches me off guard. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what life might be like if this weren’t just a magical interlude—if I could walk beside her like this every day, accepted and unremarkable.
As the day wears on, we find ourselves at the edge of the harbor again, watching children sail miniature boats in a shallow pool set up for the occasion. The simplicity of their joy is captivating—the pure delight they take in watching their tiny vessels catch the wind.
“Thank you,” I say quietly to Ashe.
She looks up at me, her gray eyes curious. “For what?”
“For this.” I gesture vaguely around us. “For showing me what it could be like.”
Her expression softens. “It doesn’t have to be just for today, you know. Things are changing. The world is adapting to monsters living openly.”
“Somemonsters,” I correct gently. “The ones that are useful or unthreatening or entertaining. Not ones with histories like mine.”
Before she can respond, a commotion near the central platform draws our attention. Sebastian Walsh stands at the microphone again, flanked by several men carrying traditional whaling equipment—harpoons and specialized hooks that make my skin crawl despite my human disguise.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our special demonstration of Cape Tempest’s historical monster hunting techniques!”
The crowd begins to gather, their faces alight with curiosity and excitement. Ashe’s hand finds mine again, squeezing tightly.
“We should go,” she whispers. “You shouldn’t have to watch this.”
I slow our steps, reluctant to abandon the festival entirely. This brief taste of normal human life feels too precious to surrender so quickly.
“One more thing before we go?” I ask, nodding toward the lighthouse-shaped photo booth near the boardwalk’s end as I try to ignore the macabre demonstration Sebastian has planned.
Ashe follows my gaze and smiles. “A souvenir of the day? I’d love that.”
Inside the booth, we press close together as the camera counts down. Just before the flash, Ashe turns and kisses my cheek—a simple gesture that captures everything about this impossible day.
The photo slides out, showing a man and woman laughing against a painted backdrop of Cape Tempest’s harbor. Only the gold in my eyes hint at my true nature.
The photo is still warm in my hand when a veteran fisherman rushing past knocks into my shoulder, his weathered face tight with concern as he calls to his companions. “Something’s off with the tide—you see that pattern behind the demonstration boat?”
