Carvings of dolphins and curling waves run along the rail, their eyes inlaid with slivers of mother-of-pearl that catch the kelp light and scatter it.
A low canopy of woven sea-silk throws small, moving shadows across the deck, and the rigging hums like a contented animal when the wind tugs at it.
Beneath my boots, I can feel the boat breathing with the swell, a deep, slow inhale and exhale that mirrors the ocean itself.
I didn’t realize until I’m halfway aboard that my fingers have found Kael’s sleeve and they’re gripping it like a lifeline.
He notices and quirks one eyebrow.
“Fidgeting?” he asks, voice amused and low.
“You disappeared from bed, then reappeared out of nowhere and scared the crap out of me, so, yes, I’m fidgeting,” I say, though my voice doesn’t have the bite I intend.
A tremor of something—pleasure, fear, something muddled—runs through me when his thumb brushes the back of my hand.
“It’s alright now. I’ve got you, Telya.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
The voyage isn’t long, but the sea feels like a whole education.
It unfurls in colors I never knew existed.
A glassy turquoise that catches the sunlight like sugar, a deep teal that hides slow currents, and bands of blue so thin and green and electric—they make my eyes sting.
“I’ve never seen water in so many colors,” I muse, leaning on the rail and letting the spray cool my face.
“Nightfall has many bodies of water,” he says, watching me with that dangerous stillness. “Not all are friendly. If you see water of red, or orange, stay back—the acidity is too great for your delicate skin. If it is purple, that means the devilfish are spawning, and they bite when in heat. And when it is yellow—well—” He shrugs, absolutely straight-faced.
I whack him on the shoulder with the back of my hand.
The rack of knives at the nearby stall would have been handy, but my little tap is enough.
“Funny,” I say, though the corners of my mouth betray me.
“Humor is my weak spot.”
He makes a face like he’s suffering for me, and I laugh out loud.
The sound surprises me—bright and easy—and he turns my way, his eyes catching the lantern light.
They go molten, and I feel my body heat in response.
Across the water, something bright and quick arcs up and out of the waves, catching my attention.
“What’s that?”
A flash of silver that looks like a sliver of moon with fins. Another follows, gleaming gold, and they breach together inperfect unison—dolphin-like creatures, sleek and laughing, each one catching the light and scattering it like coins.
“Curved fin whales. They’re showing off for you,” he tells me.
And I marvel at them as they pirouette and splash as if to say hello.
The boat coasts along, close to the shore and I can hear the children squealing and clapping their hands at the show.
The creatures’ skins are shot through with iridescence—silver, gold, a smear of teal—and when they dive again, the wake they leave behind glows faintly, like comet tails dragged across the sea.
I find myself leaning toward the rail, breath shallow, utterly captivated.
