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“(Someone tells me: this kind of love is not viable. But how can you evaluate viability? Why is the viable a Good Thing? Why is it better to last than to burn?)”
― Roland Barthes, “A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments,” translated by Richard Howard
There is blood in the water, and its scent is what draws Anne in closer. The tinge of salt and iron brings her near to the shore, and she slows herself down, cold eyes watchful. There are stones ahead, large enough to batter and fell ships, and Anne circles them until she can see plips of red drip down like gems that crash and burst on impact. She watches for a long moment-drip, drip, drip- before gliding closer, imagining a lost sailor or wounded fisherman, glaring down into the gentle tug of water, face set with displeasure. Easy, she thinks, to just reach up with one hand and grab him, drag him down and over, turn him until he doesn’t know up from down, until his chest heaves hungrily, desperately, and fills.
Anne reaches up, running her fingers against the rough edge of a stone, and then grips it. She waits a moment longer, listening, and then pulls herself up just until her eyes breach the surface. The two-legs has its back to her, though Anne can immediately tell that it isn’t what she had hoped for. Anne is preparing to lower herself back down and circle around once more when she sees the two-legs’ shoulders set, and it slants its head just enough that she can see the curve of the woman’s nose, from which the blood that brought Anne forward is streaming, and the dark smears over her eyes, spoiled by moisture and staining her cheeks.
The two-legs sits very still, letting flecks of water burst up against her, leaving spots of wet on her dress. Anne stares.
The woman sighs, brings a hand up to dab under her nose, and turns her head once more away from Anne. After a moment, she says, “Hello,” in a lilting accent Anne doesn’t know.
Anne’s heart jolts, her stomach twists in an unfamiliar way, and she releases her hold on the stone, letting herself slip back down into the water. She sinks slowly, hair rising to frame the yellow, stinging sunlight, biting her own cheeks and glaring at the last few drops of blood that fall and disperse. She sits, waits. There is no more blood, no feet dipping down into the water. After a few more beats, Anne pushes back up, face already set in a grimace, and finds that the woman is gone.
~*~
Anne returns the next day. There is no blood in the water to lure her, no good excuse. Just a thrumming, frustrated feeling in her chest that she can’t make go away. The woman won’t leave her thoughts, spinning up and turning her head, glancing sidelong at Anne as if she was ordinary, as if the woman knew perfectly well what she was and didn’t find it shocking or odd or interesting. The way her tongue twisted a single word, turning it into something Anne has never heard before. Hello. Down and up, up and down.
Anne decides that the feeling is hunger. She went to the stone to grab and drag and bite, but did none of those things. Her teeth had been ready and expectant but received nothing. Getting the woman out of her thoughts is as simple as finding her again and completing the task Anne had set out for. It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s rote. Grab and drag and bite.
She goes to the stone, bobbing under the water, holding herself in place with her fingers, cold eyes directed up. She waits. Fish come close. They nibble curiously around her tail and swim in and out of her hair, mouthing at the black pearls Jack weaved into the strands. For a long time, there is no sign of the two-legs.
Then, a shift on the surface. Color, distorted by waves and dancing light, and two feet gently skimming over with an almost childish kick. Anne watches as they drop down into the water, toes curling, and then go still. Easy, Anne thinks. Like this it is easy. She drifts towards them with undue caution, lifting one hand to reach. All she has to do is get a good grip and pull, wrap herself around the thrashing body and hold, plant her teeth in and wait until the two-legs stops. Just like she has before.
She doesn’t. Inches away, Anne curls her fingers and whips her arm back down, drawing it close to her chest. Her teeth grind over nothing. She stays there, frowning at the feet, urging herself forward but not making a move.
Fuck she thinks. What the fuck?
One of the feet gives another kick, briefly lifting out of the water before coming back down in a harsh splash. Anne pulls back, lips pressing together.
Might not be her, Anne thinks. As if that matters. She moves around the stone as she had the day before, slipping her hands up onto the surface of the stone and slowly, slowly pulling herself up as quietly as possible. A minute of silence passes before she slips further up, chin almost resting on the stone so that she can get a good look at the two-legs.
It’s the same woman. She isn’t lurched forward as she had been before, and when she turns again to glance at Anne, the charcoal smears are neat and dry. Purple marks her face around the bridge of her nose and under her eyes, but there is an unflinching steadiness to her. They stare at each other. Studying.
“Hello,” the woman says, voice lilting just as it does in Anne’s memory. “Do you plan on staying this time?” The corner of her mouth ticks up and her eyes pinch at the corners.
Anne doesn’t respond. Instead, she wrinkles her nose and flicks her tail, letting the fins smack down over a wave with a loud clap.
The woman arches a brow. “Hmm,” she says, and then, “My name is Max.”
Anne thinks, but doesn’t say, that Max is a hideous name. She can’t imagine how it would feel in her mouth, how it would sound in her voice. Max. Soft and then hard.
Max waits for a response. When one doesn’t arrive, she nods, the features of her face smooth and unbothered. As if it doesn’t matter at all, like it is expected and she is perfectly comfortable in this uneven silence. Anne thinks about hoisting herself completely onto the stone and baring her teeth in a hiss until Max screams and throws herself into the water. And then Anne will follow her down and—
“Your hair is like cinnamon,” Max says, rubbing her fingers together as if there is a slip of Anne’s hair between them. Anne’s body twitches and jerks, unsure if it wants to flee or press closer.
Anne licks her lips. “What is cinnamon?” The word is strange between her teeth, forcing her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She immediately wishes that she had stuck to her silence. It is normally such an easy thing to do.
Max smiles. “It’s a spice.” Then she pulls her legs up from the water and turns to fully face Anne, leaning forward, hand drawn and reaching. “Those are pearls? They’re beautiful.”
Anne wrenches away. “Don’t touch me!” she growls, snapping her teeth. Max goes still, then gently returns her hand to the top of the stone, palm flat.
“I’m sorry.”
Anne sniffs. “Fuck off.”
Again, the corners of Max’s mouth turn up. Anne wants her to stop doing that. Especially when she laughs; it makes Anne’s heart racket.
“What is your name, then?” Max asks, mouth still firmly set into a smile.
Anne chews her lip. She regrets returning here, wasting her time waiting for Max to reappear, and considers dropping herself back down into the water and sinking away. Instead, she tips her head to the side, striking Max with a warning look, and asks, “Why?”
One of Max’s brows lifts. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says, “but it would give me something to call you. Otherwise, I suppose I can call you whatever I want. I could call you Pearl or Cinnamon. Or Sirène.”
Anne should say doesn’t matter to me or you’ll never see me again, anyway, or, best of all, nothing. She wrinkles her nose and says, “Anne.”
“Anne,” Max repeats, smoothing her name out, making it longer than Anne has ever heard it before. Like Max has drawn the name from the pit of her stomach to the tip of her tongue. “That seems like a simple same for someone like you.”
A muscle in Anne’s jaw ticks. She doesn’t like the way Max speaks in that twisty, lilting way. She doesn’t like the way Max looks at her like Anne is splayed out, open and easy to read. She doesn’t like the intentness in Max’s face, nor the way she leans in like she wants to hear every stilted word from Anne’s mouth. And she hates the way Max smiles from her lips to the corners of her eyes.
With a low growl, Anne pushes herself away from the stone, sending herself deep down into the water. She keeps her face pointed upwards, watching until Max’s shadow brushes over the waves above, following her slow walk back towards the shore.
~*~
The trouble is, Anne can’t stop herself from returning to the stones. Again and again, each day she follows the path of the tide, letting it carry her as if her journey to the stones is incidental, as if she is merely happening upon them at the same time. She waits, clinging to the side under the surface, eyes focused on the glossy, sparkling surface until the now-familiar shadow dances across and plants itself down. She stays still, unblinking, until two feet drop down into the water, lightly kicking in announcement of Max’s arrival. And then she rises, louder each time, no longer concerned about hiding.
Max, she learns, is a strange woman.
Anne hasn’t spoken to any two-legs before, though she knows that she doesn’t like them. They are loud and dirty. They plunge into the water, screaming and rolling around in play. They throw in nets and hooks, stealing away what they can, so certain that they deserve it, that whatever they can grab belongs to them. They also leave things; scraps and books and garbage and bodies, sending whatever they no longer want into the depths. And the two-legs take prizes.
Max is loud and quiet at the same time. The more she says, the more Anne picks apart her strange voice until she can nearly predict which words will be shortened and which will be drawn out, bent and curved and always in motion. Max sits so straight Anne wonders if her spine is stuck like that, though she also leans forward whenever Anne speaks back at her. And she stares, curious and knowing all at once.
Just as Anne goes to the stones to find her, Max is always sure to be there.
~*~
Max watches Anne, features completely smooth. “Do you want to touch me?” she asks. As if it is nothing, as if the question doesn’t rocket through Anne’s arms and fingers all the way down to her fins.
Neck stiff, Anne juts out her chin and snaps, “No. Why the fuck would I want that?”
Slowly inhaling through her nose, Max tilts her head the slightest bit. The corners of her mouth tick up, and it makes Anne want to grab hold of her and thrash, makes her want to dig her body into Max’s, to grind and scream and smooth her hands down the sides of her face and, and, and…
“I thought maybe you’d be curious,” Max answers. Her hands are folded in front of her, like she isn’t scared at all. Anne could make her scared. She should. She won’t.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Alright,” Max says, easy as anything. “That’s fine.”
~*~
Jack has been asking where Anne goes, which makes Anne start to wonder why the hell she is still doing this. Going to the stones, hauling herself up where the sun prickles her skin dry and her gills feel stiff, her tail unwieldy. The only answer is I go to see Max, but she hasn’t told Jack about Max because he will have questions Anne doesn’t know the answers to, and he will make that face he does when he feels that she is making the wrong decision and she won’t have anything to say in her own defense because she isn’t so sure he’d be wrong. And then she has to wonder what the questions would be, just to make sure she doesn’t know the answers, and when she doesn’t, she has to start wondering why she doesn’t have them and how she can get them.
And because the only answer she has is Max, she has to go to Max to get the rest of them. And Anne isn’t sure she wants to do that.
It is best, she finds, to force Max into the uncomfortable position of presenting the answers without making it seem like Anne herself is desperate to know them. She traces her fingers over the stones, keeping her eyes down and angling her head so that her hair falls over her face.
“Why’re you always out here?” she asks, tone harsh. Almost accusing, though of what she doesn’t know. Accusing Max of wanting something, maybe. Sometimes it is horrible to want, and even worse to know that someone else is aware of the wanting.
Max looks at her sideways. “Because I love the water,” she says. “And I want to see you.”
It isn’t fair for her to be so willing to spill herself out like that.
Anne wrinkles her nose, pressing down the pinprick heat that tries to surge in her chest. “You’re not supposed to feel that way,” she snaps.
Max blinks, a line appearing between her brows. Anne wants to press her fingers there, to feel the push and pull of muscle, and then rub it smooth again. She keeps her hands carefully down.
“Why?” she asks.
Anne runs her tongue over her teeth, counting out the points. “You know what I am. You should be scared of me.”
And then all of the muscles in Max’s face jolt around, making so many expressions in a row that Anne can’t decipher one before it’s already faded and replaced. It’s frustrating and enveloping and lovely all at once. Anne thinks, as she does at each visit, that she should have downed Max at the start.
Max leans forward, pitching her voice low and conspiratorial so that Anne has to reluctantly move closer to hear. “I don’t think you’re scary at all, Anne. I think you’re beautiful.”
Anne growls, “Shut up.”
“You want to know why I’m here? You want to know why you don’t scare me? It’s because I look at you and see sharp teeth and scales. I see cinnamon and pearls. I see the way you look at me and know that you feel the same, and that you see something in me that you don’t think you can have. Anne, I’m not afraid because I am looking at you. I see you, and I know that you’re frightened enough for both of us.”
They hold there, leaning in and staring. Anne’s heart thumps, and she isn’t bothered by the way her mouth is hanging open or the sudden dryness of her throat because she can see the way the sun pushes through Max’s eyes until they are hazy green and near-translucent, and she can smell the sweat and saltwater on her skin. And Anne can hear Max’s quick intake of breath, and see how her pulse stutters at her throat, and she knows.
A slick, dangerous smile pulls at Anne’s lips, and she says, “You’re lying.”
Max’s eyes go flat and she pulls back. Anne feels cold air where her body had been so close, and she almost wishes that she hadn’t said anything at all, that she had stayed still so that Max would keep leaning in further and further until something broke and shifted and crashed.
“No,” Max says with a minute shake of her head.
“I’m not stupid.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Max grumbles, flicking her eyes out towards the water.
They sit there, considering. Anne thinks that she should roll over into the waves, making a big enough splash to soak Max to the bone, if she loves the water so much. Before she can move, Max swallows and takes hold of Anne’s hand. Anne goes stiff, all of her muscles going taut, her skin tingling top to bottom. She should wrench her hand away, dig her claws into Max and demand that she never touches her again. She doesn’t. She stays very still, staring at where Max’s hand folds over hers and holds.
“Anne,” Max says. “I’m not lying to you. But there are things I don’t know how to explain.”
Anne arches a brow. “Because you’re very complicated,” she says, leaden with sarcasm. It is supposed to sting, but Max only smiles, eyes twinkling with amusement. Fuck.
“Because I’ve never had to explain them before.”
Anne takes a deep breath, blows it out through her nose. “Try.”
“Fine,” Max says after a moment of hesitation. “Do you know what a selkie is?”
Anne has to stop herself from snapping of course I know what a fucking selkie is because she actually has no idea and the point of this horrible conversation is to leave with answers, so it would be unwise to actively avoid them. She pulls her teeth apart and says, “No.”
Max licks her lips. “Alright. Do you know what a seal is?”
“Yeah,” Anne says slowly, narrowing her eyes.
“I am of the sea, like you. I’m a selkie,” Max says, squeezing Anne’s hand harder. “Usually, I look like a seal.”
Anne stares at her for a long moment. Instead of asking what’s the difference between looking like a seal and being a seal, she asks, “Then why the hell do you look like this now?”
A muscle in Max’s cheek twitches and she says, “Because when I am on land, I look like this.”
“You’re a selkie that lives on land with the two-legs,” Anne repeats, waiting for Max to nod before she continues. “And you come here to sit on the stones and…see me?”
Max inhales. “Like I said, I love the water.”
“Why don’t you come back, then?” Anne asks tersely.
Max furrows her brows, as if the answer is obvious. Maybe it is, Anne really doesn’t know.
“I can’t,” Max says, voice flipping and twisting in that peculiar way that makes Anne want to dig her fingers in and never let go. “A man has my pelt.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
Max presses her lips together. “My pelt. I can’t return to the ocean without it.”
Anne considers this. She’s never heard of such a thing, though she doesn’t see why Max would lie about it. And she remembers that first day, when she was drawn in by the smell of blood.
“But you want to come back?”
Max looks out past Anne’s shoulder, eyes glassy. She doesn’t answer. Anne doesn’t know why or what it means. Why would anyone want to stay somewhere they don’t belong, where the creatures poke and prod and take whatever they want?
“I want the choice,” is all she says. Then she turns that look on Anne and asks, “Have you ever wanted to come above?”
Anne frowns. “I’m above right now, ain’t I?”
“Mm.”
~*~
“What is it?” Jack asks. He’s been talking about something, but Anne hasn’t been paying attention. Her thoughts have been far away, stuck on two-legs and sand and blood, the feel of stone under her tail, air whispering her hair dry. Things that she can’t explain to Jack without her tongue twisting in on itself.
She picks her teeth with a fishbone, shifting so her hair covers her face. Pearls clack together in front of her eyes and she has to nudge them away. “Nothing.”
His mouth draws into a thin line. “I know when you’re not feeling well, Anne,” he says. “You might as well tell me.”
She wants to. She wants to pour everything out before him so he can sift through the mess and piece it together, divide her tangled thoughts into even parts, directing his finger over each portion and explaining what it all means. But for once, Anne isn’t sure Jack will be able to do it. She isn’t sure that his touch won’t alter the parts, won’t change them before her eyes so that the mess becomes a very particular color and shape that she doesn’t know how to bring back to herself.
Still, she tries. “I met someone,” she says with a derisive sniff.
“Oh,” Jack says, mouth popping open in surprise that he quickly tapers. “Is that where you’ve been running off to?”
Anne shrugs. “She’s a selkie.”
“Oh.” His brows furrow in thought and his tail whooshes curiously, kicking up sand.
Anne studies the tilt of his head for a moment, not finding a mirror of her own confusion. “D’you know what that is?” she asks, tossing away the fishbone and watching as it catches on the water and floats away.
“I do,” Jack says, and then quickly adds, “Seal-folk,” as if he needs to prove his own certainty. He does this, Anne knows, after years of being second-guessed and questioned. Elaborating before doubt even has time to enter the other person’s mind.
She moves forward, edging the conversation closer to the point. “She’s trapped up there with the two-legs,” she says, nodding up as if the surface isn’t so far away.
Jack’s face scrunches in distaste. “Someone took her pelt?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright,” he drawls. “And you feel very sad for her?”
Anne frowns. She doesn’t feel sad about it. The feeling that plucks up in her chest at the thought of Max being trapped up above is crisp and hot and bitter. She’s angry, frustrated at the circumstance, agitated that the two-legs do what they do. But not sad. “I want to help her,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the gentleness of the words.
Jack’s brows arch. “How do you plan to do that? Are you going to have her lure him out here so you can snatch him into the water?”
That had been the plan, though the more time Anne has spent considering it, the more she’s started to doubt it’s success.
“I don’t know if she’ll do it. She seems…different. From me.” She doesn’t add that she gets the impression that, in this way at least, Max is a bit more like Jack, who is still wriggling his fingers in a mimicry of snatching, which is something that he doesn’t participate in. Of course, he often goes with Anne to watch and pretend that he is more involved, but he has never wanted to be the one dragging a body down, tearing at flesh and waiting for the struggle to stop. If Anne didn’t know Jack, she wouldn’t understand his hesitancy, and many who hear about it don’t, which means that they whisper about him and his apparent weakness, his supposed softness for the two-legs, though these feelings do not exist in him. So, Anne lets him come, and she lets him pretend, and she bares her teeth at anyone who talks.
Jack waves his hand dismissively, as if she has nothing to worry over. “I’m sure she’s perfectly willing to bash him against the stones, dear. You’ll just have to ask.”
“What if she doesn’t want to?” Anne asks, crossing her arms over her chest and jerking her chin to get her hair out of the way so she can level Jack with a look.
“Then you’ll come up with something else,” he says, as if it is that easy. He considers for a moment, then offers Anne a smile. It’s the one that says he knows her, that he has no doubt in her ability to handle a situation. Sometimes she really hates when he looks at her like that, despite the thrill of warmth it sends down her spine.
Anne hums doubtfully, wishing that she hadn’t tossed the fishbone away so she could have something to distract her hands with.
Jack shrugs. “Or make a new friend and leave her to deal with her issues on her own.”
~*~
Anne goes to see Max again the next day, but Max isn’t there. Max doesn’t come.
~*~
Jack has been frowning ever since Anne came to him with her teeth grit together and her hair draped over her eyes. He twists his finger through his mustache and flicks his tail unhappily, eyes landing on Anne and holding there for a long time before he speaks. “I know a sea witch.”
Anne sighs. “Hmm,” she says.
His lips press together, and his eyes dart up for a moment before he sticks them back on Anne. “I know a sea witch with a reputation for making deals. Particularly ones that could help your situation.”
“Yeah?” Interested now, Anne lifts her chin and refocuses herself on Jack. She watches him swallow, pushing past his own discomfort.
“Yes,” he says. “I have even heard that she is able to grant merfolk legs.” He looks down at her tail pointedly. “Apparently, you aren’t the only one looking to complete a task on land.”
“Where is she?”
Jack shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. His chin sets stubbornly and he says, “I’m going with you.”
Anne raises a brow. “Why?”
“Because the sea witch already knows me and owes me a favor,” he says, pressing his lips together and offering a stiff smile. “Meaning, I can get your legs for free.”
~*~
There is a cave not far from the shore, pressed and hidden below the surface, with a high shelf on the other side that men sometimes wander into. Anne has never been to the cave herself, not interested in what whispers promise and doubtful that there was anything in there at all other than, perhaps, the predator that spits out the bones that rest near the opening. She hadn’t known before now that Jack himself had ever entered, though she supposes that she should have guessed. Jack used to run with Vane, after all, before he disappeared, and they sometimes wandered off without her when Jack got ideas about his own reputation.
“I’ll go in first,” Jack says, eyes narrowing as they do every time he presents himself, every time he wants to look like he knows something very important. “Get the negotiations over with.”
Anne frowns. “You wanna go in without me?” she asks doubtfully. She has never met a sea witch before, but she knows that they have reputations as tricksters and manipulators, and that many who have fallen under their power don’t come out the other side.
“No,” he says slowly, glaring at the dark pit before them, “but working with Eleanor is a delicate process and she is less likely to work with me if there’s an audience. Particularly as it pertains to our past exchanges and who might owe who.”
Anne stares at him for a long moment. “You mean she’s a cheat,” she says, already moving herself forward, prepared to grab Jack and keep him with her.
Jack sighs, giving his head a small shake. “I mean she’s a sharp business woman who refuses to appear weak or be witnessed as beholden to anyone if it doesn’t suite her. And being beholden to me does not benefit anyone, appearance-wise.”
“What if you need me?” Anne asks, eyes flickering between Jack and the cave entrance. She tries to imagine him slipping into the cave alone, spine straight and eyes glimmering with the light of a prospective deal, and not returning to her. Jack, grabbed and torn and bleeding, all alone.
“I’ll scream,” he says with a thin smile.
Anne’s stomach twists. “That’s a shit plan,” she growls.
“They’re all shit plans, Anne. Focus on the execution.”
Moments later, he is gone, swimming deep enough that Anne can’t see or hear him. She waits stiffly, pressing as close to the entrance as she can without crossing the shadowy line, listening hard for a gasp or grunt, in case he tries to call out for her but can’t. Her skin feels tight over her bones, her throat working through a reluctant, nauseated swallow. Minutes pass, dragging into an hour, and she finds herself moving from one side of the opening to the other.
Anne is just about to plunge into the cave after Jack when she hears the shift of a tail and a heavy sigh, and he pulls forward out of the darkness and into view. Her breath releases and she meets him, resisting the urge to dig her fingers into his arms and shake him.
“Okay?” she asks, staring at him intently, searching for signs of harm. But he is whole, if a bit worn. The corners of his eyes are pinched tight, and his shoulders sag.
Jack exhales hard, rolling his eyes. “I hate that woman,” he grumbles. And then, without offering any more detail, he nudges her gently with his tail and turns back to the cave. “Come on, then.”
~*~
The cave is cold, the water thin and biting as it rushes past Anne’s arms. She follows Jack deeper and deeper, the heavy dark seeming to extend itself out with lithe, crooked fingers, grasping at them as they pass. There is no life; no plants or fish weaving through, and Anne begins to feel that the stone walls are pressing in on her, claiming the shine of her tail and the glimmer of her pearls with each thrust forward.
Eventually, the long pathway they follow opens up into a hollowed cavern, and Jack directs Anne up onto the edge of a stone floor where he pulls himself onto the lip, out of the water, and gestures at her to do the same. She hesitates for a moment, eyes taking in the hazy blue light above, before she hooks her fingers up and pokes her head to the surface.
There is a platform carved from gray stone, and a woman sits behind it. At first, Anne believes that she is looking at another two-legs; the woman is tied neatly into a dress, her hair knotted behind her head in a silky, pale twist. Her chin is squared and stiff, her eyes sharp and challenging. Then, thick, black tentacles wriggle out of her dress, kneading the air and reaching forward, seemingly undirected and independent of their source. Rolling and snapping, one coiled around a book, another searching the contents of a chest, and several more poking around the bottles lined on a shelf, completing tasks while others meander around with apparent senselessness.
“Anne,” Jack says, brushing her shoulder with his own. “This is Eleanor.”
Anne doesn’t respond, too focused on the many different limbs. Eleanor quirks a brow, taking a moment to study Anne in return, the edges of her mouth pulling tight.
“Jack tells me you’re doing this for a selkie,” Eleanor says, finally breaking the silence. Her voice is smoother and higher than Anne expected. Young, but lacking the sweetness that is associated with youth. There is a pressure to the woman, an impatience, though she sits alone in this cave. A sense of sucked-dry airlessness. When Anne once again fails to respond, Eleanor’s nostrils twitch and she asks, “Is it Max?”
Anne blinks back into focus and she retrains her eyes on Eleanor’s face, seeking. “Why?” she asks, tone biting.
Eleanor doesn’t grab onto Anne’s clear emotion, doesn’t taunt. One of her shoulders lifts, then drops back down, and she says, “Because I know her.”
“Yes,” Jack says hastily, eyeing Anne. “It’s Max.”
Eleanor nods, her eyes briefly losing focus as if she is staring at something very far away. Anne wonders what it would be like to fight something with that many arms; she has seen octopuses and squids, but never approached them, never seeing a threat in their sluggish pace. Now, looking at Eleanor, she reconsiders.
“I’ll give you your legs,” Eleanor says, reaching a hand out to take the book from her tentacle. While her jaw remains tight, her voice is breezy and disconnected. “You need to return to the sea by midnight or you will transform back on land and either be captured and kept as a pet or you will dry out and die. Do you understand?” Her eyes flick up to meet Anne’s, and this time she waits for an answer.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jack groans, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Anne ignores him, giving a short nod as she says, “Yeah.”
Eleanor studies her for a moment longer, then nods back. “Alright,” she says, sliding forward as her tentacles lift and push against the ground. She moves towards a small bowl and begins stirring as her limbs get to work popping corks and upturning bottles into it. Anne and Jack watch, unable to hide their interest, as Eleanor begins mumbling over the concoction, speaking in a language Anne doesn’t know or recognize, until a cloudy green vapor begins to pool over the sides. One of Eleanor’s tentacles twists around the bottom of the bowl and lifts it, keeping it in place as Eleanor hands off her spoon to another tentacle and reaches for the heavy amulet around her neck. She gives it a quick squeeze and it unlatches with a click, the bottom dropping back on a small hinge. Almost immediately, a shiny wisp shoots out, twinkling with a near-frantic, songlike sound, and then drops itself into the bowl. The contents fizz and bubble, and the vapor is run through with golden strands.
“Here,” Eleanor says, swooping down to hold the bowl under Anne’s chin. “Inhale it. Hurry up.”
Immediately, Anne holds her beath, jerking away from the vapor. Jack makes a choking noise beside her, slapping a hand over his nose and mouth as if the magic might spring wild and take him instead.
Eleanor sighs and bumps the bowl closer again, snapping, “You’re wasting it! Do you want to help Max or not?”
Anne hisses, taking hold of Eleanor’s wrist and squeezing hard until she feels the bones grind. Eleanor doesn’t twitch, though her eyebrows press up and the gives the bowl another shake, letting the contents slosh and spill into the water around Anne.
Then, dropping her eyes to the oily mixture, Anne takes a deep breath. It stings its way through her nose and burns along the back of her throat. She feels it flow down into her chest and expand out, seeming to pluck and jab at her insides, as if she has swallowed fire. Eleanor yanks the bowl and away and moves back to her shelves, transferring the concoction into a jar, apparently unbothered as Anne grunts and writhes, tail slashing through the water as she grips her own chest.
A great pain lances through her tail, and Anne bites down on a scream, frantically kicking. The movement doesn’t flow as it is meant to, the shift of Anne’s muscles seeming to pin and stop in certain places, her scales chattering and breaking off as she flails. Her mind boggles, shifting before she can grasp any one thought, and she is only half aware of Jack grabbing onto her and pulling her back down below the surface. The cold shocks her, and she drags in an inhale, finding it heavy and painful. Water presses in, too much in her throat, too much in her chest. She bucks, grabbing wildly, clawing at Jack’s neck and shoulders.
She wriggles and thrashes and pulls against him, but Jack only grips her tighter. She can feel the undulation of his body, the graze of his tail against strange, bare skin. She barely notices that they are back in the tunnel of the cave, nor when they push through the opening, sunlight glancing off of them as Jack shifts them around and pushes up.
They break the surface, and Anne chokes, slamming her head back for more, more, more.
“Anne,” Jack grunts. “Stop. Dammit, stop moving!”
Before she has time to catch her breath and process that the water is still bubbling and itching in her chest, Anne feels herself being heaved forward, and then she is rolling and tumbling out of the water. She stares absently up at the sky, blinking water from her eyes. Jack is still behind her, one arm thrown over her side, fingers grabbing at nothing. She feels him wriggle and gasp, but can’t make herself roll to look at him.
Something hard and flat slams into her back, once, then twice. Her stomach tenses and her ribs clench, then flutter as she lurches forward and coughs. Water, slimy and frothed, rushes from deep inside her and splats out onto the sand. Anne recoils, her body still racketed by coughs, eyes blinking away salt. And then air, hot and sweet and wonderful.
“Jack,” she croaks.
Jack gurgles. His voice is strange. “Get off my arm!” he snaps.
She digs her fingers in the sand and wrenches herself forward, feeling the odd slide of Jack’s flesh against her skin. Dry and wet at the same time. And then he is free, jolting up and pulling himself back to the water, carving his fingers down into the sand to drag himself.
Anne hears the splash as his body reaches the tide and rolls forward, followed by a relieved sigh. They both lie still, collecting themselves for some time, waiting until Anne can take a breath without pain. Then she turns to her other side, eyes darting around until she finds him sitting upright in the water, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares back at her.
Jack shakes his head, mouth pulling into a thin line. “This was a shit idea, Anne,” he says. His voice is sharp now, panicked. Angry that she scared him like that. “You almost drowned, for Christ’s sake!” His eyes scan over the sand in search on an enemy, and they land on a small, overturned boat left further up the beach. His jaw clenches and he jabs a finger at it, as if an army of two-legs might roll out from under it to attack them. “And you know what they’re like up here! Why would you ever want to involve yourself in that?”
Anne shrugs, dipping her head so a swathe of hair covers her face. She doesn’t know how to explain, how to find the right words and piece them together in a way that makes sense. She’s different, she wants to say. Max isn’t like them. She’s one of us, trapped up here with the two-legs. But then Jack would ask what makes her so different, he would say that she has been above too long to return, that time has changed her to make her like them. None of it is true. Or, Anne doesn’t think so. But she can’t explain how she knows, only that Max makes her feel different than anyone else ever has.
Instead, she says, “You’re the one that brought me to the sea witch.”
Jack pauses, expression going flat. Then his tongue darts out to wet his lips and he grumbles, “I know.”
The ocean rushes up to greet her toes. Toes.
“Look,” she says numbly, lungs still rattling with water. Her toes wriggle, and she stares at them, entranced.
Jack clears his throat. “Yes,” he says, “You have legs. Wonderful.”
“Legs,” she says, slowly bending a knee.
“Mhm. You’re a two-legs. Congratulations.”
She snaps her head over to glare at him. “I ain’t a two-legs.”
Jack tilts his head and lifts a hand out of the water, gesturing at one leg, then the other, as if counting. “It seems that you are, dear. Now, can you use them?”
Anne looks down again and says, “Fuck.”
She pulls herself up into a sitting position and then drags around in the sand, watching the way her legs shift as two separate things, one knee bending while the other straightens and pushes, helping her lug herself about. She tilts onto her knees, curiously observing how her shins hold her weight and her ankles turn and her feet point. Then she drags one leg forward, flattening a foot over the sand, and hesitates for one moment before using her arms to force herself up. Once she is standing, she swings her arms out as if to catch the air, and holds like that until she finds enough stability to brave a step.
It is difficult to navigate. She feels sloppy and young, shifting one leg in front of the other, wobbling to keep balance.
“Fucking ridiculous,” she grumbles, low and to her own chest.
Jack sighs heavily, giving her that narrow look that means he is being judgmental. “Yes,” he drawls, “it is extremely ridiculous.”
She takes another dogged step forward. The sand- dry, hot, and caked onto her new feet- gives way under her weight, sliding away and nearly sending her to her ass.
“Fuck,” she says.
“Fuck,” Jack repeats, knowingly. “How are you going to kill anyone like this?”
She turns to glare at him. He doesn’t waver under the look, just arches a brow and kicks out with his tail, sloshing water. “I can do it,” she grits.
Jack shrugs. “I have no doubt that you’re capable, Anne. I’m just wondering if you’ll have time to make your way through the village, find the man you’re looking for, and then kill him and return to the shore if you’ve hardly managed three steps.”
She exhales through her nose. “I can do it.”
Jack sighs again and nods, waving a hand through the air as if to say Go on, then. Show me.
~*~
Once Anne thinks that she has enough experience to venture out from the sand to whatever lies ahead, she points herself away from the shore and starts forward, ignoring Jack’s concerned mumbling. She does not know where the people live, but stumbles upon a few houses soon enough, most of them rain-battered and sunbaked. There are clothes hanging on lines, fluttering idly in the warm breeze, and Anne, remembering the fabrics that Max covers herself with and the tattered material that she often has to pick off of sailors, diverts for a moment to snag a few articles for herself. She takes them from the dwellings, tucking herself away where she won’t be discovered, and puzzles her way through dragging the trousers up her legs without falling over and doing up the buttons on the shirt. Then she continues on, barefooted, until she finds a hardpacked trail that leads her to a busier, denser cluster of buildings.
On one of their meetings, Max mentioned a tavern where she is made to spend her time. It is a place where drinks and meals are served, company is found, and money is lost. Anne looks from one building to the next, wondering how she might know which is the one she is looking for.
When she loses patience with strangers trotting over her feet and bumping shoulders with her, she snags a two-legs out of the crowd, yanking him in close and then forcing him back from the swerving bodies until they are tucked into a narrow place between buildings, and asks, “Where’s the tavern?”
The man stares at her, his eyes dropping down at her frumpy, oversized clothes and the ornaments in her hair. A line appears between his brows, and he says, “Over that way,” while gesturing past his shoulder.
Anne follows the direction of his fingers, then gives him a little shake. “Which one?”
He swallows, then turns very slowly, making it clear that he isn’t trying to escape. After a beat, he points again and says, “That one right there. With the lady out front.”
Anne looks, then nods and pats the man on the shoulder before releasing him. He stumbles, shoulders hitting the wall behind him, and then darts away from her into the crowd. Anne sniffs, frowning across the way to the building the man directed her towards, and only hesitates for a moment before walking over.
The woman outside the tavern gives Anne a long look but doesn’t speak as she passes by, seeming to lose interest as soon as she understands where Anne is going. Perhaps it is normal for unkempt, stumbling people to make their way into the tavern. Anne doesn’t particularly care either way. She opens the door and is immediately struck by the smell; sweat and food and something sharp and pungent that Anne doesn’t recognize. The two-legs bumble and fall against each other, whispering in each other’s ears or shouting across the room. Mugs slosh and spill down wrists and onto the floor. There are people in the corners, either standing and keeping a close eye on the movements of bodies or sitting at tables bent over plates and bowls. A few stare at Anne as she passes, and she catches comments that she doesn’t quite understand, though they set her shoulders straight and make her ears prickle.
Suddenly, someone grabs Anne’s wrist and tugs her through the crowd. She tries to pull away, wrenching her arm back towards her, but stops when she sees a familiar face. Max stares at her, expression pinched in a way Anne has never seen it, and she leans in close to ask, “Anne? What are you doing? How are you here?”
Anne ignores the question, glancing around at the many faces as she asks, “Which one?”
“What?” Max asks, furrowing her brows and trying to follow Anne’s line of sight. She pulls on Anne again, squeezing harder when Anne refuses to budge.
“Which one is he?”
Max stares at her, wide-eyed and searching. “Anne, what are you doing? Tell me.”
Anne sighs, then tilts her head to meet Max’s eyes. “You know,” she says, voice pitched low and dangerous.
“Oh.” Max pulls back slightly, but doesn’t release Anne’s wrist. “You can’t.”
“I can.”
“No.”
Anne flicks her wrist, trying to jostle Max off of her. “What the fuck are you saying?”
Max leans in closer, refusing to yield, her eyes intent and serious as she whispers, “He can’t die until I know where my pelt is.”
“You don’t know?” Anne asks, wrinkling her nose. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing a person loses track of. Someone bumps into her back, sending her closer to Max, who catches her shoulder with the unoccupied hand and holds her steady.
“If I knew,” Max seethes, “he would already be dead.”
Anne considers this for a moment, studying the lines of Max’s face, then relents with a sigh. This time, when she wriggles her wrist around, Max lets her go. “Fuck,” Anne snips, glaring out at the moving faces, wondering which one is her target and if he is watching them now, wondering who Max is talking with, who she is standing so close to. It makes Anne’s ears buzz and she flicks her hair around, draping it over her face.
She is about to ask Max what the hell she wants to do, then, when Max leans in, setting a hand on Anne’s waist and tilting her head so that her breath tickles Anne’s ear as she whispers, “Wait outside. Follow us.” Anne’s mind sloshes through the words, briefly lost in the other woman’s proximity. Then Max’s hand pats her side and her eyes twitch towards the door, urging Anne to move.
“Alright,” she says, still mildly stunned, and turns.
~*~
Anne waits outside. She folds herself back into an alley, crouching low to give her new legs a break where she is swallowed in the moonless space, counting the minutes and wondering how long she has before she transforms again. The sky grows darker around her and two-legs step through doorways to light lanterns, nodding at each other before shuffling back into their hiding places.
Hours pass before Max walks out of the tavern, her arm twined with that of a man, who holds her tight against him, leaning his weight down upon her, his legs faltering and loose.
He grumbles in Max’s ear, slouching too far forward in the process and nearly toppling them both to the ground. “Careful, Hamund,” Max says, patting the man’s arm and straining to keep him upright. “Watch your feet.”
Anne watches silently, waiting until they are nearly out of sight before she peels herself from the wall, cringing at the bunched muscles in her legs, and begins to follow. They walk for some time. Max doesn’t glance back at Anne, though she must know that she is there. For most of the journey, they stick to a hardpacked road, but eventually they split off down a field, bumbling forward with Max gently easing Hamund away from obstacles. The field is broken by trees, and Anne has to watch her feet to avoid snapping sticks as they wind down a well-trodden path that leads them to a small, decaying shack.
“Alright,” Hamund says, tugging his arm roughly out of Max’s hold and shuffling around in his pockets. He mutters as he searches, eyes held down to the ground until he pulls out a key. Max watches, lips pressed together, as he struggles to unlock the door and then ushers her in before him. Then the door closes, cutting off Anne’s visual.
Again, she waits, standing stock-still among the trees. The windows flash with orange candlelight, which flickers and bobs. Silhouettes move through the house, coming in and out of sight. It is quiet, voiceless. She takes a few steps forward, planting her feet carefully so as not to disturb the night, bringing herself to the side of a window. She glances in, but can’t see Max, only Hamund as he moves around, emptying his pockets and tripping over sparse furniture on his way to the bed. After a few more minutes, the candles are snuffed.
Anne glances towards the moon, wondering about the time. Perhaps half an hour passes before the door cracks open, drifting wider in the breeze. She stares at it, uncertain. And then a hand slips out, hovering in the chilled night air, the fingers curling in and out in a beckoning gesture. Anne takes a deep breath before approaching.
Max steps out of her way, her eyes holding Anne’s steadily as she steps inside. Then she glances out into the woods, her chin stiff, and slowly reaches out and draws the door closed. For a few silent moments, they stand together and share the air. The only sound is the calm churn of their breaths and Hamund’s rumbling snores. Anne turns her eyes to look at him. He is sprawled on his back, feet nearly hanging off the end of the bed, one arm draped over his stomach, the other smashed up by his face, fingers grazing the headboard. His ankles are tied to the footboard with long, silky fabric. He won’t be able to get up, won’t be able to come after them if this fails. Anne thinks about Max standing alone in the dark, winding the material around her fingers and approaching Hamund slowly, nerves dancing in her arms as she circles it around him, careful as she grazes it across his bare skin, mindful of the tightness of her knots.
Anne stares at him for a time, counting the rise and fall of his chest, then looks around the small room until she finds the pile of belongings she saw him pull from his pockets.
Her bare feet are silent as she pads over to the items. One of the floorboards creaks, but she doesn’t pause, moving steadily forward. She reaches out a hand and takes up a small knife. The blade is about the length of Anne’s pinky finger, and she turns it before her eyes, studying the way it fits in her hand. There are grooves carved roughly into the handle, making it easier for her to grip. She turns again to look at Max, who stares unblinkingly at the blade and nods.
Anne turns towards the bed. Hamund hasn’t moved, completely unaware of the stranger in his home. She moves towards him, coming to a stop when her knees are almost pressed to the mattress. Slowly, she brings a leg up and plants her knee on the arm closest to his face, easing down her weight until she knows he won’t be able to lift it. He twitches, swatting at her with his free arm. “Get over,” he grumbles thickly.
“Wake up,” she says. Hamund’s eyes tick open with a start, squinting at her through the darkness. She leans more weight against his arm and her hair falls forward, the pearls clicking against each other.
He jolts. “Get the fuck—”
She interrupts him, bringing her hand down to his groin and giving him a moment to feel the blade. “Don’t talk,” she spits. “I only need one thing, and you keep your cock.”
He goes very still. She can see his throat bob, and he opens his mouth to groan. His arm is lax under her, the other one holding still in the air, half-reaching. The ends of her hair brush his skin and she can see his muscles tick. Halted mid-speech, his mouth hangs open, lips trembling and uncertain. Little unhappy sounds bubble up from his throat.
“Where’s the pelt?” she asks.
He shifts minutely. Anne can feel the nervous shift of his pelvis, can see the skin of his throat beat over a rabbiting pulse. “Huh?” he asks, brows furrowing.
She shifts the blade, pressing harder. “The pelt.”
“Out back!” he grits, eyes pulling away from hers in search of Max. Maybe he thought she would help him, or that Anne had already killed her, and is coming to the realization that she is the reason for the visit. Air shudders in through his throat, drool glistening at the corners of his mouth as he hurriedly says, “I wrapped it in a quilt, put it in a box in the middle of the fucking woodpile!”
There is a sound over Anne’s shoulder, but she doesn’t turn to look. The door flies open and Max runs through, the bang of her shoes tracing her movement around the house. Anne and Hamund hold very still, waiting. Clattering. Wood tumbling down, hitting the ground and rolling. Frantic hands pushing logs aside. Anne holds, looking down at Hamund as his eyelids flutter.
Max yells. It is a wordless noise. Thick in her throat, like a sob. Anne grinds the blade, feels blood on her knuckles.
A rough noise tilts from Hamund’s lips, and he looks at her desperately. “Please,” he begs. “Please. I don’t know what she told you, but you have to know—”
“Quiet,” Anne drawls. He tries to continue, his body shaking under her, and she spits. It lands on his throat and he snaps his mouth shut, eyes bulging. “Shut the fuck up.”
Max throws herself through the door, voice choked as she cries out, “I have it!”
Anne tilts her head to look. It is hard to make out in the dark, but there is something heavy bundled in Max’s arms, held close against her chest. Anne nods, says, “Good.” She lifts the blade from Hamund’s groin, ignoring the relieved air that whistles through his nose.
Before he can say another word, she brings the blade down to split his throat, only blinking when his blood sprays into her face.
~*~
Anne and Max flee to the water.
Max takes hold of Anne’s hand, prying the blade loose and abandoning it in the woods as they run. Anne’s legs are uncertain, landing poorly. She steps on sticks and stones, trips on uneven ground. The only thing keeping her up is Max’s grip.
The air seems to grow thicker, harder for Anne to take in. Her chest heaves with effort, and her legs stick, unwilling to bend as they need to, her feet strangely soft. She doesn’t dare look down. They wind around houses, bound over fields, until Anne can see the shoreline and hear the rhythmic crash of waves.
They reach the sand, and Anne’s legs give out under her. As she falls, Max topples down beside her with a cry, landing hard on top of her pelt. They wriggle against each other, Max gritting out words that Anne can’t understand as she flips Anne onto her back and grabs at the front of her trousers, prying them loose and tugging them down and off. Anne gurgles, vision blurred with tears as she feels her legs press tight together, skin tearing and changing.
“Come on,” Max says, pushing herself back to her feet. She grabs Anne under the arms and grunts with effort as she tugs her across the sand towards the water. Anne hears the splash of Max’s feet, feels flecks of water on her face, drenching her hair, swallowing her down. Then she is flipped again, a great wave coming down over both of them. Max comes down behind her, and Anne is yanked up and back. She crashes against something solid, and arms and legs curl around her, pressing her close.
Eventually, it all stops. Their panic soothes, and Anne relaxes back, slitting her eyes open to watch the measured flick of her own tail. Max keeps her hold on Anne, brushing her thumb over Anne’s arm in a nervous pace.
Quietly, Max whispers against the shell of her ear, “Are you alright?”
They are folded around each other, Anne’s back against Max’s front, bundled close by the tight coil of Max’s limbs. Heaving water washes away most of the blood from Anne’s face, and she can feel the edge of Max’s pelt on her side, swaying with the push of waves.
“Yeah,” she says, smiling into the darkness. “I’m fine.”
~*~
They swim over to their stone and haul themselves up onto its flat surface. Anne is reluctant to leave the water, but she sits beside Max, letting her tail dip down below and knock lazily against Max’s feet. Max stares down at her pelt, her fingers clinging tightly to the edges, unwilling to let go.
“Can I touch it?” Anne asks, licking her lips. Max doesn’t answer for a few moments, staring at the pelt intently, running her thumbs along the fur.
She swallows, then nods. “Yes,” she says. Before Anne can reach out to run her palm over it, Max leans over and carefully, carefully passes it into Anne’s arms. Anne goes still, suddenly unsure of herself. Then she feels its warmth, its softness, and runs her hand over the top.
“It’s nice,” is all she can think to say, and the words are hardly willing to pass through her tight throat. Her hands feel reverent and needy over the fur. “Here, take it back,” she whispers, reluctantly pushing it away and returning it to Max’s arms. She shouldn’t touch it. There is too much meaning, too much importance.
They sit there for a while longer, neither of them speaking. This is the end, Anne knows. She just wants to hold on to this for a moment longer, to have Max close and warm. There are stars above, and the ocean below, and it finally belongs to both of them.
Then, voice hushed, Max angles her head to look at Anne and says, “I have to go now.”
Anne nods. “Alright, so go.”
The corners of Max’s lips turn up, and it makes Anne want to grab her, pull her in close, refuse to let go. She wants to beg her to stay and damn her for leaving. Because Max is going to leave. There is no world in which she stays, in which she chooses Anne over everything else. It doesn’t matter what Anne wants.
“Look at me, please,” Max breathes. Anne turns slowly to face her, trying to keep the edges of her face straight and solid. Impassive. Slowly, slowly, Max presses closer. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and she asks, “Anne, do you want to touch me?”
And. Well. Fuck. There is only one answer to that. There really is only one answer to that.
“Yes,” Anne says. Max nods, shifts closer. Her breath brushes Anne’s cheek, and Anne quickly closes her eyes. Her hands tremble and she bunches them into fists, forcing herself to sit still and calm.
There is a soft slide against her bottom lip, a gentle caress. Anne shivers, has to stop herself from pleading. And then Max locks them together, fingers running along Anne’s shoulders, gracing the back of her neck, gripping her hair. A noise rasps through Anne’s throat and she grabs at Max’s sides. She tangles her fingers in Max’s dress, keeping her in place, and runs her palm once more through her pelt, resentful and wanting all at once. Please, she thinks, pressing unspoken words to Max’s lips. Stay with me. Stay, stay, stay.
And then, as if she somehow felt Anne’s hope, Max pulls away. Her lips are dark, her eyes soft. Anne can only stare.
“Thank you for helping me,” Max says. And then she winds the pelt around her shoulders, closes her eyes, and slips down into the water. A moment passes. All of the air rushes out of Anne’s lungs, and she glares down into the depths.
There is a burst of light. Something dark slicks over the surface of the water just meters ahead. Anne bites her lip and watches Max go.
~*~
There is blood in the water, and its scent is what draws Anne in closer. She hesitates, twinging her nose at the sharp red tinge in the water, familiarity and distrust growing thick in her stomach. Still, she moves towards it, and follows the trail until she arrives at the stones that she has not visited in months. Her nails dig into her palms and she narrows her eyes, thinking about darting away, back into the concealing waves. She drifts, letting the water push and pull her, urging her forward and drawing her away in turns.
And then, Anne watches as two feet skim the surface and then plunge down, giving a few easy kicks before going still, and her heart stutters. She hurries forward, circling to the far side of the stone and raking her fingers across the uneven face, then up and up until she grabs hold of the top and tugs herself up, not bothering with discretion. Water roars around her, draining from her hair, down her face, and she blinks the flecks away until the picture before her clarifies.
Sitting very still on the opposite side of the stone, feet cresting down to meet the glassy sea and hand extended out to let blood drip, drip, drip from the cup of her palm, is Max. Anger burbles up Anne’s chest, mixed with whirling thoughts of What the fuck happened and How did you get captured again, until she sees that the heavy shawl draped over Max’s shoulders is her pelt, sunbaked and still damp with sea water.
Max turns her head just enough that she can watch Anne from the corner of her eye, the edge of her mouth ticking up. “Hello,” she says, easy and simple and not at all matching the pounding of Anne’s heart.
“What the fuck?” Anne spits, pulling herself further up onto the stone. Her tail flicks behind her, lifting into the air and slapping back down.
Max watches, her smile unrelenting. “I can change back,” she answers with a half-shrug. “When the weather is right, when the moon is positioned just so, if I have the desire and the will.”
Anne stares at her. “You didn’t tell me that,” she says, tone dropped low enough that her words are almost hidden under the sloshing water. It comes out accusatory, as if it matters, as if Max owed her this information. Maybe she did, Anne isn’t sure. She isn’t sure about anything. What is deserved, what is taken, what is lost. But the sight of Max aches in her chest, and she thinks that all of this must matter in some way, that it must mean something that Max didn’t let her know that there was some kind of hope, that there was something to wait for.
Max takes a deep breath, then turns to face Anne fully, pulling her feet from the water and tucking them under her body. “I wasn’t sure it would happen,” she says. “I’m different. Everything is different when I’m home. I didn’t want to make you wait.”
But I waited anyway, Anne doesn’t say. There are some things she still can’t give voice to, vulnerabilities she can’t share, even when she has had her hands on Max, even when she has held her pelt and known her, even after she has learned what the other woman’s lips feel like against hers and how her tongue tastes in her mouth. Instead, she says, “You should have told me.”
“Maybe,” Max says, tilting her head and studying Anne’s face, looking at whatever it is Anne can’t hide. “It seemed better to wait until I was sure. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Then Max begins to move closer, shifting her arms forward and crawling towards Anne, never looking away from Anne’s eyes. Her pelt drags low over her shoulders, and Anne can smell sea salt, she can see the drying grains of sand. A whole life, a whole creature that she doesn’t know. Closer and closer, and Anne thinks that she should push herself back into the ocean and let the tide pull her away, that she should sink as deep as it will take her, that she should kick her tail and send herself into the foggy blue, into the coral and seagrass, into schools of fish, between arching stones, until Max can’t find her. But she stays still, entranced by the sight of Max, and the other woman’s eyes locked on her own, and the desire to know what will happen when she meets her.
“Can you forgive me?” Max asks. Her eyes are sure, knowing. There is always a certainty there that Anne can’t match. But her voice exposes deeper fear, coming out in a rasp, as if her throat has attempted to close around it.
Anne licks her lips. She feels picked dry by the sun and lost on the surface of air and stone. “You’re just gonna leave again,” she says, blinking, hating herself for knowing the truth and for speaking it aloud. It would be better, she thinks, to pretend. To let herself live in this warm bubble of a moment, to stare at Max until she is gone. But she can’t, she can’t.
Max nods. “I will,” she says. “And I’ll come back again.”
“Why?” Anne asks, eyes narrowing.
It makes Max smile, and Anne wants to press Max’s face between her hands, to feel the shifting muscles beneath her skin, to dive forward with her own lips to distract Max from smiling and frowning and any other little thing.
“I love the water,” Max says, so close that Anne can feel her breath on her own cheek. “But I want to see you. I need to see you. Do you understand?”
Anne takes a sharp breath, eyelids fluttering. She is lost, lost, lost. There is no right answer, so she mumbles nonsense, leans forward, closes the distance.