Gripping the rail, she leaned forward. “I can’t imagine anything better than this. What could possibly be better than this?” Her radiant smile tripped through her eyes.
“This is the maidens’ outer realm, we’ve not come into their region proper.”
They didn’t talk for a while. He studied her while she studied the land, comparing her to his Talia. Trying in vain to find any sort of similarity.
Where Talia had been svelte, Trishelle was curvy. Talia had been round cheeked, Trishelle’s cheekbones were sharp slashes and when she spoke, occasionally a dimple peeked out on the right side. Her nose was pert; Talia’s had been a small button. Her neck was long, swan-like, and she wasn’t very tall, the crown of her head only came mid-chest on him. Talia’s pearl pink tail had lifted her high out of the water; their faces had always been level. But for all their differences, he realized (not somewhat disturbingly) that Trishelle was very appealing.
Extracting his arm from her grip, he drew the necklace from around his neck, gripping it tight in his palm. He hadn’t returned to the maidens’ seas since the day of her death. Hadn’t felt strong enough to confront her family, to admit that he hadn’t protected her as he should have.
Closing his eyes, he brought the locket to his lips.
“What is that?” her voice broke him from his musings.
A private man by nature, sharing wasn’t something he often did. But it’d been so long since he had, so long since he’d let down his guard and he was tired of always being so quiet, of keeping everything inside. Talia had known him once, and it’d been freeing. Clenching his jaw, he didn’t look at her, but silently handed her the locket.
“Can I?”
He felt her glance, saw her finger play with the lock.
Shrugging, he didn’t answer. The locket clicked open and the silence was deafening. She stared at the photo so long he doubted himself, doubted he should have allowed her to see, to hold the tangible evidence of his pain.
Two days before their wedding he’d ordered a painting of Talia be made. She’d been resting on a bed of moss and coral, wearing nothing but the pearls he’d caught for her, draped and roped around her body. A crown of pearls and jewels had rested on her head, her cheeks had been brightened, her lips red as the juice of a pomegranate. There’d been love in her eyes, because she’d been staring at him and he at her while the artist had worked.
“She was beautiful.” Her fingers traced the small image inside.
Turning, he gazed down at her blonde head. “Can you recall nothing? Is any part of her awareness within you?”
Small, white teeth nibbled on the corner of her lip. “I’m sorry. There’s not. I told you, they have the wrong girl. I’m just me. Trisha, a wise-ass who works at a library with dreams of one day acting on the Broadway stage. I am not now, or have I ever been, a mermaid.”
He didn’t sense her being cavalier about the situation, so much as helpless.
“Of course.”
A low humming resonated around them, lifting the fine hairs on his arms. She looked up. “What is that?”
“This is what I wanted to show you.”
The sound began to gradually shift, increase in intensity, until it rang out like a choir of bells, pitching high and low. Wrapping them up in a velvety hug of thousands of voices.
“Siren song,” he murmured, turning back to her.
Her eyes were closed and a smile radiated off her face, brighter than the light of any sun. She swayed, lost in the movement and rhythm of the music. Her feet started tapping, and then her hips began to move until finally her arms and head joined in. She was dancing, completely entranced and lost to it.
Her movements almost seemed to anticipate each crescendo. Talia had never danced to her music, her voice had crafted something to make an angel weep, but she’d never seemed to appreciate the dulcet quality of it.
The sound of siren song could be deadly to those caught unawares, especially to males, that was why he’d forced his men to become immune to the pull. He could appreciate it, but not become entranced by it.
Trishelle was not entranced.
Entrancement meant you could not move, blink, speak, or do a thing other than lean over and listen. Strain so hard to hear it that eventually you’d fall off the ship to your death, embraced within Calypso’s bosom for all eternity.
She was becoming one with it and he could not pull his eyes off her. He’d have watched her for the rest of his life, but once the music ended, so did she.
Her cheeks were rosy, her skin flushed as she finally opened liquid green eyes and stared at him. “That was the most beautiful thing ever.”
“Agreed.”
She fought a smile. “Thank you.”
Turning back to the rail, he cleared his throat. “Isle of Seren.”