“You’ve got everything under control, Becs. As always,” Mulmig said admiringly when Becca had finished. “But you look tired. You need more sleep. You work too hard.”
Becca shook her head. “I don’t work hard enough. We still don’t have a source of lava, and it’s hurting us. The skavveners sense it. That’s why they’re lurking.”
“I’ll help you hunt for a seam later, but right now I need some sleep,” Mulmig said. “See you.”
As Mulmig headed to her barracks, Becca continued on her way to the storehouse, with the goblin’s words echoing in her ears. You’ve got everything under control, Becs. As always. Becca knew that Mulmig meant it as a compliment, but it didn’t make her feel good. It made her feel like a fraud.
Becca took her responsibilities very seriously, but there was another reason she worked herself so hard, though she didn’t like to admit it: a human named Marco. If she filled every minute of every day with work and then fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, there was no time left to think about him, and miss him.
Marco and his sister, Elisabetta, had rescued Becca after she’d been attacked by the Williwaw, a vengeful wind spirit from whom Becca had taken a talisman—a gold coin that had belonged to Pyrrha, one of the mages of Atlantis.
Marco was the current duca di Venezia, an ancient title conferred on his ancestor by Merrow, the first leader of the mer. The duca’s duty was to protect the mer, and he fulfilled it with the help of the Praedatori, an ancient brotherhood of mermen, and the Wave Warriors, terragoggs who were dedicated to safeguarding the seas.
Together with Elisabetta, Marco had scooped Becca out of rough waters and taken her to the safety of the Kargjord. They’d stitched up her wounds and helped her recover. The stitches had come out, but scars—some deep—remained. Because during the days she’d spent with Marco and Elisabetta, she’d done a very foolish thing: she’d fallen in love.
Marco was gorgeous, with soulful brown eyes and a warm smile, and he was as dedicated to the defense of the earth’s waters as any mer, but Becca knew that a relationship between them was impossible. Such a love was taboo to the mer, who were distrustful of humans. And even if it wasn’t, Marco couldn’t live in her world, and she couldn’t live in his.
Becca’s head knew this, but her heart wouldn’t listen. These two opposing parts of her lobbed arguments back and forth like a ball at a caballabong match. One minute, she wished she’d told him she loved him—as he’d told her. The next, she was furious at herself for even considering such a reckless action. She worried about what her friends would think of her if they ever discovered her feelings for Marco, then hated herself for caring.
She stopped now, overcome by longing, and looked up through the waters at the moon shining high above. Maybe Marco was looking up at the moon, too, and thinking of her. She hoped so, even if it was stupid and hopeless and totally impossible.
Is he safe? she wondered. She knew that Orfeo and his thugs were after him, and that the Praedatori were too scattered to protect him. He’d had to leave the college where he was studying, but he couldn’t go home to his family’s palazzo in Venice, because it was being watched. Is he on the water or on land? Is he happy? Has he found a terragogg girl and forgotten all about me?
“Why?” she whispered, clenching her hands into fists. “Why not Desiderio, or Yazeed, or any one of the other amazing Black Fins? Why a human?” Tears stung behind her blue eyes.
This secret love was torture. She wished she could confide in one of her friends. Maybe Neela, Ling, or Sera could help her make sense of her feelings. She’d promised herself she would, a hundred times at least, but she always ended up backing away, too scared that they wouldn’t understand.
When you keep a secret, the secret keeps you. Those were the very words she’d said to Astrid when she was trying to get her to tell the others about her inability to sing. If only she could follow her own advice, but it was so hard to confide in others, to trust them.
Becca was an orphan, and her early life—spent in a series of foster homes—had taught her that it was unwise to show vulnerability. If you were vulnerable, you were weak, and weak mer had their stuff stolen or got pushed to the back of the line at mealtimes.
Becca’s early experiences had made her the self-reliant and organized mermaid that she was, and she was proud of that, but those tough years had made her something else, too—a mermaid who was good at giving help but bad at asking for it.
Becca’s tears were brimming now. She angrily blinked them away. “Stop it. This instant,” she told herself. “Crying won’t help you find a lava seam.”