Is that al ? Wel , if Daddy had to give me a task, at least this is an easy one. Fitting in has never been a problem for Doe. Although she can be—and usual y is—a total sea witch, she’s not a social leper or anything. She’s beautiful, and boys fal over their fins to please her. In Thalassinia she’s pretty popular. Shouldn’t be too tough to translate that into Seaview terms.

The biggest difference wil be the clothes. She didn’t bring anything with her, so at the moment she’s wearing the tank top she swam here in and finkini shorts made from hot pink and purple scales. Daddy must have left her just enough magic to maintain her modesty. Some of my clothes might fit her, but her curves are definitely, um, curvier than mine.

I’m not exactly eager to share with her, but I can make do for a few days.

“Don’t like my outfit?” she asks with a sneer when she notices me evaluating her attire. “You used to dress just like this. Then again, you used to be a mer princess.” I ignore her jab. “Your clothes aren’t exactly land appropriate.”

“Here.” She tugs a smal pouch from her deep cleavage and drops it on the table. “Uncle Whelk sent this to cover my expenses.”

I tug open the drawstring pouch to find an eyeful of pearls.

Beautiful white, cream, pink, and even a few rare black pearls, al in perfect condition. These wil fetch a significant amount.

They wil cover a lot of expenses.

“How long do you expect to be here, Doe?” I ask. The money we’l get for sel ing the pearls would pay al of our household expenses for a month. “When do you get to go home?”

Her gaze drops to the table, and she absently rubs at the scratch I made in the paint the first time I tried to make frozen pizza. Some of her attitude ebbs, and I see, for the first time, that she’s just as uncertain about this situation as I am.

Sometimes she makes it too easy to forget she’s just a sixteen-year-old kid.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Uncle Whelk said I needed to stay here until I learned to appreciate humans.” Great. For Doe that could mean never. Not that I completely blame her, of course, given her history, but it’s a semi-impossible task.

“Did he say how to determine if you’ve succeeded?”

“He said you would make the cal .” She looks up, her blue eyes glowing with unshed tears. “You decide when I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Wel , that’s easy,” I say, jumping up, uncomfortable with her sudden display of emotion. “You stay here a few days, hang with my friends, act like you don’t want to kil them al with a death ray from your eyes, and we’l be good to go.” Even before I’m finished, she’s shaking her head slowly.

“He also said to tel you,” she whispers, “to consider this your final duty as princess of Thalassinia.” Duty.

With that one word I drop back into my chair. It’s the one word that can completely sink me. I’ve been raised my whole life to appreciate the responsibility of my position, to understand that duty comes before almost everything. And even though Daddy encouraged me to fol ow my heart—

which means giving up my place in the succession—that sense of duty is not so easy to dismiss. And if Daddy is cal ing on my sense of duty to deal with Doe, then that means I have to see it through to a legitimately successful conclusion.

It also means that whatever she did to get exiled is real y, real y bad.

“Oh, Doe,” I say sadly, shaking my head. “What did you do?”

I don’t expect an answer, and she doesn’t give one. But I know there’s no way I can give her an easy pass. I have a feeling there’s more at stake here than just my inconvenience.

Settling in on Doe’s toes, Prithi lets out a sad wail.

My feelings exactly. Wel , if Daddy thinks it wil serve Thalassinia to help Doe get over her human hate, then that’s what I need to do. Because responsibility is difficult to ignore, and until my eighteenth birthday I am royal y bound to fulfil my duty. Whether I like it or not.

“Let’s get you dressed,” I say, pushing to my feet. “We’re going shopping.”

Chapter 3

onday morning, Aunt Rachel drives me and Dosinia to Mschool. Quince gave me a kiss when I told him I wouldn’t be riding with him on his motorcycle and promised me another one when I meet him at my locker.

That wil have to sustain me.

While I’ve become a fan of his motorcycle—kind of—

sometimes I wish one of us had a car. His mom needs her clunker for work, just like Aunt Rachel needs her station wagon. On days when the Seaview weather verges on hurricane-force winds or torrential tropical downpour, a vehicle with a roof would be a definite advantage. Not to mention the fact that we could be on our way to school together right now, with Doe safely in the backseat—or maybe the trunk—rather than him roaring off on Princess alone and me stuck listening to Doe whimper the whole ride.

Until I get a job or Quince starts working ful -time, it’s motorcycles and borrowed rides for me.

“It’s fine,” I explain to Doe for the twentieth time since Aunt Rachel turned the ignition and put the station wagon in gear. “Just think of it as a wakemaker on wheels.” The wide-eyed, nostrils-flared look Doe shoots at me indicates she is not thril ed with the analogy. I’m surprised her death grip on the back of my seat hasn’t punctured the worn upholstery. I’m even more surprised that Doe is al owing this break in her I’m-too-cool-for-everything facade.