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  I settle onto the soft grass and fold my legs, a snapper ready in my hands just in case.

  If only Maam were still alive, and I could talk all of my worries through with her. Last tide, when that little life was growing inside me, I felt like her death shadow was always with me, watching over me, and sometimes… judging me.

  I wanted to be brave like her, even if it meant being banished, and Sande had courageous-yet-reckless plans to save our child too. He thought we should hike away from Varasay mountain and hope we’d find drifters, the Sea Spread’s lonesome farmers, before the ocean came to swallow us. He also suggested that we even try to walking to another mountain city, although I don’t think anyone has ever survived the lengthy trip.

  When Gren finally found out about our situation, because in desperation I told her, she said the village healer could make me a poisoned drink. “It will make you sick for a sunedge—very sick—but the infant will leave you.”

  And that was tempting too. The Threegod priests would never need to know. No one in the village would need to know.

  Sande would be safe.

  I’d be safe.

  And we’d have a second chance.

  The leaves rustle. I lift my snapper, stretch back the resin, and I’m about to send a dart flying into the shadows when a person steps out of the trees. It’s Sande—really Sande.

  “You weren’t at Gren’s,” he tells me. “I thought I might find you here.”

  And then together we say, “I couldn’t sleep.” And it feels silly to speak in unison—so childish.

  I leap up and race across the grass to hug him. Forgetting my unhappy news for a moment, but maybe he already knows. “Bessel said you’d be riding the motorliner to Varasay.”

  “I thought so,” Sande says. “But they had enough help already. I wanted to see you when I arrived in Saltpool this afternoon, but Maam put me to work right away.” He holds onto me tightly and seems bigger and stronger than I remember—surely because of hauling so many crates at the track house. But he doesn’t kiss me, so he must know I plan to marry Carnos. Bessel probably told him.

  I pull away. “Let me explain.”

  I can’t read his expression. He doesn’t look angry, which is confusing, so feeling bewildered, I stumble through my reasoning. “You and I obviously can’t get married—I’m listed with your family in the city records. And I’m of age now… and Carnos is a good match. But that’s not just it. After what happened between us, we need to make sure that never happens again, and… and you’re smiling. Why are you smiling?” It makes me angry, actually, because none of this is funny. I’m all knotted up inside.

  Sande’s smile widens. “Nerry, you don’t have to marry Carnos Kaelnos.” He says my betrothed’s name in a deep voice and does an impression of Carnos looking off suddenly as if spotting a long-tailed deer.

  “Sande…” I step away from him, not in the mood to be teased.

  “What I mean is,” he continues. “I have a plan—a way for us to leave Varasay.”

  “Leave?” I frown, wondering if he’ll try to convince me to search for drifter boats again.

  But Sande flashes an even brighter and more cheerful smile. “I’ve made some uppy friends at the track house, and I’ve learned a lot about the Sea Spread.”

  “Uppies can’t be trusted,” I say instinctively.

  “Oh no, this has nothing to do with trust.” Sande laughs. “You know how uppies like to brag? Well, it turns out uppies who’ve traveled the tide brag far more than the rest. Take a look at this…” He pulls a rectangle of paper out of his vest and unfolds a printed grid with uppy writing on it. Neither of us can read, so I’m not sure what he’s showing me until he flips the paper over. There’s a map on the other side.

  “It’s the Sea Spread.” Sande runs his hand over it. “The whole world from top to bottom. I found it in the track house, and I’ve been asking questions and learning everything I can about it since. I think we should go here.” He points to a small dot. “Ellevah. It’s not close, but from everything I hear, we’ll be happy. All sorts of people live there, there aren’t many rules, and it’s supposed to be beautiful and peaceful.”

  It’s like Sande’s a child again, ready to hide in the Teeterwood to make sure he gets his way.

  “But traveling’s not—”

  “Just hear me out.” Sande points to another dot. “You’ve heard of Beth, right? The closest city currentways? They aren’t nice to their deeplanders, but the priests aren’t allowed to punish anyone either. There’s a king there instead of a chancellor, and a different set of laws. All the mountain cities are different, and we can explore them all. We just need passbooks and some courage, and we’ll be free.”

  He makes it sound so easy, but deeplanders in Varasay aren’t allowed to travel the tide.

  Sande tucks the map back into his vest and wraps an arm around me. “Come on pretty Nerry, run away with me.” Then he kisses me on the mouth, and I let him because, fathoms, I’ve missed him.

  I didn’t have to make a difficult decision about the baby last tide. Before I chose between banishment with an infant or a poison that would empty my insides, and before my stomach was too big to hide, I started to bleed. The baby seemed to know it wasn’t welcome, and while I cried in Gren Tya’s arms, it left me—she left me, all on her own.

  This tide I have to make a decision, though, and even though I adore Sande and would much rather marry him, I also know how dangerous running away is. My mother broke Varasay’s laws, and the city didn’t hesitate to punish her. Despite my feelings, I have to be a boulder that won’t move while the ocean passes by.

  “I’m marrying Carnos.” I step away from Sande. “I’m sorry.”

  He frowns. “Do you really want to live your whole life with that amphib? Wouldn’t you rather take a risk with me?” He holds out the map again and points to a different dot. “See that tiny mark? That’s Varasay.” He then lifts his hand to the mountain looming over us. Varasay City glitters at the top, and at night it always looks like those distant rocks are covered with stars. “It seems so big, but it’s just a speck on the map. The rest of the world, the Sea Spread, is much bigger. There’s more than this, Nerene. More than Varasay.”

  I know he wants me to keep arguing because he is good at convincing people to change their mind.

  And if I was going to argue with him, I’d say I want the safe life my mother longed for and never had. And although I wish I could share a life like that with him, it can’t happen, and it hurts, yes, but I’ve accepted it.

  “I’m marrying Carnos,” I repeat, and I turn away from him and the husk-like dead boat. For once it doesn’t seem like a comforting place. “If Gren wakes up, she’ll be frightened and wonder where I am. I need to go home.”

  “You’re not just marrying Carnos. You’re giving up.” There’s an unfamiliar edge to Sande’s voice.

  Fathoms, he can be so charming, but he can also be so frustrating. He acts like it’s easy to upend traditions simply because we don’t like them. He acts like there would be no consequences.

  “You gave up last tide too,” Sande says. “Admit it, you did. I know you lost our baby, but if you hadn’t, you would have gotten rid of it.”

  Now I feel like something has wrapped itself around my neck. Maybe there really are death shadows here. I turn to face him again although I’m further away now. “I hadn’t made up my mind.”

  He gives me a look that’s somehow searching, angry, and fond all at once. “I love you enough to risk everything. How much do you love me?”

  I want to say that true love can’t always rush recklessly forward but sometimes must endure and sacrifice. Yet I’m anxious about marrying Carnos and unhappy that I had to think about the baby again, so instead I say what Sande needs to hear. How much do I love him? An immense amount, of course.

  But what I say out loud is, “Not enough.”

  I brace my back against the wagon, pushing until my boots slip on the loose, gravel r
oadway and I have to scramble for better footing.

  The tide gleams below as it seeps into our village. I see shallow pools on the plains, which I know will deepen through the day. By nightfall all that water will churn up and over the kelp trees, swallowing every cliff and cave on the lower slopes.

  When the tide comes, we’re usually already halfway up Varasay Mountain like we are today. But I’ve heard stories of elders misinterpreting the stars, of people waking up to drenched sleeping mats, and of frantic families wading to the mountain road, forced to leave everything behind.

  “Would you like some water?” Gren Tya offers me a tin cup.

  I shake my head and continue to strain against our wagon, which is piled high with dried amphib meat, waterpods, clothing and all sorts of belongings. This tide we’re sharing our wagon with the Therins and Rinians, which also means we’re sharing the task of hauling it up the curving road. At the moment, it’s my turn to push, along with Cara Rinian and her uncle, Newis. Meanwhile, Gash Therin wears a leather harness and pulls up front. Unless you’re very old, very young, very ill, or very pregnant, everyone in Saltpool helps haul the wagons to Varasay City.

  “And are you thirsty, dear?” Gren offers the mug to Cara, who nods.

  The Rinians and I tried to convince Gren to ride on our wagon this tide, but she refused. And now here she is, still trying to help. I understand that she doesn’t want to be a burden, but I worry about her. Each tide, the climb from Saltpool to Varasay seems to drain her more.

  “One of these winters, I should be polite and stay in Saltpool to welcome the sirens,” she often jokes. And lately it seems less like a joke and more like a plan she’s trying to feel braver about.

  At least she’s not pushing the wagon this time.

  Like every year, the final sunedges of fall were a blur of labor. My fingers are still puckered and green from pickling the harvest, and my arms are scratched from crating wild hens, setting visconey traps, and gathering the last few waterpods growing in the deepest parts of Coral Lake. I spent three days disassembling the roof, door, and shutters of our hut, and then I dragged all that kelpwood over to the Therins so they could use it to build the wagon I struggle against now.

  I also spent a day packing Gren Tya’s stone-lined cellar with everything we aren’t allowed to bring to Varasay, like butchering knives or amphib poisons. No matter how carefully I tuck and fold our belongings in oilskins, though, and no matter how meticulously I seal every seam with wax, I know the roaming ocean will breach at least one of those packets. After the tide passes, something is always ruined.

  Last year it was my snapper darts. The year before it was our best ax.

  For once though, I welcomed the exhausting winter preparations because they stopped me from thinking too much about my wedding.

  I look for Carnos, but instead I see Sande further down the road. It’s not his turn to push the wagon his family’s sharing with Saltpool’s healer, so he’s walking with a dozen of Bessel’s reed mats slung across his back; mats she’ll sell at the barracks market. He looks at me for a moment—no, not at me, at my throat. He’s surely noticed I’m not wearing my black shell necklace anymore; the one he made for me.

  I haven’t left a gift for the sirens in a long time, but I did this morning. I spread the necklace out on the windowsill of Gren’s hut, and I know it will be gone after the tide passes.

  The Threegod priests hate it when we leave gifts for the sirens. They say it’s a form of Water Goddess worship, but a lot of the villagers do it anyway. I doubt many deeplanders believe sirens exist, but there’s something comforting about keeping up our traditions. It’s also a small, satisfying way to disobey the Varasay priests.

  When I was small, my mother always hid trinkets in the dead boat and then told me that the sirens left them during the tide. We’d hunt for those treasures each spring, barefoot and muddy, and it was one of the few times I ever heard Maam laugh.

  Leaving that necklace wasn’t as difficult as marrying Carnos will be, but it still feels like an important step because it’s something that can’t be undone.

  At dusk, our village stops for the night. We huddle around cookfires for a while and then make up beds inside the wagons for small children and beneath the wagons for everyone else. The deeplands have been getting chilly, but the air is even colder on the mountain, and there’s also a bitter, constant wind. After sharing a simple meal of shell beets and crab with Gren, I put on my wildwool jacket, woven muffler, and knit hat, and then I wrap us in all the blankets we own.

  “I’ll miss you, you know,” Gren whispers as we lie there shivering.

  “You won’t have to,” I say. “I’ll visit you every sunedge. I already told Carnos I will.”

  “You think so now,” Gren says. “But when a young woman marries, everything changes. It should, though, and it’s for the best.”

  It’s not the cold that bothers me after that, it’s those two terrible words—everything changes.

  We reach Varasay the next morning and line up at the city gates, alongside the needle-covered trees of the Teeterwood.

  Carnos stands near us with his mother and younger brother, and their wagon. His fur-trimmed cloak makes him look wider than he already is, and every so often, he gives my mittened hand an encouraging squeeze that grinds my knuckles together and makes my insides clench.

  Around noon, the Gray Straps begin letting villagers into the city, but as always, it’s a long process. They have to account for every deeplander, record harvests, search wagons for illegal items, and then assign us barracks units. I shiver as we wait. Not only is the wind relentless, but we’re also standing in the shadow of the Laeros Light God Temple, which stretches high above the city walls.

  For as long as I can remember, the temple has been under construction, appearing to grow beneath the scaffolding and tarps each time we arrive at the gates. The fluttering canvas shell is gone this tide though, and instead, pointed archways and slim pillars stand stern and tall. It’s a beautiful building, but it must look out of place among the factories and housing towers of the lower city. I can only imagine it was built in this part of Varasay because the rest of the city is already so crowded.

  My feet are stiff and numb when I finally hear a priest call for deeplanders who wish to marry.

  About twenty people step forward with their families. Most of the couples are young, but there’s one older pair. I wonder if they lost their spouses to illness and are remarrying, for only uplanders are allowed to divorce.

  Sande’s parents stand beside me, and I tense when the priest asks if I’m their daughter. Yet Gren was right to assume Bessel would cooperate. Sande’s mother nods yes, says my full name, “Nerene Keel Olin,” and confirms that we’re all from Saltpool. His father, Trennet, goes as far as patting my arm and whispering, “Congratulations!” He and I have always gotten along, though.

  I fight the urge to look around for Sande because I shouldn’t care how he’s reacting to Carnos and my registration. I know I’m making the right decision, whether he likes it or not.

  Once the priest records all the engaged couples’ names, it’s time for the wedding ceremonies. Carnos and I follow him through the gate, and the only comforting thought I have is that at least our wedding will be over quickly. We’ll walk to the small K’Gar Storm God temple near the wharf, the priest will recite a few Threegod prayers, and then we’ll all be assigned barracks units.

  But once we’re through the huge city gates, the priest doesn’t head for the docks. Instead he strides toward the impressive, gleaming doors of the new Laeros Temple, his robes swinging out behind him.

  Fathoms, are Carnos and I going to be married in there? I stare up at the huge towers and polished carvings. The thought of being married in such a massive building makes me feel like somehow my union with Carnos will be even more unbreakable and eternal.

  The other couples exchange excited smiles, and Carnos crushes my hand again. I’m so stunned, though, it hardly hurts
. The familiar sounds of the lower city seem muffled too: the rumble of automotors, the drone of people in the street, the constant hiss and roar of the currentways desalination plant. I suddenly wish I had the familiar weight of Sande’s black shell necklace around my neck, and I also feel a twinge of panic that the necklace really is lost forever. What was I thinking?

  The temple is even more impressive inside with shiny brass decorations and countless electric lights that look like glass flames. Almost everything else seems to be made of creamy marble: the intricately carved pillars, the smooth floors, and even the many benches.

  “Women over here please!” a priestess calls, her hair hidden beneath a tight-fitting hood.

  She leads us brides into an oval room, and moments later a flurry of other priestesses enter and undress us as if we’re small children. Then we take turns climbing into four copper bathing basins that stand on the far side of the room.

  “I’d ‘ave gotten married just for this bath,” sighs one of the brides.

  “Yeah, my sister’s gonna be jealous,” agrees Himmia, who’s from my village. “She got married last tide, and it was just the same-old, nothing-special wharf wedding.”

  I’m probably the only bride who would rather have a same-old, nothing-special wharf wedding.

  “Ooo, I hope we’ll get to stay here for our wedding night!” cries a girl who, aside from her ample curves, seems too young to be getting married.

  “Don’t be silly,” Himmia says. “It’s a temple. Wedding nights aren’t for temples. Wedding nights are for…” She hums in a playful way that makes all the brides laugh—except me. No one seems to notice my silence, though.

  Then it’s my turn. I’m told to climb into the basin furthest from the waiting brides. After three days of hiking up the cold mountain road, the hot water feels wonderful. I wish I could simply stay in the washbasin relaxing and soaking and perhaps skip the wedding altogether. Unfortunately a priestess begins washing my hair with soap that smells like uppy perfume, and her touch isn’t exactly soothing. She seems determined to scrub every last grain of traveling grit from my hair.