SoundofSirensTalesofSkylge,Book1

JenMinkman

@2014byJenMinkmanCoverdesignbyClarissaYeoofyocladesign.com

Lyrics to‘Songof theMermaid’bytheWaterboyswerepartlyreproducedandadaptedforthisstory.

LyricstosongsbyJyotiVerhoeffallcopyrightwww.jyotiverhoeff.nl

Thisbookiscopyright.Apartfromfairdealingforthepurposeofprivatestudy,research,criticismorreview,aspermittedundertheCopyrightAct,nopartmaybereproducedbyanyprocesswithoutthepriorpermissionoftheauthor.

TableofContentsTitlePageCopyrightPageSoundofSirens(TalesOfSkylge,#1)NoteFromTheAuthor1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10.11.12.13.14.15.16.17.18.Acknowledgements

DasLiedistaus,dieMelodieverklungenNichtsbliebvonderMusikzurückEinEchonurvonLiebe

Thesongisover,themelodyfadingAndnothingisleftofthemusic,Justanechooflove.

(FromtheMarleneDietrichsong‘FragNichtWarumIchGehe’–Don’tAskMeWhyI’mLeaving)

NoteFromTheAuthorThe setting of ‘Tales of Skylge’ is loosely based on the Dutch island ofTerschelling, or Schylge in the island’s dialect. The Frisian and Skylgianlanguagesreallyexist,andmightsoundstrangetoforeignears,sohereisashortpronunciationguide.

Enna’sbrother’sname,Sytse,ispronounced‘see-tzuh’.TheSkylgianwordfor‘father’isheit,pronouncedlike‘height’.Allnamesending in–e (suchasOmmeandAlke)arepronouncedwithan

‘uh’soundattheend,notasharp‘e’.Althoughthenamesandplacesinthisbookwilllookveryfamiliartopeople

livingonorhavingvisited the island, thecharactersandeventsare,ofcourse,entirelyfictitiousinnature.

Havefunreading‘SoundofSirens’!

1.It’sthecryofthealbatrossthatrousesmeinthemorning.

Thebirdhasbeencoming tomybedroomwindow for a fewmonthsnow,alwaysjustaftersunrise.WhenIopenmycurtain,itisthere,onthewindowsill,cockingitsheadandlookingatmecuriously.Meaningfully,even.

The elderly people on the island of Skylge might have told me that analbatrossisapure,humansoultakingflightonearthlywingsafterdeath,butI’mnotsosureIbelievethat.Mostly,theyjustpickfightswiththegullsonthebeachatlowtide,tryingtograbthebestfoodoncetherockslitteredwithmusselsriseabovethebrine.Doesn’tlookverypuretome.

Butthisbirdisdifferent.Itseemstowanttotalktome.Enna,howareyou?Icanhearmymother’smelodicvoiceinmymind.Itisme.

Butofcourseitcan’tbeher.Shewastakenbythesea.Bythem.Orrather,shewalkedintothewaterwillingly,lookingforanendtosuffering.EventhoughshehadSytse,Dadandme.Weweren’tenoughforhertoresistthecalloftheNixen.Theseductivesoundofblissfulfreedom.

Freedom.Itisstrangetothinkthatanyonecouldfeelboxedinonthislittleisland.The

landofSkylgeisflat,flat,flatasfarastheeyecansee,runningintotheendlessseaonallsides.Theinfiniteskyisneveroutofreach,thoughit’softenovercastwith dark-gray, rolling clouds bringing rain, thunder, and lightning to theSkylgers. It’s the only time the Currents cannot stop us from experiencingelectricity– Ihavebeen told that those firebolts in the skyarecausedby thesame force they use to power up their homes, their cars, and theirmysteriousappliances.And theBrandarisTower jutting out of the even landscape on thewest side of the island is where they keep their patron saint’s holy fire. Hetraveled from afar and came to the island to protect us from the Nixen, thepriests say. But St. Brandan’s clerics seem to overlook the fact that the onlypeopletrulyprotectedfromthemerfolkwaitingforusinthetreacherouswavesoftheWaddenSeaaretheCurrents.

IfBrandanhadcomehere toprotectallofus, theNixenwouldneverhavetakenmymother.

Iflingbackmyblanketandgetup.Slowly,Igetdressedinmysimplejeansandwhite tank top. Ibrushmy longbrownhairandpull itback inaponytail.Thecrackedmirrorshowsmethefaintringsofexhaustionundermyeyes,butIignorethem.Ihaveto–thereisnotimetolingeronmyfatigue.Iwillhavetofix breakfast before going to school, and the nets don’t cast themselves,unfortunately.

My stomach rumbles. I wouldn’tmind a nice, fresh piece of herringwithsomecut-uponionrightnow,onafatsliceofwhite,fluffybread.Nosuchluck,though.Thefishermenoutforherringwon’tbebackuntiltonight,andallIevercatcharesmall,hardlypalatablefish.

“Youwantsomeherring?”Imuttertothebirdstillwatchingmeattentively.“Isthatwhatyouwant?”

Ofcourse,Igetnoresponse.Anyway,Idon’tthinkthat’swhyit’shere.AsIsaid, this trosshasbeenmy faithful visitor formonthson end, and I’venevergiven it food. Maybe it just wants to be friends. I’ve heard Sytse talk aboutalbatrosses accompanying the rickety sailing ships he travels on to get to theFrisiantradersonthemainland.“They’reheretoprotectus,”hiscaptainalwaystellshim.

Well,our sailorsneed it.Travelingon thoseships isaprecariousbusiness.Andyet,IenvySytsesometimes.Mybrothermayruntheriskofbeingattackedbymermaidsandendingupinawaterygraveeverytimehesailsout,butatleasthegetstoseeabitmoreoftheworld.ThetradersinHarnstreathimkindly,eventhoughhe is just a lowlySkylger.Money talks, I guess–without theSkylgersailors risking their lives to sail to and from our island, the traders would bedependentontheCurrents’ferryservicingtheHarnsharboronlyonceeverytwomonths.Andtheysimplyloveoursheeps’wool.TheBaeles-Weards–whichiswhat thepriestsofBrandancall themselves–don’t favor tradewithoutsiders.TheysaySt.BrandanprovidestheCurrentswitheverythingtheycouldpossiblyneed.ButtheSkelta,ourwiseman,doesn’tmind.Hewantsustokeepanopenmind.Afterall,theFrisiangodsareourgods,too.

WhenIgetoutside,Dadisalreadyup.Heissittinginhischairbytheedgeoftheyard,hiseyessquintedagainsttherisingsunashestaresoutovertheroadrunningalongsidethedyke.Histanned,leatheryhandsaregrippinghiskneesasthoughheneedstostophimselffromgettingupandrunningtowardthesea.

He might be thinking of jumping in and following in my mother’s wakesometimes,butheisstillwithus.Ithinkhelovesmeandmybrothertoomuch.

“Goodmorning,Enna,”he sayswith a slight smile. “I hope I didn’twakeyouupwithmybangingaroundinthekitchen.”

“Noworries,Dad.Ihadtogetupanyway.”Quickly,Ipullonmyoldrubberbootstodosomelowtidefishing.“I’mmeetingDaniateightsowecancycletoschooltogether.AndI’dlikesomebreakfastbeforeIgo.”

Hisfacefalls.Eversincethefeverscameafewyearsbackandravagedhisbody,theonlythinghecanstillmakemeinthemorningishotherbaltea.He’stooweaktogofishing.

“Hey,whydon’tyoumakethethreeofussomepancakesfortonight?”Irushon, giving him a sunny smile. “There’s still some flour and one egg in thecupboard.AndI’msureEidacanspareussomemilk.”Ourneighborhasaflockofsheepthatcouldfeedtheentirevillage.

“Three?”myfatherechoesinconfusion.“Sytseiscominghometoday,”Iclarify.“It’sthesixteenthofMay,Dad.St.

Brandan’sDay.Theentire island iswaitingwithbaitedbreath forour ships toreturn.”

Hiseyeslightupwithjoy.“Isthatso?”hemumbles.“Oh,my.Ishouldreallykeepabettereyeonthatcalendar.Ihadnoidea.”Hescramblestohisfeetandhugsmebriefly.“Hewillstayhomeuntilthefestivalisover,won’the?”

“Youbet,”Igrin.Sytsewouldn’tmissitfortheworld.DuringthemonthofOorol,wecelebratetheartsinallkindsofways.Open-airtheatersarefilledtothebrimwithspectatorsandourmost talentedactors,stagesareputupon thecorner of every street to host musicians, and the scent of freshly bakedgingerbreadfillsthecapitalcityofBrandaris.

Thinking of gingerbread makes my stomach rumble. I pull a face as mytummyloudlybegsforfuel.“I’llbebacksoon,”Ipromise,watchingmyfatherashecarefullyshufflestowardthebackdoortogobacktothekitchen.

Thesunisbrightandhottoday,makingmesweatalittleasImakemywayacross thedykeand to thebeach.Unusualfor this timeofyear,butyouwon’thearmecomplain.Wedon’tgetalotoflightonourislandasit is,soI’ll takeanythingtheorboffireintheskysendsmyway.

Anythingtokeepthemelancholyatbay.IstarttowhistleatunetodistractmyselffromthinkingofMomagain.Atthe

sametime,Iclapmyhandsandstampmyfeet,turningmymorningwalkintoanimpromptudance.Iprobablylooklikeanidiot,butIdon’tcare.Eida’ssheeparetheonlyoneswatchingmehere,andIgivethewhite,woollyanimalsafriendlywavebeforeIhitthebeachandmyrubberbootssinkintothewetsandsuckingatmyfeet.

ThesmallnetI’mcarryingaroundmyneckchafesmyskin,theropesroughand frayed from the brine. Before I can take it off and cast it to try and getmyselfsomemuch-neededbreakfast,though,Ipause.

There,onsomerocksjuttingoutfromaclumpofseaweed,aretwogiganticgulleggs.Thespeckledthingsseemtosmileupatmeinthemorningsun.Ihavenoideawhyaseagullwoulddepositeggshereinsteadofbuildingapropernest,but frankly Idon’tcare.Maybe itwas inahurry.Well, soamI.Withabroadgrin,Iscoopuptheeggsandcarefullystufftheminmyfishingbag.It’stimetogetoutofherebeforethatuntraditionalbirdcomesback.

2.“Enna!”myfriendbellowsasIcycleupthepathleadingtotheStortumDyke.She’swaitingforme,punctualasever,herbikerestingagainstherhipasshe’styingupherwhite-blondehairforthewindytripahead.“We’regonnabelate!”

“Sorry,”Ipant,comingtoastopinfrontofher.“Istumbleduponalovelybreakfast and I just couldn’t help taking my time, savoring the taste of myomelet.”

Danialwaysmeetsmehereby thewater’sedgeateighto’clocksharp.Weboth live in Kinnum, which boasts a population of one hundred souls. It’s atwenty-minutebikerideawayfromBrandaris,ourcapitalcity,wherewegotoschool.

IfwewereallowedtoridetheCurrentbustoschool,thetripwouldonlytakesixminutes.Butwearen’t–andit’snotlikethebusstopsinKinnumanyway.Our village is a pure-blood community inhabited by Skylgers. The Currents,whooncecamefromacrosstheseaandpronouncedthemselvestherulingclassonourisland,arenotwelcomehere.

“You’llregretthatbigbreakfastinaminute,”Daniwarnsmewithagiggle.“Lasttimeyouhadaheavymealyoucouldn’tcycleveryfast,remember?”

“Well,maybeweshouldknockaCurrentontheheadandstealhisIDcard,”Imuttersourly.“SowecanhitcharideontheBrandanBandwagon.”

Dani sucks in a scandalizedbreath. “A lowlySkylgergirl ridingaCurrentbus?Feelingbravetoday?”Herbrowneyes, justasdarkasmine,sparklewithmischief.

“Comeon,let’sgo,”Ijustsay.“Weonlyhaveafewclassesinthemorning,sothey’llbeextrastrictwithtardypassestoday.”

“Long live St. Brandan,” Dani chuckles. “Thanks to him we’re off bynoontime.Yougoingtotheharborafterclasses?”

“Of course. Sytse is coming back. I hope he’s bringing us lots of newrecords.”

“Oh,yeah!That’dbeawesome.”DaniandIbothlovemusic.Myfriendcan’tsingworthaflip,butsheplays

theguitarlikeapro,andIaccompanyherwithmyvocals,whicharen’thalfbad.Also,myfamilyownsawind-upgramophoneandItrytohoardasmanyshellac

recordsas I can.Newmusic isbrought in from themainlandall the time,butthoserecordingsareusuallysoldtotherichpeople.Whichmeansthey’reonLPs–andcanonlybeplayedbytheelectronicdevicesownedbytheCurrentclass.Sytseknows there is ahighdemand formainland78-recordsamongSkylgers,though,sohealwaysmakessureheandhisfriendsbringinwholecratesofthemwheneverhecomeshome.Andhekeepsafewasideformebecauseheknowsmyfavoriteartistsbynow.MarleneDietrichandKathleenFerrierneverfail totugatmyheartstrings.

“Drinktomeonlywiththineeyes,”IstarttosingonourwaytoBrandaris.“AndIwillpledgewithmine.”ItusedtobeoneofMom’sfavorites.

Danilistenstomewithasmileonherface.“Iwishwecouldjuststayoutonthedykealldayandstareoutatseaandmakemusic,”shesayslongingly.“Firstperiod is historywithMr. Buma.Yawn.He’s just going to harp on about themistakesofourancestorsanyway.St.Brandan’sDayistheperfectopportunityforthat.”

Irollmyeyes.Daniisright–Bumaisasell-outfawningallovertheCurrentelitists.“Bereminded,children,ofourneighboringlands,thesunkenislandsofAmelanandFlylan,”Iintone.“Takenbythewavesandthemerfolkbecausetheywouldn’t submit to Brandan’s guidance and protection. Smitten because theyworshipped Freda and Fosta. Punished because they wanted to disturb thenaturalorderofthings.”

And the natural order of things means that the Skylgers stand mostlydefenselesswhentheseaattacks.TheCurrentsholeupintheirfortifiedhigh-riseapartmentbuildingsinthemiddleoftheislandwhilewewatchhelplesslyastheseasonalfloodsbringtheNixentoourcoastaltowns.Whenthemerfolkcalltousinthedarknessofwinter, theCurrentsdrownout thesoundwiththeir loud,electronicmusic,boomingfromthegiganticspeakersintheirgaudynightclubs.Their territory isequippedwitha loudspeakersystemwarning themofaSirenattackwithahigh-pitchedbeepwhichthey, ironically,callasiren.Gofigure–theynamedtheirwarningsignalafterthedeviouscreaturesluringhumansouttosea.

Butweareforbiddentouseelectricity,reapingonlythedubiousbenefitsofbeing protected by their patron saint of coastal light, St. Brandan. His towerstandsproudinthemiddleofOldBrandaris,repellingtheSirenswithitsbright,electric light, chasingaway thedarkness filledwithmer-song that threatens toovertakesomanyislanderspronetomelancholy.

Sometimes,IamtrulyscaredIamtoomuchlikemymom.OnedayImightwalk into the sea and never look back. And not my family’s love or Dani’sfriendshipwillbeenoughtostopmefromharkeningtothesoundofsirens.

3.“MissBuwalda,” a stern voice addressesmewhen I slip into the hallway tenminutesbeforenoontime.“Wheredoyouthinkyou’regoing?”

Ilookaroundandmeetthecaretaker’seye.OldOlgerhasthe‘strictjanitor’actdowntoatee,butweallknowhehasaheartofgold.Plus,he’sanoldfriendofmydad’s,sohecutsmesomeslackeverynowandthen.

“Toilets,”Isay,flashinghimmyhallpass.“Youcouldn’twaitforafewmoreminutes?”Igivehimadeliberatelyawkwardsmile.“It’sthattimeofthemonth.”Olgergrimaces.“Nevermind.Offyougo.Idon’twanttoknow.”Smilingtomyself,Iheadfortherestrooms.Workseverytime.Ijustwantto

bethefirstoneoutthedoortogetdowntotheharbor.Theshipsarecoming–Icansenseit.AquietbuzzrunsthroughtheentiretownofBrandaris,asthoughtheelectricitypoweringtherichhomessparkedacurrentinallofitsresidents.

I slip inside and wait until Olger has strutted off before I come back outagain andmake a run for themain doors. If no one else seesme, I’ll be theluckiestgirlontheislandtoday.

IletoutasighofreliefonceI’mofftheschoolgrounds.Daniwillhavetoforgivemeforsneakingoutwithouther.TwogirlswithhallpassesatthesametimewouldhavesetofftheSirensforsure,sotospeak.

Mountingmybike,Ihoistmybackpackontomyshoulders.Theseawindiscallingtomewithanexcitedcryoffreedomandthesalty tangof theWaddenSeaticklesmynostrils.Ispeedalongpassingmyownschool,downthestreet,zippingpasttheCurrenthighschoolthat’sonlyastone’sthrowawayfromours.WhenIoncewonderedoutloudwhytheybuiltitnexttotheSkylgerSchoolinoursectorofBrandaris,SytsetoldmethattheCurrentsjustliketorubitin–thefact that their institute is far superior. St.BrandanHigh has artificially-heatedclassrooms, flashyaudioequipment, andspecial eveningclassesunderelectriclight.

Personally,Ilikereadingbooksbetter.AndIquiteenjoythefactthatclassesare canceled when the weather gets too severe. Long live the impracticalfireplacesinourbuilding.

When I arrive at the Kom, ourmain harbor, a group of Currents has alreadygathered on the quay.With eager, grabby hands, they await the ships and thegoods our traders are bringing home. No matter howmuch their own priestsfrownuponacquiringmerchandisefromthemainland,there’salwaysafewwhofeel they standabove theirown lawsbecause they’re just toodamn rich tobebossedaroundbyanybody.

One of those people isRoyceBolton. Partial heir to theBolton Industriesfortune.His great-grandfather invented and produced the Siren system, so hisfamilyisloaded.Royceistheyoungestofthreebrothersandhe’saboutSytse’sage.AsIgetoffmybike,Isecretlyobservehim.Hispiercing,blueeyesscanthehorizonandaslightfrownofanticipationcreasestheskinbetweenhisjet-blackeyebrows.Thefewgirlsclusteredaroundhimlookupathiminadmiration,buthedoesn’t seemtonotice. Instead,he focuseshisattentionon thesea,waitingfortheSkylgershipstocomein.

“Whysoanxious,Royce?”Iwanttoaskhim.“Afraidyouwon’tgetanytoystoplaywiththisweek?”

EverybodyontheislandknowswhoRoyceis.Apartfrombeingarich,spoiltbrat,healsohappenstobeagiftedmusician.HealwaysplaysthepianoduringtheOorolfestival,usuallyaccompaniedbyoneofhisgushinggirlfriendssingingalong.It’snotfairthatsuchaninsufferablepersonissotalented,inmyhumbleopinion.IwishIcouldhatetheguy,butafterhearinghimplay,Ihonestlycan’t.Hismusicisheartrendinglybeautiful.Ifhissongswereeverpressedinshellac,I’dbuytheminaheartbeat.I’dprobablycovermytracksoutofembarrassment,butstill.

Before theycanspotmeoraskmewhy I’mhere thisearly, I scurryawaylike a frightened crab and sit down on the sand, my back leaned against amooringpost,mychinbraceduponmyraisedknees,andmyarmscirclingmylegs.Ifanyoneweretodrawmyportraitnow–orsnappedapictureofmewithmy dad’s clunky, old-fashioned camera – the result would be called ‘Girl InContemplation’, I bet. Iwonder if the uncrowned prince ofBrandaris and hisminionseverstareattheseawithsuchamixtureoffearandreverence.

Mygrandmothersaysthatwewerebornofthesea.Ourancient,pre-BrandanlegendsteachusthattheFrisiangodscastusuponthelandwhenwestartedtogrowlegsinsteadoffinsandtails.OurancestorsaretheNixen,whostillcallforus,imploringustocomehome.Butthisisourhomenow–andwecannevergoback.Yet,wesilentlyworshiptheseaoutofrespectforwhatithasgivenus,andisstillgivingusnow.Life.Sustenance.Watertodesalinateandfishtocatchin

our nets. And we have our own rituals to appease the merfolk. Once a year,duringOorol,wesingtothem.TheBaeles-Weardspriestswouldbanoursongsofoldif theyknew.WhentheSkylgeChoirgetsuponstageandperformstheold hymns, the choir members’ voices carry these spellbinding melodies toacknowledgetheirexistence,andtowarnthemoffatthesametime.

“Westandasstillasstonewhilethemermaidsingsandhermelodyringslikeamemorycallingushome,”Ising,almostinaudibly.Ofcourse,wedon’tsingthisintheCurrents’language.AspertheSkelta’s

instructions, the choir chants it in the old Skylger tongue, which is slowlydisappearing. Anglian has replaced our own language. Grandma Antje, mymom’smom,stillknowhowtospeakSkylgianfluently,though,andshetaughtme the language too.Thismeans Iunderstand the songsourchoir singseveryyear. She also told me what my name, Enna, stands for. I was named afterGrandpa Enno, whose name means fear or terror because it derives from anancientwordmeaning‘theedgeofasword’.

Thenamemayhavefitmygrandfather,butIamnotnearlybraveenoughtocarry it with pride. I don’t think I’ll live to see the day I strike terror intoanyone’sheart.

MyeyeswidenwhenIseedotsonthehorizon.TheSkylgerfleet–it’sback!Relief floods my body. As much as I love my big brother being part of ourmarines,I’malwaysafraidsomethingwillhappentohim.NoamountofexoticpresentswillmakeupformissingSytse.

I get up and make my way to the waterfront. Very soon, a multitude ofSkylgersoutnumberingtheCurrentshasgatheredaroundmeonthequay,andIfeelsafeoncemore.Iblendintothecrowd,becominginvisible.

Nottomybrother, though.Assoonasthelargestshipdocks,hemakeshiswayoff thegangwaywhile fixingmewith a largegrinonhis face.His hazeleyes sparkle and his blond hair shines in the sunlight. He’s clutching a big,burlapsackinhishand.FilledwithgiftsforDadandme,nodoubt.

I push my way through the throng and end up hugging my brother for alongertimethanIplanned.

“Howhaveyoubeen?”hesays,breakingourembraceatlastandholdingmeatarm’slengthtotakeagoodlookatme.“You’velostsomeweight.HaveyousufferedfromtheSadnessagain?”

“I’mallright,”Ibrushoffhisconcern.“Theycancallmealltheywant,buttheNixenwon’tgetme.Ibelongontheland.”

IfIsayitoutloudoftenenough,it’llbetrue.

“Well, I brought something to cheer you up anyway,” Sytse continues,openinghisbagsoIcansneakapeekinside.MyhearttripswhenIspotatleastfivenewrecords.“Here,whydon’tyouholdontothesethingsfornow?Ihaveto help the crew. There’s lots of unloading to do, and I bet those Currentshoveringaroundtheharborwanttoinspectthegoodsassoonastheycan.”Hewinks.

Igrin.“Iwon’tunpackthisuntilwegethome,”Ipromise.“Goodgirl,”Sytse sayswith a sunny smile. “But Iwant to showyouone

thingnow.Ibroughtitespeciallyforyou.Here,wait.”Hesnatchesthesackfrommyhandsagainanddigsupaflat,squarecardboardsleevewithapictureonit.ALongPlayrecord?

“ThesewomensingliketheNixen,”Sytsetellsme.“Theleadsinger’snameisJyoti.You’lllovehermusic.Sheplaysthepianolikeshe’sputtingaspellonthekeys,andherpartnerMayaplaysthecello.Unbelievablybeautiful. IheardthesesongsoutsideabrowncaféneartheKrummhornharborandIknewIhadtogetthisforyou.”

Thetwored-hairedwomendepictedonthefrontchasingafierybirdstareatthe animal with wide, slightly slanted eyes. They look mesmerizing; almostwitch-like.I’mintrigued,butSytse’sgiftmakesmepainfullyawareofthethingswecanneverhave.

“HowwillIeverlistentothis?”Isay,soundingdisheartened.“We’llfigureoutaway,”hereplies,restinghishandonmyshoulder.“Who

knows,youmightwinaday’ssupplyofelectricitythisyearduringOorol.Don’tgiveuphope.”

Ishoothimasmallsmilebeforeherushesoff.Sytseisadreamer.Nooneinour family has ever won the day’s supply of Current power, and if I did, Iwouldn’twasteitonlisteningtothisJyotiwoman.IknowwhatI’ddoifIeverwon – I’d get someone to drive us around the island in aCurrent car for theentireday.Eversincetheillnesstookhisstrengthaway,Dadhasn’tleftKinnumbecausehecan’twalkveryfar.AndIknowhelongstoseethesaltmarshesinthe east once more. The wild dunes and the unblemished sands of Osterendwhere he grew up. He wants to listen to the quiet birdsong in the woods ofHornsebos.Hedeservestogothereatleastonemoretime,buthecan’tsitonthebaggagerackofmybikeforverylongbecauseofthepaininhisjoints,soIcan’ttakehim.Igototheseplacesontheweekendandtakephotoswithhiscamerasometimes so I can show himwhat it looks like, but the resulting black-and-whitepicturesdon’ttrulyconveythebeautyofEasternSkylge.

“Hey, you!”Dani suddenly pops up next tome. “Left withoutme? I willneverforgiveyou.Never.”Shepullsamock-insultedfaceandIstarttogiggle.

“Ofcourseyouwill,”Iobject.“Becauseyouloveme.”“Don’tbesosure.”Danicraneshernecktolookatthecratesthesailorsare

nowcarryingontothejetty.“Ooh,Iwonderwhat’sinthere.DidSytsementionanyshellacrecords,besidestheoneshe’skeptasideforyou?”

I shakemy head. “You should go take a look.You can listen tomine, ofcourse.ButIknowyoulikeVictorSilvesterthebest.”

“True, true.”My friend flashes a smile atme. “Will you be okay on yourown?”

“Sure. I’ll just wait for you and Sytse to finish so we can all go hometogether.”

AsDaniskipsofftocheckoutwhatoursailorshavebroughtinfromFryslan,Grins,andNethersaxony,thewindpicksup,makingmeshiverallofasudden.Thesoundofthewavesrushesin,carryingwistfulvoicesfilledwithlongingandhunger.TheNixen–ortheSirens,astheCurrentscall them–areneverreallyquiet.Icanalwayshearthem,justlikemymother.

I closemy eyes andwait until the feeling goes away. The only thing thatgoesaway,though,isthesunhittingmycheeks.WhenIopenmyeyesagaintoseewho’scastingashadowacrossmyface,Iamstaringintotwopiercingeyesthatarebluelikethecloudlessskies.

4.It’sRoyce.

Whattheheckishedoinghere?Iblinkupathiminconfusion.AmIinhisway?Hashemistakenmeforsomeoneelse?

“Hi,”hesays,hisdeepvoicemelodiclikehismusic.Whyishetalkingtome?“Hello,”Ireplystiffly.“Ehm...canIhelpyouwithsomething?”“Actually, yes.” He smiles, and I hate myself for staring at him. He’s

gorgeous,inanold,Frisian-god-kind-of-way.“Ialwayscomeheretopickupthelatestmusicfromthemainland,andIthinkoneoftheLPsI’vebeenwaitingforhasaccidentallyendedupwiththatsailor’srecordhaul.”

I follow his gaze when he stares pointedly at my hand still clutching theuselessLP.

“You–butthisismine,”Isay.“Sytsegotitforme.Asaspecialgift.”“Ah.”TheworriedfrownIspottedbeforecreaseshisforeheadagain.“Well–

okay.That’sunfortunate.”“What’ssounfortunateaboutgettingapresent?”Isnip.Royce stares at me for a second and then laughs, his eyes lighting up.

“Nothing.I’mhappyyourboyfriendisbringingyougifts,ofcourse.”“Mybrother,”Imumble,blushingwhenIrealizeIfeeltheneedtopointthat

out,somehow.“Fine.Your brother. Imean it’s unfortunate forme. Since that is the only

copytheshipsseemtohavebroughtin.”Roycelooksatmeexpectantly,asthoughIshouldfalldowntomykneesand

prostatewhileofferinghimthemuch-covetedLP.Inarrowmyeyesathimandstubbornlycrossmyarms.

“So...” he continueswhen I don’t say anything back. “Howmuch do youwantforit?”Hishanddriftsdowntohisbackpocket,probablytowhipouthisfat,loadedwallet.

Igasp.Thearrogance–thesheerimpudenceofpresumingeverythingisforsale, evengiftsmeant for others. I take a stepback andglare at him. “I don’twantanythingforit.Iintendtokeepitmyself.”

Iknowit’sridiculous,andIknowheknowsthat.IwillneverlistentothisLPinmylifetime.Thebestthingtodoistomakehimpaythroughthenoseforitand do something awesome with all his cash. But I don’t feel like beingreasonable.Iwanthimtofeellikemeforonce.Likeahave-not.

Royceblinksinsurprise.“Why?”“BecauseSytsepicked it out formeespecially,” I say. “He said itwas the

mostbeautifulmusiche’deverheardandIwouldloveittoo.Heknowsmytasteinmusic.Besides,whywouldIsellagift?That’sreallyungrateful.”

The dark-hairedCurrent boy bites his lip, seemingly to stop himself fromsmiling. “Well,youhaveapoint there,”headmits. “Butyoucan’t listen to it.Unless you have a secret LP player stashed away somewhere.”His eyes boreintomineasthoughhe’sexpectingmetoactuallyconfesstosomethinglikethat.

“Idon’t.”Irollmyeyes.“AndifIdidIwouldn’ttellyou.”Roycechuckles.“Well.Thislookslikeastalematetome.Iwanttolistento

theLP,butIcan’tbecauseyouhaveit.Youwanttolistentotherecord,butyoucan’t because you have no equipment. That’s prettymessed up. Now nobodygetstoenjoyit.”

“I’mnotsellingit,”Irepeat,staringhimdownwithasmuchcourageasIcanmuster.Idon’tknowwhathe’lldo.Maybehewillcallhis lackeystohavememugged on my way home. Maybe he’ll do it himself, even. He looks reallystrong.Ineverreallynoticedhowmuscularheactuallyis.

Roycedoesn’t lookaway.Heseems tobecontemplatingsomething.Whenhefinallyspeaks,hesayssomethingIdon’tunderstandatall.

“YouknowtheabandonedvillageofStortum?”Everyonedoes.It’sasettlementnorth-westofKinnum,destroyedbyastorm

surgeinthetimeofmygrandparents.Itwasneverbuiltbackupagain.Inod.“Ido.Why?”“Becausemygrandparentsusedtoownacottagethere.OntheHighLand.”“And?”“Andnow it’smine. I repaired it anduse it asa sortof retreat.There’san

electricpianotheresoIcanpracticewithoutbeingdisturbedbypeople.I–needtoclearmyheadsometimes,andBrandarisisjusttoocrowdedforthat.”

“Soundsgreat,”Isayabitsullenly,butmywordsaresincere.Roycesoundslike he doesn’t enjoy theCurrent lifestyle all thatmuch. I understandwhy hewouldwanttoseeksolitude.

“Meetme there,”hecontinues, loweringhisvoice. “Butdon’t let anybodyseeyou.”

“Uhm–why?”Iask,sarcasmlacingmyvoice.“WhywouldIwanttosneakawaytoyourlittlelovenestslashmusicstudio?”

“Sshh,”Royceurgesme,lookingaroundhimfurtively.Then,heshootsmean incredulous look. “You got the wrong idea. Trust me, my intentions arehonorable.”Anamusedglint inhiseyesmakesmeblushagain.Ofcoursehisintentionsarehonorable.NoCurrentwouldtouchaSkylgergirllikemewithaten-footpole.Idon’tevenknowwhythatcommentabouthis‘lovenest’slippedout.Somehow,hismusicalretreatcentermorphedintosomethingquitedifferentin my perverted mind.Maybe because of the way he asked me to meet himthere.Icouldkickmyself.

“Sowhatareyourintentions?”Heinchescloserandwhispers:“Ihaveanelectronicturntablethere.Sowe

canbothlistentotheLP.We’llshareit.Okay?”I blink up at him owlishly. I hate to admit it, but that’s actually a pretty

brilliantidea.Andveryconsiderateofhim–IbethecouldforcemetogiveupSytse’sgiftifhereallywantedto.

“Uhm,okay,”Istammer.“When?”“Tonight.Six?”“No.”Ishakemyhead.“I’llbehavingdinnerwithmydadandbrother.Eight

o’clock.”Henods.“Eightitis.I’llleavethelightonoutsidesoyoucanfindme.”“Good.”Itakeastepbackandbitemylip.“Seeyou.”“Soon,”Roycesays,smilingfaintly.Iturnaroundanddashoffintothecrowd,tryingtocatchupwithDaniand

Sytse.IfindthattheJyotiLPfitsperfectlyinmybackpack.

5.That afternoon,wegather in the living room.Dadhas splashedout andmadeenoughpancakestolastusthroughlunchanddinner,becauseEidadonatedsomeeggs to us too, the sweetheart. Dani joins us for tea and cookies. Sytse hasbroughtourfavorite,wafflesfilledwiththesweetestsyrupinallofFryslan.Igettheportablegramophonefrommyroomsowecanputitonthecoffeetableandlisten to the newmusicmy brother brought home. Dani bought a fewVictorSilvester records fromanold sailor sheknows throughhergrandpa, and she’sbroughtthosetoo.

The first songweplay is calledMySecretLoveAffair. It’sDani’s pick.Aslightsmilegracesherfaceaswelistentothedancebandplayingasomewhatmournful tune with a beautiful violin solo. The majority of this orchestra’srecordingsdon’tfeaturevocals,andIfeeltheurgetostartsingingandaddsomelyricsaboutacouplesneakingofftomeetupinsecret.

DaniusedtodateaguyfromMeslonswhokept theirrelationshipasecret.Hankdidn’twant to tell his parents because they expectedhim to ‘dobetter’.They’rerich,stuck-upsnobswhoaretragicallydeludedbecausetheythinkHankwillmarryaCurrentgirloneday.Nomixed-heritagecoupleonthisislandwillevertietheknot.Itjustdoesn’tworkthatway.

Dani broke upwith him a fewmonths ago because she got tired of beingHank’sclandestinelover,butIknowitstillstingsher.Shereallylikedhim.Thiskindofmusicremindsherofwhatshe’slost.

Next up is my latest Kathleen Ferrier acquisition – a record featuring thesongsWhatisLifeandArtThouTroubled?Ipickthefirstsongandwelisteninsilence.Kathleen’sdark,contraltovoicefillstheroom.Dadcloseshiseyesandsavors themusic.It remindshimofMomandthehappier timeswhenshewasstillalive.Heonce toldmehowmuchhe lovedmeplayingKathleenFerrier’smusicinthequietafternoonhourswhiledoinghomework,invokingbitter-sweetmemories.

After thesongisfinished,Sytsevolunteers towindup thegramophoneforthenextroundofrecords.Thecrankisgettingabitsqueaky,butthemachineisstillworkingproperly.Istandnexttohimtoreplacethesteelneedleandshoot

DaniawickedgrinwhenshewalksoverholdingupaBobScobeyrecord.“Wantmetoputinaloudneedle?”Iask.

“Ofcourse,”Danireplies.“TheFriscoBandneedstobeplayedatmaximumvolume.”

Last timewedid that,Eidacameover tocheckoutwhatall thenoisewasaboutandendedup jazz-dancing in the livingroomwithus.She’safeistyoldwoman,justlikemygrandmotherAntje.

“Okay,herewego,”Sytsesays.Hecarefullyplacestheneedleintheoutergrooveandthesoundboxcomestolifewithacracklingnoise–abittoobuzzytomy taste. I askedhim to look around for a newmicadiaphragm, but they arehardtocomebythesedays.

We dance and sing along to the new records until dinner time. “Are youdroppingby tonight tostudyfor theGerman test together?”Dani inquiresas Iseeherout.

“Ican’t,”Isay.“IpromisedSytsetohelphimwithsomething.”“Okay. Ifyou’re toobusy tostudyI’ll fillyou induringour ride toschool

tomorrow!”shegrins.Ifeelguiltyforlyingtoher,butIdon’twanttotellheraboutRoyce’sstrange

proposal.Yet.OfcourseIwilltellher,eventually–onceRoycehasgrowntiredofmeandmyLPandgoesbacktotheharbortopickouthisnextnewandshinything,I’lltellherallabouthowIforcedaCurrentguytohangoutwithme.TheJyotiLPmakesmefeelpowerful.ThetitleoftherecordisPhoenix,and that’sexactlywhatIfeellike.Indestructible.Risinglikeanewbornfromtheflames.

BythetimeIsneakoutof thehouse–I toldmyfamilyI’dbestudyinginmyroomuntilbedtime–itisalmostdarkoutside.Roycepromisedtoleavealightonoutsidethecottage,whichisagoodthing.IthoughtIcouldtakethebiketoStortum, but I can’t risk veering off the narrow track in the darkness. I don’thaveheadlights like theCurrentvehicles,afterall. It’sanewmoontonight,sotheskywillbepitch-darklater.Iwillhavetowalk.

Humming a tune to myself, I go on my way. Actually, I don’t feel thatupbeat.I’mmostlysingingtomyselftocalmmynerves.ThemoreIthinkaboutit,themoreoutrageousthiswholeplanseemstome.IamgoingtositdowninsomeobscurecottagewithaCurrentcelebritysowecanshareanLP.Whatwillwetalkabout?HowamIsupposedtobehave?HewilllookatmeasifI’msomedesperate, Skylger electro-wannabe.Maybe it’s a trap and he’s invited all hisfriendssotheycanallmockmeforbeingsogullible.

Ifreezemid-stride.Oh,byFredaandFosta–thatmustbeit.Isinkdownonabenchby theroadsideandrestmyhead inmyhands.TheLPdrops intomylap.Royceisasadisticbullyandhe’stryingtosetmeup.It’sSt.Brandan’sDay–whywouldhewanttomeetupwithmeinsteadofspendingtimepartyingintownwithhisbuddies?

Ittakesmeanothertenminutestopullmyselftogetherandcontinuemywalkto Stortum. Because I still want to know. I’ll tiptoe to the window and lookinsidetoseeifI’mright.IfIam,Igetthehelloutofthere.IfI’mwrongaboutRoyce...well,thatmeansI’llhaveanexciting,nerve-wrackingeveningaheadofme.

By the time Imarchup to the frontdoor, it’scompletelydark. I foundmywayall rightbecause there’sanelectric lightbulbabove itwhichcastsa faintlight across thewoodenexteriorof the littlehouse.The lightdoesn’t look tooinviting. I prefer candlelight and the light of the gas lanterns that our islandguards keep burning along the main roads in the small Skylger towns andvillages.

IholdmybreathasIcreepuptothewindowontheright.Thecurtainsarepartlydrawn,andIcanstillpeerthroughthecrack.

Royce is sitting in a lazy chair facing the door. He looks like he’s a bitnervous,too.Anditalsolookslikehe’scompletelyalone.Bysomemiraculousturn of events, this guy seems sincere in hiswish to shareMiss Jyoti’s latestworkwithme.

Islinkbackintotheshadowsandstareponderinglyatthedimly-litentrance.DoIreallywanttogointhere?

MyhandapparentlydecidesIdo,becausethenextthingIknowIamrappingat the door.Within seconds, Royce opens it and stares down atmewith thatstrangelypiercinggazeinhisblueeyes.

“Hey,”hesays.“Hi,”Irespond,givingahalf-heartedwavewithmyhandholdingtheLP.“Comein,please.”Hestepsasidetoletmein.MyheartskipsabeatasIcomplywithhisrequest.There,Ididit–Ishowed

upforasecretdatewithahotCurrentboy.IfonlyDaniknew,she’dlaughherassoff.Orslapmystupidface.

“Niceplace,”Icomment,surveyingtheroom.Thetwocouchesandthelazychairareallburgundy-coloredvelvet.Thecoffeetableinthecenterismadeofheavy, dark-brown wood. There are some old family tintypes above thefireplace, and in the far right corner is a piano that doesn’t seem to have asoundboard.Itmustbeelectric,then.It’salmostlikemagic.

Thecottageisreallycozy,apartfromthestrangely-lookingappliancesliningthe leftwall.One of those thingsmust be theLPplayer hementioned. I inchtoward it.Tomy surprise, it looks really similar to agramophoneuponcloserinspection.

“Youlikemyturntable?”Roycesays,hislowvoicebreakingthesilencesosuddenly that I give aweird little jump.Whippingaround, I takeaquick stepbacksinceheiscloserthanIexpected.Ifeelflusteredbyhispresence–notjustbecauseitissomehowimposing,butbecauseheseemstomakemyskinglow.

“Turntable?”Irepeatdumbly.“Yeah. Themodern version of the phonograph.” That’s what the Currents

callourmechanicalmusicplayers–Iremembernow.“It’sweird.”Itakeahesitantstepcloser,asthoughtheturntablecouldleap

upandmaulmylegatanyminute.“Whereisthesoundbox?Thattonearmlookssofragile.”

“The tone arm uses an amp,” Royce replies. “And the needle is made ofdiamond,soitbasicallylastsforever.Itcanplaybothvinylandshellac.”

It’slikehespeaksanadvancedformofGermanIneverstudied.Hiswordsmake no sense tome, but I nod seriously, keepingmy eyes on the device. “Ididn’tknowCurrentslistenedtoshellacrecords,too.”

“Well,onlycollectors,”hesays.“MostpeoplebuyLPsthesedays.ButIlike78RPMs.Ikeptmygrandfather’srecordswhenhedied.”

My gaze gingerly swerves to his face again. “What kind ofmusic did helike?”

“GlennMiller.TheAndrewSisters.MarleneDietrich.”MyeyeswidenwhenIhearthenameofoneofmyfavoriteartists.Forasplit

second,IfeelweirdlyjealousbecauseRoyceknowshertoo.HermusicshouldbesomethingIcankeepforjustme,butIguessinthespiritofsharingmusiconthisweirdkind-of-date,Ishouldn’tgrumbleaboutit.

“So...shallwelistentothis?”Isuggest,handinghimthePhoenixalbum.“What a great idea.” He shoots me a lopsided little grin before turning

around and pressing a button on the device underneath the turntable. “Have aseat,”hethensays,gesturingatthesittingarea.

Ipickthecouchfurthestawayfromthelazychair,sinceIsuspecthe’sgoingtositthere.MyhandsfeelclammyasIrunthemoverthevelvetofthecushions.

WhenRoycewalksover,heslidestheLPsleeveacrossthecoffeetableandnodsatit.“Youcanpickwhichsidewelistentofirst.”

“Oh.” I stare blankly at the sleeve, my eyes skimming all the song titles.Wow-I thought therewereonlytwosongsonthedisc,asusual,butfromthelonglistof titlesIconcludethat thisrecordischock-fullofsongs.Fourteenin

total – seven on each side. That’s as many songs as I care to play in oneafternoonbeforemyarmstartstohurtfromoperatingthecrank.“Uhm...IwanttohearFieldofNight.”

Roycebrushesastrandofblackhairfromhisforehead.“Okay,sideAitis.”Hesmiles.

Ileanbackintothecouchcushionsandfixmygazeonthestrangedevicesinsteadofhim.I’mafraidI’llstareotherwise.

Hereachesoutandpressesafewbuttonstostartthemusic.Thefragilearmisliftedandtherecordstartstospinslowly–muchmoreslowlythanI’musedto.Andthen,thefirsttonesdriftoutofinvisiblespeakersthatseemtosurroundtheentiresittingarea.

6.Myheartstops.

Thesound is soclean.Sosmooth.Nothing likemyscratchy recordplayer.Thepianomusicenvelopsmelikesweethoneyandawarmblanket,cascadingovermelikeagraciouswaterfall.Thecellokicksinandthenthewomanstartstosinganevocative,melancholysong.Iunderstand,eventhoughthewordsdon’treallymakesensesometimes.

Weabandonthesinkingshipofthisreality.Letthesoundsofthedeepbluesilentoceantakeuswherewearenomorethanourselves.

Sytsewasright.ShedoessingliketheSirens.Herhauntingvoiceresonateswith me as though I’m listening to the Nixen singing of times long gone,echoingadeepandhungrylonging.

I bitemy lip to stopmyself fromwelling up.This is themost fragile anddelicatesongI’veeverheard,anditseemstogoonforever.Justthisonesongislongerthanaregular78-record.

WhenIcautiouslyglanceoveratRoyce, Inotice thathe’sclosedhiseyes.Likethis,helooksasvulnerableasthesongsounds.Nowonderhewaswillingtominglewith Skylgers to listen to this LP – it‘s somuch like themusic hecomposes himself. And for the first time, I wonder where he draws hisinspirationfrom.Howdoessomeonemanagetocreatesomethingthisbeautiful?

When thesongendsandsegues intoanother,neitherofusmoves. Instead,we envelop ourselves with more sweet sounds of angelic voices, cello, andpiano,fillingthelatehoursofnight.Butinevitably,therecordhastoendatsomepoint.Afterthetonearmclicksoffautomatically,wesitthereinsilenceforquiteawhile.

“Wow,”Ifinallysay,butthewordsoundsflimsyandshallow.Itmakesmehatemyselfforbreakingthisreverentsilence.

Royceopenshiseyesandshootsmeawansmile.“Iknow.”Hetakesadeepbreath, thenrusheson:“This isascloseas Icanget to listening toSirensongwithoutgoingcrazy,youknow.”

“WhywouldyouwillinglylistentotheNixen?”Isay,takenaback.“Because they infuse me with a sense of...” He pauses, lost for words.

“Wonder,”hethenadds.

Iscoff.Wonder?Doesthisguyevenunderstandhowdangerousthemerfolkis topeoplelikeme–inhabitantsofcoastal townswhocan’tfight theSadnessanylonger?

“Someartists inmyfamilyused toseek themout,”Royce relates inasoftvoice.“Ididtoo,sometimes.Theirsonginspiresmetowritemyownmusic.Butit’seasytogetlostinthesoundofSirens.ThatiswhyweCurrentshavewaystoraisethealarmandshieldourselvesoff.”

“Yeah. You drown yourselves in electronic beats while pulling away theshutters from the top of your precious tower to blast the seaswithBrandan’sFire,”Isaysarcastically.“Andyoudon’tcarewhathappenstouslivinginthemiddleandtheeast.”

Roycefrowns.“TheSkylgersarewelcometoliveclosertoBrandaris.”“Sowecanallbeyourserfs?No,thankyou.”“You shouldbegrateful that theBaeles-Weards arewilling toprotectyour

people,” he points out huffily. “Without them, many more men and womenmighthavebeenlost.”

“Grateful?”Myvoicecracks.“Why?Becauseyoukeepallthegoodstufftoyourselves?Becauseyoutookawayourgodsandour language?Becauseyourpriestsandtheirsacredfirefailedtoprotectmymother?”

Thatshutshimup.“We’resharingwhatwecan,”hemumblesatlast.“Whathappenedtoyourmom?”

Istareatmyhands.“TheNixentookher.”“Minetoo.”Hisvoiceisrough.Myeyesflashtohis.“Theydid?”“Yeah.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “She always heard them. She

couldn’t shut themout.Andby the end, shewas addicted to listening to theirharmonies.Saidithelpedhercreateherpaintings.”

Iinhaledeeply.“Shewalkedintothesea?”“Yes.Sheleftme.”Hesoundslikealittleboy,notlikeanentitledheirtothe

Boltonkingdom.“Andthenyoustoppedlisteningtothemerfolk?”Iaddgingerly.Hismouth is set in a grim line now. “Yes. And once I finish college I’m

going to design a security system that will keep them away from our islandforever.Nomatterhowwonderfultheymakemefeel.Nomatterhowtemptingtheirvoicesare.”

Sounds like he’s fighting an addiction. The thought of affluent, pamperedCurrentsgettingtheirfixfromthecallofdangerouscreaturesoftheseamakesmystomachturn.Iftheyfeelsoemptyinside,maybetheyshouldgrowaheartandhelptheirneighborsinstead.

“Isupposeyoucoulddothat,”Imutter.Royceshootsmeapuzzledlook,asthoughheexpectedmoreencouragement

oradmiration.Well,I’mnotgivinghimeither.“Sowhydidyourmotherlistentothem?”heinquireswhenIdon’tvolunteer

anymorecomments.“Because...”Ifallsilent.“Shewasjustnotveryhappy.Pronetomelancholy.

WecallittheSadness.Peopleincoastaltownssufferfromit.OurSkeltasaysit’sbecause they’resoclose to theworldof theNixen.Mydadputmymomonastrictlyfish-freediettotryandalleviatethesymptoms,butitdidn’tworkintheend.”

“Ididn’tknowaboutyoursickness.”“Ibetthere’sanawfullotyoudon’tknowaboutus,”Isnip.Hesighs.“You’reprobablyright.Imean,lookatme–Ihaven’tevenasked

youwhatyournameis.”IshrugasthoughIdon’tmind.“Whocares?I’mjustthegirlwiththeLPthat

youwant.”“Well, I should care.What’s your name?”His face breaks into a friendly,

genuinesmile,andittripsupmyheart.Despitehisinfuriatingsuperiority,Iwanthimtolikeme.Iwanthimtosmileatmelikehecares.

“Enna,”Isay.“Nice to meet you, Enna,” he says formally, extending his hand so I can

shakeit.“I’mRoyce.”“Yeah,Iknowthat,”Ilaugh.“Everyoneknowsthat.”Hegrinsabitawkwardly.“Well,Ihopetheysaynicethingsaboutme.”Iblush, suddenly feelingguilty forgossipingabouthimwithDaniand the

othergirlsatschool.Wealwaysthoughthewassoarrogant,butwedidn’treallyknowthatmuchabouthim.“MybestfriendandIloveyourmusic,”Iconfess.“WenevermissyourrecitalsatOorol.”

“Soyoulikepianomusic?”I nodmutely.His concerts have always been a joy to the ears.And eyes,

admittedly–butI’dratherdropdeadthandivulgethatinformation.InevereventoldDaniaboutoglingRoyceonstage.

“Let’s listen to somemoremusic,”hesays,hisvoiceandeyeseager.“I’mgoingtoplaysideB,okay?”

“Sure.”AswesitthereandlistentoHeroesofBones,BrokenMirror,andLabyrinth,

itdawnsonmehowbizarreandimpossiblethissituationtrulyis.Inequalparts,I’veadmiredandhated thisguy fromafar for sucha long time.AndnowI’m

here,andwe’reconnectingandbickeringandsharingapassion.AndIknowI’mscrewed,becauseIhaven’tfeltthisexhilaratedinalongtime.

7.Bythetimewecallitanight,itiswaypastmyusualbedtimeonweekdays.I’llbe intolerable to be around tomorrowmorning, but right now, I couldn’t careless.IspentaneveningwiththemosthandsomeguyonSkylgeandIheardthemost beautiful songs ever.And he’s okaywith sharing themythical power ofelectricity with me.We’ve even agreed to a second ‘musical date’ on Fridayafternoonbeforedinnertime.

“Will yoube all right?”Royce inquires as hegets intohis car. “It’s prettydarkout.”

Icockaneyebrow.“CaretodropmeoffinKinnumanddrawouttheentirevillagewithyourmotorizedvehicle?”

Helooksaway.“Justasking.”“Yes, I’llbe fine.” I raisemyhand tomyforehead inamock-salute.“Will

reportforLPdutyonFriday.Noworries.”“Good.”Roycewavesoncemore,thenslamsthecardoorshutanddrivesoff

intothenight,thehighbeamsofhiscarilluminatingthetallgrassoneithersideoftheroad.

Iwaituntilhe’sgonebeforeIstartwalking.Myeyesneedtogetadjustedtothedarknessoncemore.IspenthoursunderartificiallightsanditfeelslikemyretinasareburnedbecauseI’mnotusedtosuchbrightlightatsuchalatehour.

Just when I reach the edge of the abandoned village, I hear a sound.Someone is talking, and another voice is responding, but the second voicesoundsstrange,asthoughitiscomingfromatincan.Botharemale.Thevoicesseemtobecomingfromanoldshackclosetomyleft.

Ashiverdownmyspinemakesmetremble.Thissmellsfishy.Ifpeopleareoutatthishourandhangingaroundinanancient,uninhabitedvillage,theyareprobablyuptonogood.

Iclenchmyhandsintofistsandstopinmytracks,duckingdownwhenthedoor of the shack suddenly swings open on squeaky hinges.OhFosta –whatwillIdoiftheseguyscatchmehere?

Tomy relief, the shadowy figure coming out of the old hut doesn’t evenglancemyway.Instead,theman–hisfriendmuststillbeinthehouse–makeshiswayacrossthefieldsinthedirectionofKinnum.Myheartistappinginmy

throatasIscrambleupagainandcarefullyfollowhimwithmyeyes,stickingtothecrackedpavementoftheoldroadonmywayback.Istopbreathingentirely,though,when themysterious figure reaches theMainRoad illuminatedbygaslamps.

It’smybrother.What is Sytse doing out this late? What’s more, what was he doing in

Stortum?CoulditbehesawmewhenIsnuckoutearlier?Butifso,whywouldhehideinashackinsteadofbargingintoRoyce’scottagetoconfrontmewithmylies?

Istopagain,makingsureSytsecan’tseemeifhedecidestolookbacknow,andwaituntilhe’scompletelyoutofview.Mybrotherishidingsomething,andIwonderwhatitis.

BythetimeIgethome,I’mdeadbeatfromallthewalkingandtheelationofthe entire evening, but I still have trouble falling asleep.When I finally do, Idream about Sirens callingmy brother out into thewaves asRoyce plays hisstrange,electricpianoattheseaside.AndIjuststandthereandwatch,frozenintime.

Thenextmorning,I’mactuallygladtobewokenearlybymyfaithfulalbatross.Sincewestillhaveleftoverpancakes,Iwon’thavetoworryaboutbreakfast,soImight have some time to cycle back to Stortum and take a closer look at themysterioushutSytsewashangingaroundin.

“Hithere,”Isaysoftly.Thebird,nowperchedonthetablenexttoourfrontdoor, cocks itsheadandobservesmewith itsyelloweyes.When Iextendmyhand tooffer theanimalabitofpancake, ithopsbackwardand letsoutasoftscreech,almostasiftosay:“Really?”

“Fine.Gocatchsomefish,then,”Ireply,stuffingtherestofthepancakeintomymouth.

The albatross lifts off and swoops around the house in a majestic circlebefore taking off in the direction of Stortum. My destination before I go toschool.

Bydaylight, I feelmuchmoreconfidentonmywayto theoldvillage. If Ibump into someone I don’t trust, I’ll just dish up some story about doingresearchforahistoryproject.Infact,Mr.Bumastillneedsmetopickatopic.Imight just as well do my essay about Stortum so I’ll have a reason to hangaroundhereallthetime.

Igetoffmybikenexttothehutandswallowdownmynerves.

Fromtheoutside, theshack looksas thoughithasfallen intodisrepair,butwhenIgentlypushthedooropenandpeerinside,it’stotallydifferent.Neatandmodern–veryCurrent.Iseeastrangedeviceonthetablethatisclearlyelectric,andmyeyeslingeronthetwoshelvesliningthewallsnext.Thebooksonthemareantique.Isthissomekindofsecretlibrary?Andwhat’swiththatthingonthedinnertable?

Nosignofanyonelivinghere.Sytse’smysteriousfriendmusthaveleftafterhim. I take a few hesitant steps inside and gawk at the book spines. Thesevolumeswere printed a long time ago. Some of them even seem to be hand-written.Aleathertomewithgildedletteringonthespinecatchesmyeye.“FromAWateryGrave,” it reads in the old Skylger tongue. I pull out the book andalmostdropitbecauseitisfarheavierthanIexpected.Idon’tthinkthisispaper.The pages are more like the old parchment I saw once, at the museum inBrandaris.

When I open the book, I see that the handwriting looks ancient, too. Thisold-fashioned alphabet is no longer used by anyone.TheSkylgian text in thistomemustbeatleastthreehundredyearsold,ifnotolder.

A tiny tremorof excitement runs throughme. Iwant this book. Just like Iwant to listen to the forbidden LP and hang out with a boy that’s out of myleague.Iwanttobebrave.

With tremblinghands, I slip thebook intomyschoolbagandhoist itontomy back. Wincing, I wriggle my shoulders to make the weight morecomfortable,butthat’spointless.Thebestthingwouldbetodropitoffathomebeforegoingtoschool,butI’mrunningoutoftime.I’llhavetodragitwithmetoBrandarisandhideitinmyroomlater.

“So, did you study your vocabulary lists?” Dani inquires when I hit thebrakes and stop next to her. She’s eating an apple while balancing a Germantextbookonthelefthandlebarofherbike.Herforeheadiscreasedwithworry.“IthinkI’mgonnaflunkthisone.”

Great.Ihaven’tevenopenedthebooklastnight,sothatmeansI’mgoingtogetabadgradetoo.“Well,Itried,”Ihalf-heartedlylie.

Dani shootsme a sidewardglance. “Whyareyoublushing?” she inquires,perceptiveasever.SometimesIhatemybestfriend.

Ilookaway.“I’mnot.”“Yes,youare!”ShestaresatmeandIfeel theredonmycheeks intensify.

“What’sup?Enna!Didyoubrushmeoffforadatewithouttellingme?”Ishakemyhead.“Itwasn’tadate.”“Thenwhat?”

Myvoicecatchesinmythroat.Thebookinmybagsuddenlyseemstoweighaton.“Promisemeyouwon’ttellanyone,”Iwhisperatlast,eventhoughthere’snoonearoundtooverhear.

“Ofcourse.”Dani’seyeswidenwitheageranticipation.Shelovesgossipandsecrets,but she’s true toherword– if she says shewon’t tell, she’llkeephermouthshut.That’swhyshe’smybestfriend.

“YouknowRoyce?”Shenodsgingerly,herbrowneyessuddenlyalarmed.“Duh.Didyou...don’t

tellme...”“HewantedSytse’sgift,”Iinterrupther.“Ididn’ttellyou,butSytsebrought

me an LP. Because he loved the music on it, and he said I might have anopportunitytolistentoitsomeday.AndthatopportunityknockedsoonerthanIcouldhavedreamed.RoyceBoltonwantedtobuyitoffme,butIrefused.”

Danigiggles.“What?YourefusedtheunofficialprinceofBrandaris?”“Well–yeah.”Ishootheragrin.“Itoldhimwherehecouldstuffhiswallet.

But thenhe suggested listening to it together instead, sowe could share it. Insecret.”

Dani’sbug-eyedstaremakesmeshiftuncomfortably.“Youwenttohishouse?”shesqueaks.“No, no.” My hand dismissively waves her anxiety away. “He owns a

cottage inStortumwherehegoes ifhewantspeaceandquiet.He’sgotanLPplayerthere.Soheinvitedmetogothereandenjoymypresentwithhim.”

Danihasturnedpale.“Hecouldhavereportedyou,”shehisses.“TheBaeles-Weardswillarrestyouforthis.”

“Of course he’s not going to report me.” I roll my eyes. “Come on, heoffered.Ifheratsonme,he’sgoingdownwithme.He’snotsupposedtoshareelectricityoutsidetheCurrentcommunity.”

“Okay.”Danibreathesoutslowly.“That’strue.ButholyFosta–Enna,whatdidyouguysdoallevening?Imean,wasn’titmajorlyawkward?”

“Wejustenjoyedthemusic,”Ishrug.“Itwasmagical.IcanseewhereRoycegetshis inspiration from.Wedidn’t talkmuch,butwe talkedsome.Abouthisfamilyandmine,mainly.He’snotthatbadonceyougettoknowhim.”

“Butyou’renotsupposedtogettoknowhim,”Danisaysfirmly.“Aguylikethatisgoingtohurtyousoonerorlater.YouknowwhathappenedwithmeandHank.ImaginewhatwouldhappenifyouandRoyce–youknow.”

“No,Idon’tknow,”Isaygrumpily.“We’rejustmusicbuddies.That’sall.”Danicockshereyebrowskeptically.“Uhm,yeah.Icantotallyseehowyou

canbeplatonicbestieswithadrop-deadgorgeousguylikethat.”

Idon’trespond.Instead,Igetonmybikeandpointatthedyke.“Weshouldgo.Ifnotwe’llbelate.”Withoutwaitingforheranswer,Ihitthepedalsandtakeoff.

“Hey,wait!Enna!”Shefollowsmeandcatchesupwithmeafteraminute.“Don’tbeupset.Ijustwantedtohelp.”

“Ifyouwanttobeuseful,youcanhelpmememorizesomeGermanwordsnow,”Isayabitsnappily.

“Okay.” She shakes her head almost imperceptibly before droning: “DasFenster.Thewindow.DasMeer.Thesea.”

Bythetimewegettoschool,thewordsarestuckinmyhead.IsuspectIhaveaknackforGermanbecauseI listen toMarleneDietricha lot.Thewordssoundfamiliar–andofcoursethey’realsosimilartoSkylgian.

“I’llhelpyouout ifyougetstuck,”Danisaysunderherbreathaswebothslipintoourchairsatthefrontoftheclassroom.Wealreadyfiguredoutalongtimeagothatthesearethebestseatsfortestswehaven’tstudiedfor.Mrs.Atsmaalwayspacesaroundin thebackof theroomduring testsbecause that’swheretheslackersare.Itpaysofftohaveanimpeccabletrackrecord.

Oneofourfellowpupilshandsout the testpapers,andsilencedescendsintheroom.Quietly,ItrytoconcentrateonthewordsandsentencesIneedtowritedown,promptedbyDanieverynowand thenwhensheseesmehesitate. IamdonefairlyquicklybecauseIunfortunatelydon’trememberthatmuchafterall,soIusetheextratimetoslylyobservetheotherstudentsintheroom.

TomyleftisAlke.He’sarepeater–hefailedhisexamslastyear,andmostteachersusehimasanexamplewheneversomeoneisfoundoutnothavingdonetheirhomeworkassignments.“Youwant toendup likeAlke?” they’ll say. It’sprettymean.Agood thingAlkedoesn’tcare thatmuch.Hegoeshisownwayand doesn’t mingle with the other students much. He’s eighteen now, so heprobably feelsmuch too grown-up to hangwith them. I dated him for a fewmonths last school year after having been friends for ages, but we were stillmostlyjustfriends.Ididn’tfeelthatkindofclickwithhim.

NotlikewithRoyce.Theunbiddenthoughtmakesmeblush.Whatiswrongwithme?I’mmaking

stuffupbecausehe’shot,Iknowthat.Imean,Ididn’texactlybondwithRoyce.I was angry with him half of the timewewere talking. He’s so infuriatinglyaboveallofus.Sodifferentfromme.

ThebestthingwouldbetostandhimuponFriday,butIknowI’llbebackinStortum.Ican’twaittolistentoJyotiagain.MaybeI’llevenbringsomeofmyownrecordssoIcanplaythemonthatfancyturntableofhis.

“Well,I’mgladthat’sover,”Danisighswhenthebellringsandourteacherpicksupthetests.“Comeon,let’shurrysoIcangrabasandwichbeforesecondperiod.Ikindofskippedbreakfast.”

Fortunately,thecanteenisstillquietatthishour.Withagroan,Idropmybagontothefloornexttothecounter,almostsquishingDani’stoe.

“Ouch!”shecriesindignantly.“Whatthehellisinyourbag?Bricks?”“No,justbooks.”“Ah.YougottheBookofBrandaninthere?”Ibitebackagiggle.“No.”Iedgecloserandcontinuemorequietly:“Ifound

abookinStortumthismorning.Somethingancient.”Dani’sbrowneyeslightupwithinterest.“Forreal?CanIsee?”“Nothere.”Iwatchassheshufflesforward topay thekitchen ladyforher

food.“Maybeafterschool?”“Countmein.”Shetakesabiteofsandwichandpullsmealongtoournext

class.Therestof thedaygoesbywithoutanytrouble.Nopopquizzes,noangry

teacherspunishingmeforsneakingoutearlyyesterday.IpitchmyStortumideatoMr.Bumaandhelovesit.IbetIcanreallymilkitifIgoforthe‘punished-by-being-flooded’angleinmyessay.Iwouldn’tbesurprisedifIreallyfoundoutthatthepeopleofStortumweren’tthedecent,Brandan-fearingpeopletheyweresupposedtobe.

I’m still thinking about Stortum by the time school’s out. If I’m notmistaken,theSkelta’sancestorscamefromthatsettlementtoo.Theremighthavebeenarebelstreaktothevillagers–muchlikeusKinnumersaren’tsoeagertoplease the Currents. Brandaris is actually the only place where Skylgers andCurrents live side by side, and even that isn’t entirely true. The richestBrandarisianneighborhoodisn’tevenreallypartofthecapitalcityandharbor.Itis miles away, built upon the highest hill of the island, connected to the citycenter by theLongway running from south to north. I’ve been as far asDeadMen’s Caskets, the lake that marks the border between Lower and UpperBrandaris,butI’veneverventuredbeyond.There’snothingformethere.

“Areyouokay?”Daniinterruptsmymusings.“Youlooksopensive.”“I’mthinkingaboutStortum.”“Yeah, about that.”She turns tomeaswecycle away. “Howdidyou find

that book?Was it in Royce’s cottage? It looks like an antique.” She snuck aquickpeekatitduringlunchbreak.

“No.”Istop.ShouldItellDaniaboutSytse?MaybeIshouldwaituntilI’veconfrontedhim.IfIeverscroungeupthecouragetodothat,even.Itmightbebesttoleaveitalonefornow.“AfterRoyceleft,Ilookedaroundinthevillageabit longer and stumbled upon a house with lots of books and some weird,Currentdeviceonthetable.”

“YouthinkitbelongstoRoyce’sfamilytoo?”“Idon’tthinkso.Ifsohewouldhavementionedit.”Dani cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? You really think he’s that open with

you?”“Well.”Ishrug,butwinceasIhunchmyshoulders.“Ugh.Thisbagiskilling

me,”Igrumble.“Whydon’tItakeitforawhile?Youcarrieditonourwaytoschooltoo,you

poordarling,”Danicoosatmewithawink.BeforeIcanprotest,shestopsherbikeandmotionsformetodothesame.Ifeelabitguiltywhenshegrabsmybagandslingsitoverhershoulders,butnotguiltyenoughtorefuse.Ismileather.

“Thanks,”Isay.Werideonagainstthewind.It’ssostrongittakesourbreathsaway,sowe

cyclebackhomeinsilence.ItgivesmetimetothinkaboutpossiblereasonswhySytsewouldmeetupwithsomemysteryguyinaStortumercottage.Maybehe’sinterested in the books on those shelves, but there’s an even better reason tocome to Stortum – itmust somehow be connected to theGrid. If not, Roycewouldn’t be able to make his electric appliances work in that village.WhichmeansSytseknows toomuch forhisowngood, andhe’splayingwith firebyusingaCurrentdeviceforFredaknowswhat.

8.“Howwasschool,sweetheart?”mydadinquiresinhisever-gentlevoice.“Youneedhelpwithanything?”

“Itwasfine,”Ireply.“I’mgoingtoprepareforhistoryclasswithDaniinmyroom, okay?But I’d really like it if you could helpmewithmath homeworkafterdinner.”

“Ofcourse.”Apleasedsmilespreadsacrosshisface.Mydad longs tofeeluseful aroundme andSytse every day, and helpingmewithmathematics andcalculusisoneofthewayshecanstillfeellikehematters.

“Great!”Ilookaround.“What’sfordinnertonight?”“Oh, Sytse is bringing home some fresh herring from the market,” Dad

replies.“AndheaskedyoutogetsomelargepotatoesandwhitebreadfromthegrocerystoreinBaydunen.Heleftmoneyonthecounter.”

“Willdo.”Iquicklypourusthreemugsofteaandputtwoonatraytobringwithmetomybedroom.Isuddenlycan’twaittotakeacloserlookattheancientSkylgianbook,andI’mhappyIdecidedtoshareitwithDani.Twosetsofeyesseemorethanone.

WhenIkickthedoorclosed,Daniisalreadysittingonmybedandpullingout the heavy tome with eager hands. “Let’s see what this is all about,” shemuses,openingthebookandscanningthefirstpage.“Wow,thoseinkdrawingsarequitesomething.”

Iplopdownbesideherandweputthebookonmylap.I’veputthemugsofteaonthesmall tablenext tomybed.NowayamIgoingtoallowhot liquidsanywherenearthisvolume.

“1623,” I mumble softly, my eyes lingering on the date underneath thebiggestdrawing.“Unbelievable. Is thisabookfrombeforeSt.Brandan landedonourshores?”

Everybodyontheislandknowshecameherein1666.ThefleetbroughttheHoly Fire and the Baeles-Weards built the Brandaris Tower to safeguardBrandan’sLight,ouronlyprotectionagainsttheNixen.

“Maybeit’sareproduction?”Danisuggests.“Thedateonthetitlepagesays1715.See?”Sheflipsbackandshowsme.

“Soitmightbeananthologyofoldislandlore.”Igobacktotheillustrationdatingbackto1623andstareatthedepictedscene.Aviolentstormragesovertheisland.Thechurningwaveshavecapsizedaschooner,andsailorsarespillingoutofthewreckage.ItsendsachilldownmyspinewhenIspotafewNixeninthewaves,theirtailsglisteningintheeerielightof–what?Myeyesflashtotheharborinthebackgroundandwiden.St.Brandan’sToweristhere,shininginthedarkness. Except it can’t be Brandan’s Fire up there, because the Angliansweren’tevenhereyet,in1623.Howisitthatthetowerisalreadythere?

“Enna,”Danisayswithatremorinhervoice.“Doyouseethat?”“Youmeanthetower?”“No.”Shepointstothemerfolkswimmingaroundthedrowningmeninthe

sea.“Thosemermaids–Idon’tthinkthey’repullingthemunder.”“What?”Myvoiceshootsupanoctaveindisbelief.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Well, it looks like...”Dani’s voice trails off uncertainly. “It’s almost as if

they’retryingtosavethem.”“That’s impossible.”Iyankthebooktowardmeandalmost touchthepage

withmynoseinanattempttotakeacloserlook.Undermyscrutiny,thesmall,ink-drawnSirenssadlydon’tbecomeanyclearer.Danicouldberight–butshecouldalsobewrong. It’sveryhard to tell. “Whywould they save thosemen?Youknow theNixenkill us.They temptusout to sea and then they stealoursoulsandeatourflesh.”Myvoicecracksonthelastword.Idon’twanttothinkaboutwhattheydidtomymother,butIcan’thelpit.

“Idon’tknow,”Daniadmitshelplessly.“Butisn’tittruethatthereligionofoldsaystheNixenwereonceourfriendsandallies?”

“Youmeanbeforetheseaspatusout?”Ishakemyhead.“Well,ifthat’strue,whatthehellwentwrongforthingstoenduplikethis?”

“Idon’tknow,”myfriendrepeats.“ButIintendtofindout.”“And that’snot theonly thing that’s strangeabout thispicture,” Ipitch in.

“Haveyouseenthetowerinthedistance?Howcanitbethere,backin1623?”Danigaspsinsurprise.“You’reright.Whatdoesthatmean?”It can only mean one thing. “It wasn’t made by the Baeles-Weards,” I

whisper.We turn the next few pages, looking for more pictures. We haven’t even

gottenaroundtoreadingthetextyetandalreadyIambaffledbeyondbelief.Thisanthologyisa treasuretroveofsecret informationabout theisland,ourhistoryandorigins. Iwonderwhy itwas stashedaway in thatoldhouse inStortum–andwhetheranybodyisgoingtomissitsoon.

Wespendafullhourlookingthroughthebook.Theteahasgottencoldonmynightstandbythetimewefindtheoldestpictureinthebook–areproduction

of an oldwood carving. I feel like I’ve ended up in somemad fairytale. Theimage, dating from1323, showshowpeople in traditionalSkylger clothes arebuildingthetowerthatwe’vealwaysbelievedtobelongtotheCurrents.

“WehavetoshowthistotheSkelta,”Imumble.“He’llknowwhattodowiththisbook.”

Danibitesherlip.“Well,shouldn’twereadthestoriesinitfirstanddomoreresearch?”shesays,obviouslyreluctanttogiveitupsosoon.Tobehonest,I’mnotreadytopartwayswiththisbookeither,butIwanttodotherightthing.Theknowledgecontainedinthesepageswon’tdoanybodyontheislandmuchgoodif we keep it hidden. On the other hand, that’s what Sytse was doing, too. Iwonderhowhe’sinvolvedinallofthis.

“Maybe,”Imumble.“Let’sgiveitonemoreafternoon,then.I’lldropbytomorrow,”Danioffers.

“We’llcontacttheSkeltaonSaturdaywhentheOorolFestivalkicksoff.He’llbeinBrandarisforhisyearlyspeech.”

Iopenmymouth toagree, thenshakemyhead.“Actually, Ican’tmeetuptomorrow.I’mseeingRoyce.”

Danishootsmeadisbelievingglare.“Honestly?You’dchooseaCurrentboyandhismusicoverourhistoricalresearch?”

“IalreadypromisedI’dbethere,”Ithrowback.Mybestfriendraisesherhandsinexasperation.“Okay,fine.Butpleasedon’t

take thisaway fromme.Letme take thebookhomeand readmoreonFridayafternoonwhile you’re cozying upwithPrinceBolton. I’ll report back to youandwecangototheSkeltatogetheronSaturdaytotellhimwhatwefoundout.”

“Sure.” Ihandher thebookandshestuffs it intohermessengerbag.“Butpleasebecarefulwithit.Wecan’tloseit.”

“I’llbring itbackFridayevening, Ipromise.And I’ll letyouknowwhat Ifindout.”

With a pang of regret, I dig upmy actual homework and try to focus ontomorrow’sassignment.I’dratherspendtherestofmytimewiththeanthology,but I can’t – I have to keep upmy grades for history and I still need to runerrandsforDad.

Thatnight,aftereatingdinneranddoingmymathhomeworkwithmyfather,Igo outside for an evening stroll. The sun has already set and theMay sky ispepperedwithbrightstarsglitteringlikepreciousstones.Itakeadeepbreathandfeelhowthefreshairexpandsmylungs.Faraway,inthedistance,Ihearthecry

ofalonelyseagull.Evenfurtherstill,Icanheartheincessant,alluringmelodyoftheNixen,likeafaintmemoryofawhisper.

On Saturday, the festival will start. Both Currents and Skylgers performduringOorol.Boundariesfadeaway,althoughweareneverallowedtowitnessthe lightshows theyorganize inUpperBrandaris.All thepeopleonstagewillsing,dance,act,andmakemusicwithoutthehelpofelectricity.Thisfestivalisancient – it used to belong to just us. In the old language, Oorol means‘everywhere’. This entire island has been turned into a giant theater for tenwonderfuldayssincethedaysofyore.

“Wecirclearound likeholyclouds, roundand roundwedriftourways,” Iwhisper,rememberingthelyricstooneofthesongswelistenedtoyesterday.Ican’twaittoheartheLPagain.

Ican’twaittoseeRoyceagain.“Hey,Enna.”Mybrother’svoicejoltsmefrommydaydream.WhenIlook

overmyshoulder,IseeSytseclimbingtheslopeofthedykeprotectingoursmallvillagefromtheseawater.“Youokayouthere?”

“Sure.”Icanseeinhiseyesthathe’sseeingsomethinginmine.“I’mnotsadtoday.”

Sytsecockshisheadalittle.“There’ssomethingdifferentaboutyou.”Noshit.I’msecretlyseeingaCurrentguyandIfoundabookthatturnedmy

lifeupsidedowninonesingleafternoon.“Justlookingforwardtothefestival,Iguess,”Imumbleevasively.“Metoo,”henods.“DidItellyouthattheSkeltainvitedsomeFrisianartists

fromthemainland?”“Really?”Mymouthfallsopen.Noforeignersevercometoourshores–we

alwayssailouttomeettheminstead.“How?”“Just...” Sytse pauses, an expression crossing his face that I can’t quite

interpret.“Heaskedourcaptaintorelayamessage.”“Well, that’s fantastic!” I enthuse, smiling up at him. “Whatwill they do?

Acting?Dancing?”“Singing, mostly.” He smiles back. “It’s going to be a memorable

performance,Ipromiseyouthat.”Together, we stare out over the sea. The stillness of the moment almost

convinces me to ask Sytse what he was doing out there, in Stortum. Butsomethingisholdingmeback.Maybeit’sthefactthatIhavethingstohideofmyown,lately.

“I’m going to bed,” I finally saywhen a pale barely-there sliver ofmoonrisesabovethehorizon.“Ihaveanearlystarttomorrow.”

“Sweetdreams,”Sytsesays,pullingmeintoahugbeforeIturnaroundandwalkdowntoourlittlehousefullofbigsecrets.

9.The next day at school, I am strangely withdrawn. Not that I am usually thebiggestchatterboxinallofBrandaris,buteventheteachersseemtonoticethatI’mabnormallyquiet.ButIcan’thelpit–mystomachfeelslikeabunched-upbundleofnervesandmyheartflutterslikeananxiousbird.

I’veneverfeltlikethisbefore.AndthestupidthingisthatIdon’tevenreallylikeRoycethatmuchasaperson.What’smore,Idon’ttrusthimeither.Butthefact that hewants tomeet upwithme again and his genuineworry aboutmewalkingbackhomeinthedarktwonightsagomakemeforgetallofthat.Ifeelspecialbecauseofhim,andIhaven’tfeltlikethatinaverylongtime.IthinkthelasttimewaswhenIsangoneofmyownsongsformymomanditdrovehertotears.Yeah,Ienjoymakingpeoplecry.Iamsuchafreak,right?ButIknewbackthen that my mother’s tears were different from her usual Sadness-inducedcrying–Ideeplytouchedherheart.AndIrealizeIwanttodothesamethingtoRoyce.Tofeelaliveandpowerfulagain.

All through calculus, I go through the impending secret date inmymind.WhatwillIsay?WhatcanIbringwithme?ShouldIplayhimsomeofmyownrecords?Iwonderwhathe’llthinkofthem.Maybehewon’tevenbethereafterall–hehastopreparefor thefestival thisweekend.He’splayingseveralgigs,andthefirstrecitalwillbeonMonday.

Asbackgroundchatter tomymainconcernof theday isavoice repeatingonenumberoverandoveragaininmyhead.1323–theyearinwhichtheTowerwasbuilt. Irrefutableproof that thewronghistorywaswrittenby thevictors. IwonderwhatDaniwilldiscoveronce shegoeshome to read in thebookafterschool.Shedidn’thavetimetoreadmorethanafewpagesbeforebedlastnightandit’sbeendrivinghercrazy.

“I’ll dropbyafter eight, okay?” she saysoncewe leave thebuilding. “Wecanspendallnighttalking.Ooroldoesn’tstartuntilnoon,sowecansleepin.”

“I’llbewaiting,”Ireply.Wewon’tbecyclinghometogethertoday,becauseIneedtowaitforAlke.IpromisedtohelphimwithhisGerman.Hehasare-sitat four o’clock, together with all the others who failed their preliminaries inApril.

Just as I’m sitting down on a bench in the schoolyard to unwrap somecookiesIbroughtasasnack,Alkepopsupbehindme.

“Hey,Enna.”He takesaseatnext tome,his textbook inhishand.“How’slife?Youexcitedaboutthefestival?”

“Ofcourse,”Ireplywithasmile.“I’maloverofthearts,youknowthat.”Alkegrins.“IpickedOorolasatopicformyoralexam.Maybewecantalk

aboutitinGerman?”“Klar!” I nod, and start askinghimquestions inmybestGerman. I sound

differentfromMrs.Atsma–shelearnedtheGermanlanguageofNethersaxony,but Imostly learned it fromlistening toMarleneDietrich. Ihope itwon’t ruinAlke’spronunciation,butquitefrankly,there’snotthatmuchtoruininthefirstplace.HisGermanisprettyhorrible.

“UndTwarresistauchdabei,”hementionsatsomepoint.“AmMontag.”Iblinkinsurprise.“AbandcalledTwarresiscomingonMonday?”Irepeat

inAnglian.“That’sthefirsttimeI’veheardofthem.Whoarethey?”“Oh.”Alkelooksalittlebitcaught.“They’reaFrisianband.Iownacouple

oftheirrecords.”He’s talking about the band from the mainland – the same one Sytse

mentionedtome.“Howdoyouknowaboutthat?”Iinquirewithafrown.“Someonementionedit,”Alkerepliesvaguely,hiseyesguarded.“Someone,” I repeat flatly.WhydoesAlke lookas thoughhe’s spilled the

beans?“Well,cool.ItmustbequiteatalentedbunchiftheSkeltainvitedthempersonally.”

ThatmakesAlkelookevenmoreshocked.“Hey,Ishouldprobablygo,”hesaysallofasudden,lookingatanimaginarywatchonhiswrist.“Idon’twanttobelate.Thanksagain,you’rethebest.”

“Don’tmentionit.”Istareafterhiminuttersurpriseashestartsacrosstheschoolyard.Well,thatwasweird.Ican’twaittillMondaytoactuallyseethoseFrisiansplay.Butfirstthingsfirst–I’mduehometopickupmyJyotiLPformyappointmentinStortum.

Itfeelsdifferenttobeoutinbroaddaylightonthedesertedroadleadingtotheabandoned village. I have the LP in a shopping bag dangling from the lefthandlebar and slowly peddle toward Royce’s cottage while looking aroundfurtively.Noone’shere–nocuriousclassmateswhofollowedme toseewhatI’mupto,andnoSytseoranyshadyfriendsofhis.IfIdobumpintosomeone,Ihavemyexcuseready–I’mdoingresearchformyhistoryproject.

AsmallsighofreliefescapesmylipswhenIspotRoyce’scartuckedawaybehindarowofbushesnexttothecottage.UptillthispointIwasafraidhe’dbea no-show, but he’s here, and he’s waiting for me. Or at the very least, he’swaitingformyLP.

I lockmybike andknockon thedoor. It takesquite awhile forRoyce toanswerthedoor,andwhenhedoes,Iseehe’sonlywearingold,low-slungjeansandasleevelesswhiteshirt.Tryingnottogawkatthestrongmusclesinhisarmstoomuch,Ipeerupintohisblueeyesandsay:“Hi.Wereyoubusy?”

Hechuckles.Itmakeshislipscurlupinasmilethatmakesmeblushalittle.“Kindof.Whatmakesyousaythat?”

“Oh,Idon’tknow.You’redressedasthoughyouwerebusywithapaintjobor something.” Iwalk past himwhen he steps aside and drop the bag on thecouch.

“This is my off-time outfit,” he says, still with that seductive, tiny smirkaroundhislips.“AreyoudisappointedthatI’mnotimpeccablydressedtoexudetheBoltongrandeur?”

“Hah.”Hesoundslikehedoesn’ttakehisownfamilytraditionthatseriously.“No.Justsurprised.Don’tletmecrampyourstyle,please.”

Royce gestures at the piano. Little lights are blinking on top of the case.“Actually,Iwasbusycomposing.”

“Oh?Ididn’thearanymusicwhenIwasoutside.”He holds up a black item that, to me, looks like a set of earmuffs.

“Headphones.Theyhelpmetolosemyselfinthemusic.”I follow the rope dangling from the black earwarmerswithmy eyes. It’s

plugged into ahole at the frontof the electricpiano. “Youcanhear thepianothroughthosethings?”Isayinawe.

“Yeah.Youcanplug theminto theamp, too.That’showIusually listen toLPswhenI’malone.”

“Ah.” I feel a tiny pang of sadness inmy heart. “So you can’t really loseyourselfinJyoti’smusicwithmearound?”

Royce puts the headphones down and shakes his head. “It’s no problem. Ilikesharinghermusicwithsomeonewhogetsher.”

Hiswordstrulymakemeblushthistime,soIquicklyturnaroundtomakemywaytotheturntable.“Yourfriendsdon’t?Gether,Imean?”

“They’remoreintotrancemusic.Youknow.Localstuff.”HewalksovertomeandIcanfeelmyskintingleashestandsnexttometoputtherecordontheplayer.“MymotherintroducedmetoJyoti’sandMaya’smusic,andnowshe’sgone and this is all I have left of her, in a way. She’ll never hear these newsongs.”

Forthefirst time,Idon’tseehisattempttogethishandsonmyLPasjustthe whim of some spoilt, Current brat. These two artists form a link to hismother,muchlikeKathleenFerrierwillforeverremindmeofmymom.AndI’dprobablygothroughasmuchtroubleasRoycetoownallofhermusic,too.

“Maybe she does listen,” I offer softly. “Don’t you believe in a life afterdeath?”

Roycehesitatesforamomentbeforehismouthsetsintoagrimline.“WecallBrandan a saint because his Light saved us from death by the Sirens,” heanswers.“Ifsomeoneissopreoccupiedwithavertingdeathandmakingearthlylife as comfortable as possible, I can’t believe he took life after death veryseriously.”

“Youdon’tpraytohim?”“No.Ihavenothingtosaytohim.He’sgone.HisLightisallthatremains,

andtheBaeles-WeardswantustohonorSt.Brandan’sFiretosafeguardourlifeontheisland,nottomakesurewegosomewhereniceafterwedie.”

I swallow.He sounds so lost and soconvincedabout the truthat the sametime.“Ourpeoplebelievethatthestreamsandthetreesandtheseaareinhabitedbyaspiritualpresence,”Isay,myvoicesmallbutsteady.“Andthepeoplewelovewillbecomeapartofthatspiritwhenlifeisover.FredaandFostaarethemaleandfemaleprincipleinnature.OurGodandGoddess.ButwhentheNixentakeoneofus,thatpersonislostforever,becausetheytakeourbodiesaswellasoursouls.”

“Well, thatsettlesit then,”Roycesays,hisvoiceflat.“MymomwastakenbytheSirens.She’sgone.Andsoisyours.”

Tearswellupinmyeyes.“Don’tsaythat,”Iwhisper,soundingchoked.Hishandgentlyslipsaroundmyupperarmandheturnsmesidewaystoface

him.Hisblueeyesaredarkwithpainandregret.“I’msorry,”hemumbles.“Thatwasuncalledfor.Ididn’tmeantomakeyoucry.”

Ilookupathim,shylytakingaquickstepbackwhenheraiseshishandtowipemytearsaway.That’s justway too intimate.Thiswholediscussion is, infact.“Let’sjustlistentotheLP,okay?”

Roycehesitatesforafewseconds,thennods.“Yeah,let’s.”Wesitdownonthecouch.Thistime,Idon’ttrytoscootawayfromhimas

faraspossible.Idon’tfeeltheneedto.Asthefirstsongstartstoplay,Iclosemyeyesandimaginemymothersittingbytheseaside,herbrowneyesforeversadandherblondehairdancing in thewind. In thismoment, she isherewithme.She’snotlostforever,andsheiswatchingovermeasawingedcreatureoftheHeavens,sentdownbyFreda.MaybetheNixenhaveallowedhertocomebacktome as the faithful albatross that visitsme so often.Maybewe don’t know

what the real truth is, because the strange bookwe found showedme thatwemighthavebeenwrongaboutotherthings,too.

“What else did you bring?” Royce’s smooth voice breaks the silenceenvelopingusaftersideBhasspuntoanend.

Myeyesflutteropen.“W-what?”Istutterdumbly.Hepointstotheshoppingbag.“Lookslikethere’smoremusicinthere.”“Ah,yes.”Isuddenlyfeelnervousaboutbringingmyownstuff.Whywould

RoycewanttolistentomusicIpicked?“Well,IwasjustcuriouswhatKathleenFerrierwouldsoundlikeonyourequipment.”

He smiles, and his eyes no longer seem hard like iron. The songs havebroughthimpeace.Ithinkmusicishisreligion,inaway.“Goahead.Putyourrecordon,”hesaysinvitingly.

I comply. While fiddling with the controls to change the speed to 78, Ialready start humming Ye Banks and Braes. I push the button that start theturntableandliftsthearm,andthenIwait.

WhenKathleen’svoicefloodstheroom,Istandthereinawe.Thesoundisstill crackly,but theusualbuzzof thediaphragm is strangelyabsent.Kathleendoesn’t sound tinnyorharshwhenshe sings loudly– it’s as if she is standingrightintheroomwithme.

Slowly, I shuffle back to the couch, sitting down on the cushions veryquietly.When I shoot a sideward glance at Royce, he looks mesmerized. Helikesit–helikes‘my’musictoo.Itmakesmeglowinside,andInolongercarewhy.

“Iwanttohearyouplay,”Isayabruptlyoncethesongisover.Somehow,Iwant to stophim fromcommentingon the record.Maybe apart ofme is stillafraidhewon’tgetit,orhe’llsaythewrongthing.

“You’ll hear me play on Monday,” he says with an indulgent smile. “AtOorol.”

Stubbornly, I shakemy head. “I want to hear what you were working onbeforeIcamehere.”

Roycefrowns, lookingabit takenaback.“Well, I’mnotdoneyet. I’mstillworkingonstuff.”

Ismirk.“DoIdetectahintofperfectionisminyourrefusal?”He bursts out laughing. The sound echoes off thewalls as he givesme a

surprised little smile. “Someoneever toldyou thatyou’re toocheeky foryourowngood,Enna?”

“Well–yeah.Theyhave,infact.”Ibitemylip.Roycerakesahandthroughhisfloppy,blackhairbeforepattingmeonthe

kneewithit.“You’recute,”hesays.

It’simpossibletohearwhetherhemeanscuteinalittlesisterkind-of-wayorcuteinasort-of-hot-kind-of-way,buthiswarmhandonmykneemakesmegosohorribly red that he can’t possiblymisswhat I amhopinghiswordsmean.Paralyzed, I stare into his blue eyes andwish the groundwould open up andswallowmewhole.

“MaybeIshouldgo,”Isqueakbeforehecansayanything.“It’sgettinglate.”“Yeah.”Hisvoicesoundsabitrough.“Maybeyoushould.”Avoidinghisinquisitiveeyes,Ijumpupfromthecouchandrushtowardthe

turntabletotakemyrecords.Withtremblingfingers,IfixmygazeonthedooranddumpKathleenandJyotiinmybag.

“Seeyoulater,”Imumble,chancingaquicklookinRoyce’sdirection.He’s standing in the middle of the room, watching me with a mixture of

amusementandkeeninterest.“When?”heinquiressoftly.I panic when he takes a step closer to me. “Tomorrow,” I blurt out.

“Evening.”Roycecocksaneyebrow.“AftertheopeningofOorol?”Crap,that’sactuallyquitelate.“Yeah,”Isay,notwillingtobackdown.“Ten

orso?”“I’llbehere.”“Good.Byenow.”IstormoutthedoorandslamitsohardthatI’mafraidI’ll

rousethespiritsofdeadStortumers.What thehell am Idoing? In fact,whatamIeven thinking? I should stop

deludingmyselfintothinkingthatRoycecouldpossiblybeinterestedinmethatway. He’s twenty and I am only seventeen. He’s in college. He’s a Currentcelebrity.AndIamastupidlittleSkylgergirlforagreeingtomeetupwithhimyetagain.

10.WhenIgethome,I’mafraidDadorSytsewillbeabletoseeitinmyeyes–howflustered and confused and revved-up I am. But if so, they don’t comment.They’rebothsittinginthekitchenpeelingpotatoesandcuttingvegetables.

“Canyoupourusamugtoo?”mybrotherpipesupwhenIwalkovertothestovetomakesometea.“You’rehomelate.”

“Yeah,IwashelpingAlkewithhisGermantest,”Ilie.“SoIwasbusy.Daniisdroppingbytonightsowecanworkonmyownassignments,though.”

“Relax,”Sytsegrins.“Youhaveallweekendtodoyourhomework.I’mnotgoingtoplaytheevilbigbrotherandscoldyouoranything.”

Thisisthebadthingaboutlying–youalwayswanttomaketheliesoundtooperfectsoyouendupsayingtoomuch.“Thanks,”Imutter,lightingthegasstoveandwatchingthekettleasitheatsup.

WhenDanishowsuphereafterdinner,Iwillhavetofocusontheanthologyandnothingelse.NomoredaydreamingaboutRoyce.Idon’tevenwanttotellmybestfriendhowsillyI’mbeing–shealreadywarnedmebefore.

As I sip from my hot tea and stare out the window, I see storm cloudsdriftingin.Let’shopetherainwillfallduringthenight,nottomorrowafternoonduring theopeningceremony.TheCurrentsarealwaysseatedunderabig tarpcovering themainbleachers,whilewearegatheredon the townsquare,out intheopen.That’sjustthewayoftheworld.

Once we sit down for dinner, the mashed potatoes, onions, and carrotstoppedwithmackerelfeellikeabrickinmystomach.Ican’teatmorethanafewbitesbeforegivingup.“I’llsaveitforlater,”ImumblewhenIseemyfather’sworriedlook.“I’mnotthathungryyet.”

“EidahasofferedtotakeDadandGrandmaAntje toBrandaris tomorrow,”Sytseannouncescheerfully.“She’sbringingthecow-drawncarriagetotown,sotheycanhitcharide.”

Ourneighborisadarling.Thisway,mygrandmotherwon’thavetowalkandIwon’t have toworry about transportingmydad by bike, running the risk ofmakingthepaininhisjointsunbearablefortherestoftheday.“That’sgreat,”Isaywithasmile.

After Sytse andDad are done eating, I clear the table and put on anotherkettle to boil somewater for thewashing-up.No dessert tonight, so I have iteasy.Ijusthavetoscrubthepotsandwashsomeplates,cups,andsilverware.Isingsoftlytomyselfasmyhandsdipintothehot,soapywatertorinsetheforks.

“What’sthat?”Sytsesuddenlypopsupnexttome.Ihadn’tevenheardhimgetupfromhis

seatatthekitchentable–Ithoughthewasreadingthepaper.“Whatiswhat?”Isay,lookingupathiminconfusion.He narrows his eyes atme. “That tune youwere humming.”When it still

doesn’tclick,headds:“Enna,youweresingingoneofthesongsfromPhoenix.ThatLP.”

Oh, crap.He’s right.One particular song has been stuck inmy head eversinceIleftthecottageafewhoursago.WeavingWeb.

“N-no,”Istammer,gropingaroundforaplausibleexcuse.“Ijust–cameupwiththatmelodytoday.I...”

IstartwhenSytseslamshisfistonthecounter.“Don’tlietome,”hegrowls.I’veneverheardmybrotherspeaktomelikethat.Allofasudden,hefeelslikeastrangerwithasecretsideIshouldneverhavefoundoutabout.

“Okay,”Isqueak.“So.Youlistenedtothatrecord.How?When?”Myjawtenses.“Whoareyoutointerrogatemelikethis?”Ithrowback.“It’s

noneofyourbusiness.”His face falls just a little bit.Mywords hurt him.We used to be so close

beforehelefttoworkatsea.“Enna,it ismybusiness,”he insists.“Igaveyouthatrecord.Now,Iwanttoknowhowyoumanagedtolistentoit.Ididn’tmeantoputyouinanydanger.Comeon–Ihateitwhenyoulietome.”

“Well, I’m not the only one keeping secrets,” I fume, my voice rising anotch.“WhataboutyournightlyvisitstoStortum?Whenwereyouplanningontellingmeaboutthose?”

“What the...”Sytse staggersback, thengrabsmyupperarmand forcefullyshovesmeaway from the sinkandoutof thekitchenwithout sayinganythingelse.Hemarchesmeintohisroom,kicksthedoorshut,andsitsmedownonthebed.

“Okay.Nowtellmeeverything.”His stern lookmakesme draw up a blank as I contemplate lying to him.

Sure,IcouldtellhimIsawhimsneakingoutofthehousesoIdecidedtofollowhim, but that still wouldn’t explain how I know about themusic onmy newrecord.

“RoyceBoltoncameuptomeattheharbor,”Imumble.“SaidhewantedtheLP you gave tome. I refused. Sowe struck a deal – he said I could use hiselectricturntableifIagreedtolistentoittogether.”

Sytse lets out an incredulous sigh. “Enna, that’s dangerous,” he groans.“What if his family finds out?What if hismother barges into his roomwhenyou’revisiting?”

“Ididn’tgotohishouse,”Iargue.“HeownsanoldcottageinStortumthatusedtobelongtohisgrandparents.Andhedoesn’thaveamotheranymore.”

“Stortum,”mybrotherechoes.“Yeah.That’showIfoundoutaboutyou.Iwastheretwonightsago.”Sytseshakeshisheadandsitsdownheavilyinhisdeskchair.Whenhefixes

hisgazeonmeagain,hisnextwordsshockme.“Wasityouwhostolethebookfromthehouse?”Icanfeeltheblooddrainfrommyface.Soheknows.Theanthologymust

havebeenimportanttohimifhenoticedit’smissingsosoon.“Itwas,” I admit softly. “I just– Iwas lookingaroundand I sawall these

books,andtheyseemedsoold.Iwasintrigued.”“Isitinyourroom?”Ishakemyhead.WhenSytse’seyeswideninalarm,Iquicklyadd:“It’swith

Danibecauseshewantedtoreadinitsomemore.She’sbringingitbacktonight,okay?Wedidn’tintendtokeepit.WewantedtogiveittotheSkeltatomorrow.”

Atiredlittlesmilepullsathislips.“Well,that’slaudable.SinceitbelongstotheSkeltainthefirstplace.”

“Huh?”Istareathiminamazement.Sytse’s dark eyes lock ontomine. “That entire house does,” he continues.

“Andallthestuffinit.Includingtheradio.”Whatthehellisaradio?“I–Idon’tunderstand.”“OnceDanigetshere,I’llexplainittoyouboth,”hesays.“Butyouhaveto

promisemeyouwon’ttellasoul.”“Ofcourse,”Isayindignantly.“Yoursecret’ssafewithme.Withus.”“Youdon’tevenknowwhatitisyet.”Hesmileswistfully.“Well,Idoknowthatyoucantrustme.Don’tyou?”“Yeah.”Sytsefrowns.“Ido.ButfortheloveofFosta,pleasestopseeingthat

Currentguy.He’smyage.Royceshouldn’tbehangingaroundwithyounggirlslikeyou.”

Myjawtenses.I’mnotthatyoung–I’malmostoldenoughtogetmyownhouse.Atthesametime,mybloodrunsdeliciouslyhotatthethoughtofRoycewanting to hang outwithme despite the age gap.The allure of the forbiddenmakesmefeeldesired.

“Sure,”Igrumble,notmeaningit.“Ifyouthinkthat’sbest...”Sytseunexpectedlypullsme intoahugandholdsme tight. “Howdidyou

growupsofast?”hemusesabitforlornly.“It justhappened.Whileyouwereatsea.”Iaddabitvenomously:“While

youdecidedtobecomesomesortofspyfortheSkelta.”Hescoffs.“Don’tberidiculous.”Rubbinghisface,hecontinues:“Ijustwant

tohelpmyownpeople.Andifthatinvolvesbreakingtherulesandstirringupashit-stormoftrouble,Idon’tcare.Whomadethoserulesanyway?”

Rightatthatmoment,IhearvoicesoutsideSytse’swindow.Mydadissittinginthefrontgardensmokinghispipeandtalkingtosomeone,soIguessDani’shere.

“Enna!”hebellows.“Youhaveavisitor.”“Coming,”Icallback.Quickly,IgetupandbumpintoDaniinthekitchen.

She’sjustputtingherbagonthetabletotakeouttheoldbook.“Hey,Enna,”shesays,herbreathhitchingwhenSytseenterstheroomafter

me.“Oh,uhm–let’sgotoyourroom,shallwe?”“Whatever you need to discuss can be discussed here,” my brother states

calmly.Daniblinksupathiminsurprise.“Heknowsaboutthebook,”Iclarify.“Oh.”Myfriendshootsmeabewilderedlook.“Okay.Butwhy?”Idon’treply.Instead,Sytsegesturesatthecomfortablecouchinthecorner,

inviting us both to sit down.He takes a seat across fromus inmy dad’s lazychair.Gingerly,Daniputstheoldleathertomeonthetable,asthoughshe’sstillnotsureSytseisallowedtoseeit.

“Afewyearsago,”Sytsestartsout,“Ibefriended theSkelta’sson,Omme.Hewas part of the same debate team in high school.When I told him ofmyplanstobecomeasailorandmerchant,hetoldmethathisfatherwaslookingfortrustworthy people sympathetic to the Skylger cause who could be liaisonsbetweenhimand importantpeopleon themainland.Fryslan,mostly,butothercountriestoo.PeoplewhowerefedupwithbeingtheCurrents’doormats.”

“But theCurrents haveprotectedus for centuries,”Dani interrupts him. “Idon’tlikebeingasecond-classcitizenanymorethanyoudo,buttherulingclassisn’tjustatthetopofthehierarchybecausetheyarebullies.Theyactuallyhelpus.”

“TheSkeltathinkstheirclaimsareexaggerated.”Sytsepointstothebookonthetable.“Ifthetwoofyouhavetakenthetimetolookattheillustrationsinthatbook,youwillhavelearnedbynowthattheBrandarisTowerwasneverbuiltbytheCurrentinvaders.Itisourtower.”

Webothnodsilently.“Ihavelearnedsomethingelse,”Danisays,almostinaudibly.“There’sanold

legend aboutDeadMen’sCasketLake– and it flies in the faceof everythingwe’vebeentaughtabouttheplace.”

Iturnaroundtofaceher.“Whathaveyoufoundout?”Dani bites her lip. “The Current legend states that some of the Nixen’s