“Thank you,” Adva said quietly to the offered blanket. She reached her hand out and found the ragged cloth dropped hastily into her arms, as if the fisherman didn't want to touch her. His crinkled blue eyes were still very wide. Having given her the blanket, wizened fingers reached up to nervously pluck at his gray-and-red speckled beard.
Adva wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. She had returned to herself the same way she had left—wearing a light purple dress with little ornament, gracefully cut and embellished with a gold trim. Surprisingly, it was still dry, though her hair and skin were soaking.
She looked up to the cringing fisherman. She felt sorry for him.
“Are you alright?”
He jumped a little at the sound of her voice addressing him. He sat down in a rickety chair near the fire and regarded her.
“I'm alright, I suppose,” he said bravely. He visibly fought to stop his trembling. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Adva. The prince calls me Adva.”
“And you are the little lass who jumped over the side of the ship?”
“Yes,” she said, her gaze dropping. “I'm sorry,” she added, not knowing why she felt the need to say so.
He looked uneasy at her apology. “Ah, there's no need to be sorry, I suppose... Did give everyone aboard quite a fright, though. The prince, too.”
Adva's little eyes suddenly swam with tears.
The fisherman waved a hand. “Oh, now, now, don't be crying. Why are you crying? Were you frightened to die?” He stayed in his chair, eying her curiously.
Adva brushed the tears away with her little hand.
“Oh no, sir. I was very pleased to die. Only I didn't, I merely turned to sea foam. And now I am here, and I am terribly frightened.” Her voice was inhumanly musical, but still somehow rough, from a year without use.
“Are you a ghost then?”
Adva laughed at that, a gentle sound like tinkling bells. “No, I am very much alive.” She looked at her legs again with a mixture of joy and unease, as if she thought they might suddenly disappear at any moment.
“But the rumors are right, you killed yourself? Because of the prince getting married and all?” Now the fisherman was cautiously curious. Hearing that she was not a ghost had cheered him considerably. The shock of seeing a bucket of water change into a sixteen-year-old girl was already beginning to wear off of him.
The laughter disappeared from her eyes and was replaced with a flat, listless look. “No. I had to...for my own reasons.” She paused. “I suppose that the prince is married now?”
The fisherman's eyes grew sad and distant. He turned from Adva to one of the grimy shack windows. He stretched out a shriveled hand, pointing at it. Adva turned to see a view of the town, a ramshackle collection of houses built near the sea, and beyond it, the castle.
Adva's eyes ached at seeing it again. Once built entirely of pure white stone, its walls had grown dingy with time. Peter had told her it was small for a castle, but to Adva it seemed enormous. It was surrounded by a river fed by the sea, only passable by the drawbridge, always left open for anyone to come in to speak with the king if they were in need. He was a kind man, and had passed that nature on to his oldest son.
If she squinted her eyes, she could see the balcony that jutted from Peter's room.
She let out a soft sigh, then turned back to the fisherman.
He shook his head.
“Look again, lass.”
She turned back, wondering what he wanted her to see. Then, she let out a gasp.
The flags flying from the towers were black.
She jumped to her feet. “Peter! Is he—”
“Not dead,” the old man said sharply. He waved his hands for her to sit down, all his fear apparently gone now.
“What's happened then?” asked she, confused. She did not sit, and the blanket fell from her shoulders to the floor. The fisherman sighed at the sight. It would get muddy.
“Well now, he's gone and lost his mind. He's locked himself up in his room and is refusing all his meals. Spends all his time looking out the window, looking for you. That woman he was going to marry—don't recall her name—she left for her kingdom weeks ago. Only one he seems to talk to these days is his brother.”
“Stefan,” Adva intoned, but her mind was still fixed on the words looking for you. Peter was looking for her?
“Yes. Strange boy,” he said, expression darkening. “They say he'll be king now.”
Adva now looked at him curiously. “What? But Peter is next in line for the throne.”
“You missed quite a bit while you were off being...sea foam, was it? While you were dead. Or not dead. Makes my head ache.” He scratched his head. “Stefan will be king now.” He scowled.
She sat down now, brushing the dust from the blanket and smiling at the fisherman apologetically for getting it dirty. But he wasn't looking at her now, he was looking out the window towards the castle with his brow furrowed.
“Does Peter not want to be king any longer?” She looked up at him innocently. Clearly hearing that Peter was alive was all that truly mattered to her.
The fisherman turned to her, his gaze somewhat hard. “No, lass. Peter cannot be king anymore. Or so Stefan and the king have declared.”
“Cannot?” she asked.
“As the prince, they say, has gone mad.”
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Peter reached out a thin hand to the window. He paused to look at it. So thin. It had been days since he ate. The hunger hit him in a sudden wave, and he fought back nausea.
You are unfit to be heir to the throne.
He winced, remembering Stefan's words. His fingertips brushed the curtain.
If only he could bring himself to close it, he knew he could leave the window. Stop searching, stop watching, stop waiting for someone who would never come.
Stefan was right. This was pathetic. How long had he wandered the castle like a ghost before settling before the window? How long had he sat here, wasting time?
He drew his hand back, burying his face in his fists.
Adva...
Somewhere, deep in his heart, he knew she was still alive. But what if it was only that, a feeling?
His mind rushed inescapably to the last time he had seen her.
The light splash, like something being thrown from the deck into the sea. Waking. Cold morning light, the sun barely rising from dawn-colored waves. Turning his head to see the cabin doors thrown open. Soft white curtains blowing gently in the breeze. Adva poised with one tiny foot stepping onto the side of the ship. Her quiet backwards glance, her little face streaked with tears. She held his gaze for one lingering moment before turning and leaping into the sea.
Surging from his bed, nearly tripping over his sheets. Calling her name. Doors opening as wedding guests poured from their rooms to see what was the matter. Leaning over the side of the ship, eyes raking the water for some sign of her. Unable to see anything.
Diving over the side, treading water, arms reaching. Going under, forcing his eyes open, the salt water stinging unbearably. Nothing at all. Other splashes. A rope thrown into the water. He ignored it. Strong hands gripped him, urging him back to the ship. He shook them off. Voices.
She's gone, Peter!
She's gone.
Finally, exhausted, allowing himself to be pulled up, shivering and dripping wet, to the deck. Confused, angry argument over his head. Sea water dripping from his hair down his cheeks in place of tears.
He hadn't cried then. He did so now—a single tear that landed on his hand and was brushed away quickly.
He closed the curtain.
She's gone.
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