“A letter. Maybe more. I don't know.” I push wet hair out of my face. “Can you ask the sprites? The young ones collect things. Strong feelings. If there's anything left?—”
“I'll look,” he says.
He disappears under the water without another word.
I spend the next hour searching the channels myself. I check the reeds, the places where debris collects, the quiet pockets where the current slows. My hands are cold. My chest is tight. I find nothing.
When I surface at my own dock, Phineas is waiting.
He's holding something.
A dry bag. Small, sealed, the kind designed to keep things safe underwater for a long time.
“North channel,” he says. “Wedged under the dock pilings. The water kept it.”
My hands shake when I take it.
“Thank you, Phineas,” I say.
He nods once and slips back under the water.
I pull myself up onto the weathered cedar planks. I open the seal.
Inside: a journal.
Hardcover, small, maybe four inches by six. Dark blue cloth, water-stained at the lower corner but intact. The spine is cracked from use. The pages are wavy from old moisture but readable.
The handwriting on the first page is Muir's.
I sit down on the dock. I open the journal and read.
The entries span two years. Our two years. He wrote about the lake, the dives, the way light moved through water at different depths. He wrote about me.She sings in the evenings when she thinks no one is listening. I haven't told her I've heard it. I don't know if I should.
And then, deeper in:My uncle Callum says that every selkie leaves eventually. He says this like it's weather. I want to ask him when he decided to believe it.
The entries get harder near the end.
The family's broke. Worse than broke. They're into people who don't forgive debts. They found my sealskin last month. They're holding it. They want me to run jobs for them. Smuggling, mostly. They say it's temporary. They say once the debt's clear, I'm free.
I told them no. They said they'd burn the skin.
I don't know what to do. If I stay here, they'll use Cora to get to me. If I go back, I become the thing they want me to be. Either way, I'm poison.
She'll be better without me. I keep telling myself that.
The last entry is dated four years ago. The week he left.
I'm leaving the journal here. Too dangerous to bring it back with me. If they find it, they'll know about her. But maybe she'll find it someday. Maybe that's enough.
I close the journal. My throat is tight.
Phineas surfaces again. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a plastic envelope. Old, brittle, the label faded but legible.Cora San Pedro, San Pedro Eco-Tours, North Dock, Harmony Glen.
“Found this in the reeds,” he says. “Same channel. The sprites had it.”
I take it. My hands are steadier now, but only just.
The letter is three pages. His handwriting, compressed and careful.