Cora watches me go, waiting to see what happens next.
I come back with the paddle.
The canvas wrap is still on it. I take it off, standing in the shallows, unfolding it carefully because the shell inlay is done properly and I haven't been careless with it for two weeks.
I hold it out to her in the starlight.
She takes it with both hands. The weight registers immediately—this is a real paddle, substantial and balanced, meant for use. She turns it, looking at the blade face. The starlight and the last of the bonfire's glow catch the inlay—the two symbols in their pale shell, the selkie and the sirena, their lines running close without touching. The marine varnish gleams, smooth and perfect, protecting the cedar and the inlay work beneath.
She looks at it for a long time.
I wait.
"You made this," she says.
"Yes," I say.
"The symbols."
"Yes."
She brings it closer, cradling it the way she cradles her guitar—carefully, with both hands supporting the weight, examining the details. Her thumb traces the sirena spiral, very lightly, feelingthe flush inlay work, the smoothness of the sealed wood. Her dark eyes are doing the full green in the firelight. Her hair is loose over her shoulders and she's standing in the warm shallows in the plum dress with her sandals in one hand and the paddle held like something precious.
"It's beautiful," she says quietly. "It's—this is real work. This would last through anything."
"That's the idea," I say.
She looks up at me.
"Cora," I say.
Her eyes hold mine.
"In selkie tradition, a paddle with both symbols inlaid—it's a mate-bond offering." I hold her gaze. "I'm asking you to be my mate. To be bound to me the way water is bound to itself. Permanent. Complete. Through seas and storms and whatever comes."
She looks at me.
She looks at the paddle.
She looks at me again.
And then Cora San Pedro grins.
It's the full-face grin, the genuine one, the one that lights up from somewhere behind the eyes and belongs to the version of her that only the water gets, and now also, always, me.
She takes one step back.
She says: "Yes."
And she sits down in the lake directly into the warm August shallows. The water comes up to her waist. She could shift into her tail right now and it wouldn't matter. She's equally at home in either form. The water welcomes her regardless.
The plum dress spreads around her on the surface for one extraordinary moment before the lake takes it, the fabric darkening as it absorbs the water. She's laughing, her full belly laugh, hugging the paddle to her.
The last few people still at the bonfire behind us look over. Someone laughs. Someone else calls out something I don't catch. The Bennett sisters are definitely watching.
I stand in the shallows and look at the woman sitting in the August lake, laughing as the waves roll in, with a paddle hugged to her chest and the stars reflected in the water all around her. Her dark hair is wet now, slicked back from her face. The plum dress clings to her. She's grinning at me like this is the best thing that's happened all summer.
I sit down beside her in the lake.