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Now she could barely move. Christopher stood over her, the torch lights burning behind him, magnificent.

He would be a hero in his world, she saw, a great leader.

“My love,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her, pressing his palm to her face. She moved into it, that warm skin. Even now she could feel his hot blood. “Are you well?”

She nodded.

He stroked her face. “And our child? The healer says this baby has grown more quickly than any child she’s ever seen. A warrior, he will be.”

She smiled, gesturing that the baby was kicking her, and he placed his palm on her belly to feel.

“But, Astrid,” he began, sighing, and, despite the shift in his voice, she thrilled to hear him use the name he’d given her, “I fear that I will not have a choice about this marriage.”

It was as if he’d put his hands around her throat. As if her heart was splitting—as her tail had split, and as her tongue had been cut out of her mouth, leaving a bloody pulp. She had never known so clearly how words could be like swords, slicing through this fragile skin, yet still he sat next to her, with his beautiful face, those eyes staring into her, full of sweetness and despair.

“My father has just received word from the North. It is a happy day for this land, my love, but for me it is bittersweet. I would have liked to have married you.”

She nodded, barely able to breathe.

How could this have happened?

How could she convince him to marry her and not Margrethe, when she had no voice?

“You understand what is at stake here. Many lives, the peace and security of our land. Margrethe was brave to come here. And she is …”

He paused, and Lenia knew he wanted to protect her from the other truth: that Margrethe was the woman he’d told her about.

That he thought it was Margrethe who had saved him.

That he loved her, too.

She wanted to scream.

“I will take care of you,” he said. “I will make sure our child is well provided for … You will have a good life here.”

THE OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT of Princess Margrethe and Prince Christopher’s marriage came a few days later. The marriage would take place without delay, in five days, just after the signing of a formal peace treaty between the Northern and Southern kingdoms. No one wanted to risk waiting any longer than necessary, given what some perceived as the extreme tenuousness of the alliance.

King Erik was on his way from the North, along with a party from the Northern court. There would be a great celebration.

LENIA WAS SITTING in the chapel when the official announcement of the wedding was made. The cheers coming from the great hall below told her all she needed to know.

It is time, she said, feeling her great belly.

The moment for tears had passed. She knew she was caught now in the sweep of history, and it was only she who could save the child growing inside her. In six days, she would turn to foam. The morning after Margrethe and Christopher were married, Lenia’s heart would break and she would become foam at sunrise, and return to the sea.

Her heart, she was sure, had already broken.

But this body, this child—maybe there was still some hope, for her child. She knew she had to save this child.

She went back to her room and pretended to be in great pain, writhing about in bed and gripping her belly. Agnes was sent for immediately, as Lenia knew she would be. When the old healer arrived, Lenia motioned for the servants to leave the room, which was normal enough during such an intimate examination. When they left, she grabbed Agnes’s arm.

“Help me,” she mouthed, rounding out the words with her lips, staring intently into the old woman’s face.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

“I am dying,” she mouthed. “I will die. Help me.” She put all her energy and feeling into the thought: I am dying. Help me save my baby.

“Are you in pain?” Agnes asked, bending down, pressing her palm against Lenia’s belly.

Lenia shook her head. She had to make her understand.

Agnes examined her and could not hide her surprise at the state of Lenia’s body. “You seem to be doing fine, dear girl. I do not know how,