"All the housekeeping staff stays in shared quarters," Madam Amaia says as we approach a series of doors. "Boys in one, girls in the other. Absolutely no crossover, understand? That's one quick way to end up back on the street."

She glances at me, and I nod. I've no interest in anyone in this palace. There'll be no romance for me.

Madam Amaia raps on the first door. It's a simple entry—rectangular and plain black. Boring, like everything else in this place so far. "This is my room," she says. "Don't go in there. Josef sleeps in the nude."

I nearly choke on my own breath. "So, you two are married?"

"Unfortunately," she says bitterly. But there's a softness in her eyes that gives away her true feelings. "For thirty-five years now. So I think I know how my scrawny husband sleeps and how you don't want to see it. Leave our room alone, okay?"

"I will. I promise."

Seeming satisfied, she moves on to the second door. There's a large circle painted in the top-center. "Boy's Room. Once again, you are not allowed in here under any circumstances. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say with a firm nod. Not that I'd want to. I've seen my fair share of boy's bedrooms. Finn's pretty neat, and so is my brother, but even saltwater can't hide that masculine stench. I don't want to imagine having a ton of them together in one enclosed space.

Madam Amaia and I walk side-by-side quite a ways down the hallway until we reach another door. It's the same black as the other two, with a smaller circle painted on it. This one has an empty center, though; it's just an outline of a shape. The madam knocks once and then pushes it open.

For the most part, the room is empty. What few residents inside are asleep, buried up to their necks in covers. Madam Amaia holds a finger to her lips and shuts the door behind us silently.

"We're a busy bunch," she whispers to me. "Our quarters are a place for resting and recuperating. You'll find it stays quiet here."

I start to tell her that it's okay because I like the quiet, but there's something so serene about the silence that I hate to break it. So, instead, I just take in the long, rectangular room—the one that's about to be my home for a month.

It's about the same size as our dining room back at Hygge palace. Two long rows of single beds line each side. The beds are placed about two feet apart, giving enough room for each resting place to have a side table. A plush navy carpet runs down the center of the room, the same as what covered the hallway floors. Some of the residents have clothes hanging over the foot rails of their beds: socks, undergarments, aprons, and dresses.

While some of the beds are neatly made, others are haphazardly thrown back together. Plush animals and books lay littered across pillows and hand-patched quilts. Pictures—both hand-drawn sketches and framed paintings—have been hung to give each space its own personality. On the left side of the room, a window opens up into the heavens, shedding silvery moonlight over the scene. The rest of the flickering light comes from candles placed carefully on the side tables.

"You can have this bed," Madam Amaia says, pointing to a pristine, blank mattress set atop a wooden frame. A small pile of folded fabric sits in the center. "The sheets are clean, I promise. I didn't ask Britta to do them." She rolls her eyes and walks away. I toss my bag on the bed and hurry after her.

Further down, we walk through an archway and into a room filled with tubs. One is taken by a girl with long, black hair. Steam rises from the water, and the heady smell of perfume wafts around the room. The lady bathing doesn't even crack an eye at our entrance.

"Do you have any spare clothes?" Madam Amaia asks as she leans down to stoke a fire in the corner. That's where the room's heat is coming from.

"No, ma'am," I say, tugging the daisies out of my hair. I lost a few of them during the game, and some of them look pretty ragged. But I'd hate to ruin all of them; they're a shred of hope in this cold, human world. With a soft sigh, I set what's left on a small table near one of the empty tubs.

"That's okay. I'll fetch you some while you clean up."

I shake my head. "I can just wear these. It'll be fine."

"Skatter—" It's a word I don't recognize, but her tone is a warm current, a pool of shade on a hot day. She's not insulting me. "You're covered in dirt and blood. Those clothes are going to have to be soaked. Plus, we have a uniform."

I nod reluctantly. She's right, but...

"Here. Help me carry this over," she says firmly.

I rush to her and take the warm handle of a massive bucket of water. It's so heavy that I have trouble holding it, and when I move, the hot liquid sloshes out over my toes, searing them. Madam Amaia chuckles as I dance across the room in pain. Together, we lift the container and dump it into the tub.

We follow the same routine four more times with the other containers of water. By the time the last is emptied, I'm flushed and sweating from the effort. I glance over at Madam Amaia, ready to apologize for my weakness, but she smiles warmly at me.

"Don't even say it, skatter," she coos. "You'll be surprised what a good night's sleep and some hearty meals can do for a person."

Another show of kindness. She needs to stop before the line between our species blurs again and I lose myself.

Madam Amaia takes my wrist in her velvet hand and pulls me to a large cabinet. Within sits every imaginable type of soap and oils, all made by people in Lykke. There's some soap made from goat's milk (whatever a goat is), one with a touch of beeswax, and even some scented with sunflower oil. Madam Amaia runs down the list of perfume and oil options, naming them off with the assumption that I know what they mean.

I obviously don't.

Either way, she tells me to use whatever I want; it's all provided by the housekeeping funds. Then, she retrieves a soft cloth called a towel and disappears to find me a uniform.

For a moment, I just stand in her wake, one hand on the cabinet door and the other knotted in the towel's plush fibers. It's all a bit overwhelming. Unexpected.

One thing at a time, I remind myself. I can do just one thing at a time.

First, soap.

My eyes scan over the assortment and land on a small bar of white soap. It has dots of brown going through it, and when I lift it up to my nose, I recognize the powerful scent of vanilla. The pirates often brought vanilla beans with them, but we never had any use for the odd sea pods. Mama loved it, though. She would thread it into her clothes and hide it in her pockets. I could never forget that sickly sweet smell.

After that, no other soap stands a chance of being chosen.

Glancing nervously at the other bathing girl, I shed my skirt and shirt and fold them both neatly on the table beside my daisies so I can hide my dagger underneath. I guess I'll have to find another way of wearing it once I've donned the uniform of the palace staff.

While I undress, I keep covering the nude bits of myself. I don't really know why, though. Nakedness is so normal for merfolk. Is it because I've got legs now?

Yeah, and all the other human anatomy that comes with it.

The thought alone makes me blush, and I hurry to step into the water. At least that'll cover up some of my skin. I do my best to relax against the side of the tub, but it's difficult at first.

I've never taken a bath before. The saltwater keeps us merfolk clean enough. Any dirt that does accumulate, we just brush off and go about our business. As I sink further into the water, inhaling steam and the soft vanilla of the soap in my hand, I'm instantly convinced that this is the only good part about being human.

The way the water hugs my skin, warming me to my very core. The weightlessness of lying there, feeling my skin becoming softer. The sensation of taking the bar of soap and running it along my new limbs. The way the dirt and grime just disappears.

It's heavenly.

I lounge there until the skin on my fingers and toes starts to wrinkle up—another thing that never happened before. Then, I use the soap to clean my hair. Rinsing it out is harder than I imagined, but I manage. By the time I hear Madam Amaia returning, the water's gone cold.

She chuckles at the sight of me nearly fully engulfed, hands wringing out my red mane. "Enjoying yourself?"

I nod and push up. After she passes me the towel, I hurriedly step out onto the cold floor and dry myself off. We work together to slide the gray dress over my damp skin, and Madam Amaia ties it firmly in the back.

"Sit," she says then, patting a low bench that sits in front of a long mirror. "I'll tie your hair up."

"I can do it," I reply, but her eyes cut towards me dangerously.

"Would you really rob an old woman of the joy of handling such gorgeous hair?" she asks, mock anger in her tone. "You sit down right here and just let me handle it."

Without another word, I wrap the towel around myself and plop down on the bench. She draws out a brush and gets to work.

Her styling takes all of five minutes. Madam Amaia has clearly done this a time or two. Since my hair is so long, she used the same long braided style I had when I first came in, but hers is much neater than my rushed job. Where I did a simple three-stranded plait, Madam Amaia takes the time to intricate her plait a little more with smaller groupings. The pattern reminds me of cowrie shells. As a little finishing touch, she weaves one of the daisies in near my ear and smiles at me in the mirror.

For a second, I don't recognize myself.

My cheeks are pink from being in the sun all day. The light brushing of freckles that the water often hides has turned into a full-on sky of stars. My hair, once smooth and silky when it billowed in the water around my head, is now a wavy, frizzy mess. The only thing that hasn't changed is my eyes—still as green and earthy as they always were. Just like Mama.

Madam Amaia holds my gaze for a moment, and I watch a new emotion cross her face. I can't name it, but Josef made the same face at me.

Before I can ask what she's thinking about, the matron says, "Come. You can meet Prince Eero as he comes inside for the night."

Why in the world was he outside at this hour, anyway? Before the question can be brought to life, Madam Amaia is already on the move again. I deposit my old clothes, dagger, and daisies safely on my bed and hurry to follow her.

For an old lady, she sure is light on her feet.

Madam Amaia leads me into a large entryway and clasps her hands behind her back.

"We wait here," she whispers as I copy her stance.

It's hard not to fiddle with my hair or dress as I stand there. I guess I should be nervous or feel some sort of anxiety about meeting Eero. I'm not, though. My steady dislike is back in full force. This emotion is familiar territory, and that warms me up.

As we wait, I study the entry room. It's larger than the servants' quarters, lengthwise and widthwise. There's a large glass door positioned on one wall, but heavy velvet curtains block my view of the outside. Like the other accents through the palace, this fabric is also dark navy and perfectly clean.

On the other side of the room is a massive staircase. The marble that makes up the stairs is veined with black and covered with a navy carpet that matches the hallways. The balusters are the same marble carved into thin columns, but the banister is a sleek, polished black stone. Onyx, maybe?

Over it all, a black candelabra hangs, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls.

Whoever decorated the palace likes uniformity.

They've also got exquisite taste.

It's a shame they're human.

A cool breeze runs over the top of my new shoes, and I twist my head in the direction of the ornate door. Two guards come in first. One is tall and wide, boasting of a mane of red frizz around his head. His chin and chest are covered in a massive copper beard. The other guard is a touch shorter and built more narrowly than his companion. His blond hair has been cropped close to his head; his face is smooth. Both of them are drenched in moisture—probably sweat judging by the smell of them—and have flushed cheeks.

They laugh boisterously as they saunter past, not even bothering to spare us a glance. I bristle, and my face turns red.

Pompous humans.

I'm still watching their receding forms when Madam Amaia says, "Your majesty, may we have a moment of your time?"

I swivel my head back around, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to drop my jaw.

Prince Eero stands in the doorway, framed by moonlight and stars. A garden looms behind him where fireflies dance in the open air. I smell the flowers and hear the water of a fountain, but I can't see past his looming frame.

On the ship, I thought I'd gotten a pretty good look at him. I knew he was taller, broad shouldered, and built like a soldier. He's the same here on land, but there's a different air about him.

It's the air of power. He commands attention and respect.

My father used to exude the same energy.

Eero's black hair is tied back tonight, pulled into a tight bun at the base of his head, but curls hang loose around his face. Those pieces are soaking wet, probably from sweat too. His eyes focus on Madam Amaia, narrowing slightly. Anger or curiosity? It's really impossible to tell. Either way, the sea blue of them makes me more homesick than I could have imagined possible.

I run my eyes over his frame, trying to weigh my future opponent. This house of a man isn't going to go down without a fight. Good thing Papa trained me to seek out weaknesses and use them against a person.

Eero doesn't look like he has any weaknesses, though. How can solid rock have a shortcoming?

Even a mountain can be taken down by a persevering stream.

As I study him, the realization that he's shirtless slams into me. I'd been so focused on his eyes that I missed it. But now... the sheen of his skin is impossible to escape. Perfectly toned muscles make up his chest and abdomen. His entire left side is covered in black ink running up his ribcage, across his shoulders, and down his arms and back. I want to know what's there, want to know what's so important that he'd mark his body with it for the rest of his mortal life.

Prince Eero is gorgeous in the worst way possible. Surely he doesn't struggle to find a woman to keep his bed warm at night. The thought makes me grit my teeth in annoyance.

He takes another step into the entry room and tosses his shirt onto the floor. Or at least, I assume it's a shirt. It's hard to tell because it's covered in—

Blood.

His shirt, his hands, his pants—it's all covered in blood.

Goosebumps erupt across my skin, and I shudder involuntarily.

What in the All Hells have I walked into?!

"Yes, Amaia, you may," he thunders, walking to a cabinet nearby. There's a small basin of liquid sitting atop it, and he uses that to rinse off his hands. Then, he withdraws a roll of fabric out of one of the drawers and begins wrapping his busted knuckles.

A shiver runs through me. Who or what was he punching? Who had the guts to fight him?

Madam Amaia doesn't even seem fazed. "I wanted to introduce you to your new personal maid," she says firmly. "Your father's advisor hired her."

Eero finishes nursing his hands before turning to face us. He leans on the cabinet, stretching his legs in front of him lazily.

His eyes start at my toes and work their way up. Slowly. It's one of the most unnerving things I've ever undergone.

Like Jett and Lot, he takes me in like a meal left out to be devoured. While the twins paused in all the wrong parts, the prince seems to brush over all of me with no preference. He almost seems unimpressed.

But he does pause once, knocking all the air out of my lungs.

My eyes.

He looks me dead in the eyes.

His eyebrows furrow for a fraction of a second, and his lips part as if he's going to say something.

I never considered he might recognize me. Never thought that he might look at me and say, "Hey, you're the mermaid that tried to kill me." Honestly, I never weighed the circumstance in which he looked at me so deeply.

But as his oceans clash with my hills, I hold my breath and pray to the Divine that he doesn't know who I am. I can't fail this early on. At least, I convince myself that's why my stomach is twisted into knots.

An eternity must pass in the time he stares at me, but eventually, he does pull away, breaking the connection.

"No."

The single syllable vibrates against my skin uncomfortably.

Madam Amaia huffs. "I already spoke to your father and the advisor. They've signed off on it. You can't just turn her away, Eero."

The prince looks at her, and a muscle in his jaw tenses. He seems to weigh the right thing to say to her, fighting another side of himself. "I don't need her."

He says so little, but every single word demands to be heard and obeyed.

"Doesn't matter, son. She's here now."

Eero looks at me once more and shakes his head. He mumbles something under his breath in Anjordian and leaves the room, taking the staircase two steps at a time. A sweaty musk hangs in the air behind him, full of command. I take a few desperate breaths and glance over at Madam Amaia. She's shaking her head in disapproval.

"Forbandet," she hisses, grabbing the bowl of water. I hurry over and lift Eero's blood-drenched shirt off the now stained carpet. "You're doomed, Ari. Absolutely doomed."