#currently the crinolines are just. folded up as well as possible and i will. probably put them in a bag for a while aklsjdhadk

[fox-guardian]

how does one store crinolines/petticoats they are So Poofy

[drowning-in-dennor]

A Washed-Up Fool

Many an interesting thing washes up on the beach, brought to the land by the wayward waves of water and fate. Whether the sea brings in a shell, a piece of driftwood or a girl with lessons on how to truly live, it cannot be denied that much can be learned from these aquatic deliveries.

[Warning: This is nine thousand words long so buckle up folks] [This work contains mentions of blood, as well as slight violence.]

  The sea’s radiance hurts her eyes.

  Off the waves, which bob and roll with the breeze, fading sunlight glows, glimmering like tiny sparks upon their watery blanket. Kiara looks away from them, but green spots still bounce around in her vision. She tries to blink them away.

  Against the shore the waves roar, a dull whooshing sound with every ebb and flow, leaving white foam fading on golden sand. It echoes, over and over again, in her head. With a grimace, she tries to drown the noise, if drowning water were possible. The attempt fails. Kiara grits her teeth and walks faster, determined to escape the sound of rushing water as soon as possible. If not for the factory yielding a decent pay, she would’ve moved somewhere quieter far sooner.

  But a few paces from her house, the sound of the waves but a dull nagging in her mind, someone begins to sing.

  It’s the pointless sort of song, the type that repeats over and over again with no indication to where it will end. It is soaring, trilling, like the warbling of a bird at the most inconvenient of times. Kiara’s ears almost ache at the sound; after eleven hours in a factory surrounded by low, whirring machines, the song cuts through the still-present white noise in her head like a hot knife through butter.

  She ponders on whether she should turn back and ask the singer to stop before they become more of an annoyance than they are already being, but then Kiara looks at the sky, steadily darkening with every nonsensical verse that comes from the beach, and decides to just leave it be. When she finally reaches home, slamming the door shut and closing all her windows, she sighs. The song, as idiotic as it is, keeps repeating in her head. Kiara pinches herself to try and shut herself up. 

  While cleaning the living room, Kiara sweeps sand out from between the floorboards, opening the door and depositing them onto the ground outside. Her shoes, worn-out from walking to and from the factory every day for three years, never fail to track sand into her house. She sets down her broom after her floor is clean and grabs her shoes, sweeping the sand off their soles and shaking the cloth out her door. It seems the ocean follows her everywhere.

  Dinner is, as usual, a simple affair; the rough rye bread and blandly-cooked array of carrots, potatoes and fish are no strangers to Kiara. She finishes her meal quickly, rinsing her plates with water, drying them off and pushing them into her plain cupboard. The evening is, as usual, unremarkable. 

  Almost immediately after dinner Kiara changes into her plain nightclothes, walking upstairs on stairs with dull floorboards. She looks out the window, at the distant sea, which now looks like an inky swatch of silk in the darkness of the night. The curtains slide shut, leaving only Kiara’s lantern as the only source of light.

  Clothes for the next day are laid out on the bedside table. Kiara folds up her day dress, untangles the laces on her corset, shakes out the sleeves of her cardigan. Then she extinguishes her lantern, plunging the room into darkness, and crawls into bed.

  As her eyes close, the sound of the sea floods her.

  The next morning, Kiara’s alarm-clock slaps her awake at five in the morning with its shrill, tinny cry. She turns it off, yawning, and slides out of bed. The sun is just starting to rise, weak rays of warm gold reaching in from between the curtains. 

  Fully dressed, Kiara slips on her shoes and walks downstairs, her worn heels clicking dully against the steps. A slice of last night’s loaf of bread serves as her breakfast as she leaves the house and walks to the factory. Barely anyone is out on the streets at such an hour, when the sun has just begun to breach the horizon with its golden glow, and all is quiet. Kiara treads quickly, chewing on her bread, and sweeps past a few passed-out drunkards sleeping on the streets, past a few dogs curled up on the cobblestone. On the other side of the street, where stone fades to sand, the waves lap at the shore. 

  Thankfully, there is nobody singing in the morning, no irritating noises to grate on nerves that are already frayed from an early waking. The walk to the factory does not take long, and soon Kiara is surrounded by the familiar, almost soothing noises of machinery. She reaches her station, dispels all thoughts of the sea and of songs from her mind, and begins to work.

  She runs home once the day is done, ignoring how unbecoming she must look, letting the sound of her shoes pounding against the path and her rapidly-pounding heart surpass any other. When Kiara reaches her house, she is gasping. A stitch is in her side. 

  She repeats the routine of the former evening. The assortment of clothing that she lays out on her bedside table before she goes to bed is almost identical with her morning ensemble. Kiara winds up her wretched alarm clock to wake her exactly seven and a half hours later, turns out her sheets, snuffs out her lantern and sleeps.

  The morning is the same. So is her breakfast, and her trek to the factory. By lunch, when she goes to the same vendor and buys the same pastry, her eyes are strained from operating the loom. Kiara looks to the sea; little people are there save for a few fishermen preparing to sail. The obnoxious singer from two nights before is thankfully not among them.

  The afternoon sees six more gruelling hours on the loom, but she takes the burden. Once she returns home, she will have dinner, and sleep will replenish what energy she has lost. When the long workday is over, Kiara pushes her hat onto her head and trudges her way home.

  To her utter dismay, somebody is singing again.

  For the second time, her ears protest at the sounds, and she doubts she can handle a third. Looking around her, squinting at the glare of the setting sun, Kiara finally finds the person oh-so inconsiderately causing the ruckus, who is perched nonchalantly on a rock. Kiara rubs her temples and approaches them.

  Nearing them, Kiara realises that they are female. She leans back, relaxed and rejoicing, her porcelain hands clutching the rough-hewn stone, creamy unstockinged legs crossed at the ankle and half-dipping into the water. The waves lap at her feet, beads of water glinting on impeccable skin like tiny crystals. 

  She tosses her head back and down bounce glossy ringlets so well-groomed they look as though shaved from varnished wood; they fall in front of azure eyes so wide and happy they seem to reflect all the sky and sea. Her lips are stretched into a smile as slight and sweet as the branch of a quince tree, pouring out some inane little ditty that could be calling out to the seagulls soaring above the beach. 

  And her voice, soaring and surreal, is the low murmur of rain, the deep sigh of a coastal wind, decadent and sweet at the same time; if one were to drink the world’s richest wine and eat the darkest chocolate while walking past gently babbling waves, then somehow turn that to sound, that would be her voice.

  Kiara reaches the rock, where the girl is still singing. She raps her knuckles on it, clearing her throat. “Excuse me.”

  The girl looks down, her song wavering slightly. Kiara raises her voice. “Excuse me,” she repeats.

  She stops singing, and in place of words is a lazy smile. 

  “Your singing is a disturbance,” Kiara says. She ought to be more polite, surely, but the song has grated away at what little niceties she had remaining. “I ask you to stop, please, for the good of everyone around you.”

  She speaks.

  “Oh, but I cannot help it.” Even in speech, the girl sounds as though she is singing, her voice deep, melodious and elegant. “The ocean is singing, see, and it longs for accompaniment. And it’d be a shame to not take the chance to sing a duet with the ocean.”

  The girl is probably mad, an undiscovered escapee of an asylum. Or perhaps she is a poet — arguably, that is worse. If she is a poet, or a writer, or any of those other literary types, she will keep Kiara here and blabber on about metaphors and symbolism. She will never be able to escape her.

  “Your singing is not a duet with the ocean.” Kiara looks at the girl’s smiling face, gazes upon the strong, yet delicate hands that have surely not worked a day in their life. “It’s a nuisance and an annoyance, and I would greatly appreciate it if you stopped.”

  “But can’t you hear it?” The girl gestures to the ocean. “Can’t you hear the song that the ocean sings? That can’t be a nuisance. It could only make you wish to sing along, to run into the ocean and feel the cool water around your feet.”

  Kiara sighs. “The ocean is not singing. The ocean cannot sing. And just because you can does not mean you should.”

  The girl tilts her head, and another shiny, oak-dark lock of hair falls into her eyes. “I see. I thought you might like some music to listen to while walking home, that’s all.”

  “What’s your name?” Perhaps she can report this raving lunatic to the police station tomorrow morning.

  “My name now, you mean?” She picks at her dress. It is beautiful, striped pink-and-white with lacy blue bows sewn along the hem. She has made the scandalous decision to not wear a crinoline. Kiara pinches herself. She must not forget the girl’s name. “My name now is Lilje.”

  “Your name now?” Kiara repeats incredulously. “What do you mean? Will your name change when the sun goes down, and change again when it rises? What are your names then?”

  The smile on Lilje’s face wavers slightly. “I will not tell you my names from other times. You know my current name, yet I still do not know yours. Is that not enough?”

  “It is enough.” She forces herself to twist her lips in a semblance of a placating half-smile. “I’m sorry for pressing, and now I will leave. And if you must know, my name is Kiara.” A wave splashes the shore, and she darts backwards to avoid it. On the contrary, Lilje allows it to wet her feet and her gown without a care in the world. “Have a good evening, Lilje.”

  “Likewise.” Her full, bright smile returns. “I hope to see you again.”

  “I do not,” Kiara mutters as she turns away. Her hat is precariously close to flying off her head, for it has been fighting the good fight against persistent seaside winds the entire conversation. She will have to get herself a new hatpin soon. She can hear Lilje humming quietly even as she steps back onto the road. At least she is not so loud now.

…

  While eating her usual dinner, Kiara’s mind wanders back to Lilje. She is so different from all the other ladies she knows from work. She lets her long hair fly free in the wind, her gown is shorter than what is deemed acceptable by most and she does not even wear a shawl to cover her bare arms. Anyone would think her peculiar, to say the least.

 Her teeth bite down on something hard. With a jolt, she realises she has been chewing on her fork. Her plate has been long-emptied. 

  Kiara sets her fork down and carries her plate to the washbasin to clean it. She winces slightly at the still-hot water, rinsing her cutlery with her bar of soap quickly. Though her washing-up could not have taken more than five minutes, her hands are red when she wipes them dry. 

  Before she goes to get ready for bed, she takes her wash bucket outside and throws the soapy water within it onto the stones. Kiara carries it to the well in the city centre. Nobody is there, fortunately; she has hardly any energy left to have a conversation. She pumps water into the basin, standing a good distance away to keep her dress from getting wet. While the basin is being filled, she looks around. Apart from a few night-workers trudging home, the street is empty.

  Ever-present, the rolling waves are the only sound she can hear. Her street tapers off into the beach, and not a day goes by when the cobblestone is not half-covered with sand. Perhaps she should have moved out of her seaside house long ago.

  The basin is still not full. Kiara keeps looking. The tide is high, and the water threatens to splash onto the streets. The rock Lilje was sitting on is almost entirely covered. The girl is nowhere to be seen. 

  Cold water sloshes onto her shoes, soaking into her stockings. Kiara jumps, turning towards the well, and realises that she has been pumping so long that the basin has overflowed. Shaking her hands dry, she carries the now-heavy basin back to her house.

  After setting it down, Kiara heads upstairs to her bedroom and gets ready for sleep.

  The next morning, she opens her cupboard only to realise she has run out of bread. She will have to go without breakfast this morning.

  Stomach growling, she leaves her house and begins her walk to the factory. There have been tales of starving workers collapsing after skipping meals and being sacked by their ruthless employers, but she will not be one of them.

  “Oh, good morning!”

  Lilje is standing on the beach, a few meters away from Kiara. She is dressed in blue today, a brilliant azure that seems to blend in with the cloudless sky above. The hem of her gown only comes halfway down to her calves, leaving her ankles and feet exposed. Many a man would throw a fit if he saw her. “Good morning.”

  “Off to work?” She walks unsteadily towards Kiara, toes digging into the sand. Her unsteady gait looks like that of a newborn colt. “It is quite early, after all.”

  She nods. Her having to talk to this irritating nuisance of a girl at six in the morning must be a punishment of sorts. What did she even do wrong?

  “You look hungry.” Lilje sways back and forth like a reed in the wind, continuing, “I don’t think you had breakfast today. Wait here.” She hobbles away from Kiara and closer to the sea. Only her conscience keeps her from abandoning Lilje.

  When she returns several minutes later, wobbling so much that she seems just one misstep away from falling, she is holding a shell. “You can eat this.”

  It turns out to be a scallop, pale-pink and glistening slightly. Kiara has only eaten scallop once, but it did not look anything like the one that is resting on the cream-and-white shell Lilje is holding out. It is not steaming-hot, nor covered with a peppery butter sauce like she remembers. In fact, it does not look cooked at all. She cringes. “Is that raw?”

   “Yes.”

  “I am not eating that.”

  “Why not?” 

  Her stomach churns with hunger, but she forces herself to say, “it looks repulsive.”

  Lilje laughs. “Now, don’t say that! If we judged all foods by how they looked we would starve. I promise you this tastes perfectly fine. I just had one for my breakfast.”

  Which is worse — forcing down this peculiar thing, or risking a humiliating collapse in the middle of work? She has not eaten anything in twelve hours. “Fine,” Kiara huffs. She takes the shell from Lilje and, bracing herself, picks up the scallop with her hands and eats it.

  It tastes of the sea, cold, light and savoury with just a hint of sweetness. It is softer than she expected. At the very least, it is not repulsive, like she thought it would be.

  “Well?”

  “It’s all right,” she admits. “Thank you.”

  Her face lights up. “I’m glad to hear that.” Lilje coughs, and Kiara takes a step back. “If you so wish, I could bring you more food. Since you liked the scallop, I know of some other dishes you might also enjoy.”

  “I never said I liked it.” At the disappointment passing over Lilje’s face, she quickly adds, “but I will consider your generous offer. Thank you once again.” Kiara notices a cluster of her colleagues walking down the streets towards the factory. “But I must go now.”

  Eyes twinkling, Liljes bids in that deep, sing-song voice of hers, “I hope to see you again.”

  Kiara does not answer her.

…

  There is no more singing when she walks home from work, and the tide is rising. To her surprise, Lilje is sitting on her rock. It is half-submerged in water, but she does not seem to care. She dips her feet in the water, kicking them up from time to time and sending droplets of water flying into the air. The spray catches the light of the setting sun and flashes like hundreds of tiny, ephemeral crystals. She catches Kiara’s eye and grins.

  She nods back, but does not get any closer. The seawater would surely destroy her shoes.

  By the time she reaches her house, the sun is nearly gone. Kiara looks back towards the beach. Lilje is no longer there.

…

  The factory is closed on Sundays. Often, her colleagues gather on Saturday evenings to discuss what to do on their day off, suggesting a swim or an afternoon of needlework. Kiara has never joined them. Her Sundays are usually spent sleeping in, then going to the general store to buy food. Like the rest of her days, it is nothing special.

  While walking home from the store, her satchel full of cans, Kiara finds herself instinctively looking towards the beach in search of Lilje. Sure enough, she is standing knee-deep in the water, the bottom half of her gown dripping wet. Unlike the bathing gowns she sees her colleagues show off sometimes, this one resembles a chemise from the olden days and exposes her bare arms. Lilje steps further into the water, and her pure-white gown swirls around her legs.

  Kiara nears the beach, but she does not notice her. The wind is especially loud today, sending tiny grains of sand swirling up from the beach and blowing her skirt about. Only her crinoline prevents her legs from being shown.

  In the water, a particularly large wave knocks into Lilje and soaks her side. Her gown clings to her every curve, and Kiara cannot help noticing how she has that silhouette most ladies yearn for, even when she wears no corset. She forces herself to tear her eyes away and step onto the beach. The heels of her shoes sink into the sand. She grimaces.

  Lilje continues walking into the sea, completely oblivious to her soaked bathing-gown. Another wave crashes into her. Ensuring that nobody is around to see her, Kiara takes another cautious step and calls out her name.

  Those mesmerising blue eyes light up at the sight of her. “Hello!” With unexpected speed, she runs to shore to stand before her, dripping water onto the sand. Her hair has been tied back with shell-pink ribbons. “And what are you doing today?”

  “I just bought some food.” She lifts her satchel. “I will be heading home soon.”

  “Why don’t you stay here for a while?” Lilje offers. “It must be so boring to stay at home on the only rest day of the week.”

  There is little more to do, anyway. “I will stay, I suppose,” Kiara says begrudgingly. “What have you been doing?”

  “Walking around. Singing. You know, what I do every other day.” She shrugs. “I like to swim on warmer days.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Better than being holed up in a house,” Lilje quips. “You ought to go get some fresh air more often.” She points at a rickety old thing floating a few paces away. “See, that over there is my boat. If you like, we could take it out to sea.”

  She does not notice the boat at first, only sees her companion pointing at a particularly-large pile of planks. Kiara holds her tongue and grits out, “it does not look very safe.”

  “It is, I promise.” She sweetens her vow with a sugary smile. “Come now, have you never wondered what it felt like to be at sea?”

  “Actually, I have not,” she replies honestly. “Unlike you, I am not particularly interested in the sea. But,” she adds grudgingly, “I suppose I can give this boat idea a try.”

  She beams. Lilje takes her hand and leads her towards the boat, humming cheerfully. Her hand is cold from the seawater.

  The rough wooden seats of the boat are miraculously dry, and Kiara sits down on it cautiously. Nothing breaks. Lilje sits in front of her, takes hold of the battered oars and begins to row.

  They float lazily on the crystal-clear water, waves lapping against the boat. The wind has calmed down a fair amount, just enough to keep them cool but not to make their journey turbulent. Lilje’s ribbons flutter like butterflies. “See, I told you the boat was safe.”

  “Mmhmm.” 

  “I realise now that we do not know much about each other,” she says. “We have talked a few times, yet all I know about you is your name and where you work!”

  “And I do not even know the latter about you.” Kiara folds her hands in her lap and asks, “so what do you do for a living?”

  “I sing. I think about things. Not the way a philosopher does, though, I have no need to think about the meaning of life and all that.” She dips her hand in the water for a moment. “I like to think about the temperature of the water and what type of rocks I might find in the sand. That’s all.”

  “Is that what you’ve always wanted to do?”

  “I guess so,” Lilje says. “And you? Have you always wanted to work in the factory?”

  She shakes her head. “Nobody truly wants to be there. When I was a girl, I just wanted to sail around on a big boat, on which I could have my own farm to provide for myself, and never actually work. But of course, that is not practical at all.”

  “Practical!” She repeats incredulously. “Humans throw that word around all the time these days. What does it even mean? If it means being like those company owners who lust after money and never dream, or the fools who only care for ‘useful’ things and not those that are beautiful, then I do not ever want to be practical.”

  Kiara shrugs. She looks behind her and sees the city fading farther and farther away. “Practicality puts the food on the table.”

  “It takes everything else in exchange,” Lilje remarks waspishly. “All practical people care about is surviving. Not one of them wants to live.”

  “And if I call myself practical, am I like them?”

  “Yes, you are. If you would like to be practical even though that word scarcely has a meaning, you are just like those humans.” She looks back and winks. “But I do not think you are. Deciding to get on a boat and sail to who-knows-where is not very practical, after all.”

  “You say ‘humans’ like you are not one.”

  “Am I human?” Lilje mulls. “I think that depends on how one defines a human.”

  “A scientist a while ago gave us the name ‘homo sapiens’. A philosopher from two thousand years back called us ‘featherless bipeds’.”

  She laughs, low and sweet. “So those plucked chickens at the butcher���s are humans also?”

  Kiara cannot help the giggle that escapes her lips. “Of course not, that’s why that theory was debunked.”

  The city is but a tiny speck now, and there is only water around her. The boat bobs up and down.

  Lilje looks back again, and Kiara notices a tiny, almost-invisible scar across her cheek. “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes,” she answers. “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing much, really. I was just curious. I thought someone as pretty as you would have someone to go home to.”

  “Not yet.” It is suddenly difficult to look her companion in the eye; that azure gaze seems to pierce too deeply. “I am only one-and-twenty, though, so not yet a spinster. And I am not pretty.”

  “Yes, you are!” Lilje stops rowing and turns around to face her fully. “I like your eyes, for one. They look like the chocolates that I hear people like. And your hair is pretty, too.” She fiddles with one of the ribbons in her hair. “May I try braiding it?”

  Kiara touches her hair, running her fingers through the dirty-blonde locks. “All right.” She turns around so that her back is facing her, and soon she feels Lilje undoing the pins in her bun. 

  With a touch far more tender than what her hands seem capable of, she combs her hair with her fingers and twists it into patterns. Her hands fly, as though she is braiding rope instead of hair, and soon she is done. Lilje undoes one of the ribbons from her hair and ties it into the braid, right next to her right ear. “There!”

  She looks at herself in the water. A few locks of hair frame her face, but the rest have been coiled into an elegant twist. It does not pull her features back as much, and the ribbon at the side of her head makes her look younger, almost girlish. 

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s quite fetching.” Kiara touches the smooth silk ribbon. “I look quite different.”

  “You do not look as sharp,” Lilje agrees. “Not that it makes you less pretty, of course, I think you look as nice as ever.” She peers over the side of the boat. “Oh, look.”

  A school of minnows are darting away in the water, sunlight reflecting off their silvery scales. They dip lower and soon disappear into the depths of the sea. 

  “Do you ever wonder what lies beneath the surface?”

  She turns back around. “Not much. I have never gone so far out to sea.”

  “I have seen it.” Lilje’s eyes seem to grow brighter, a wild shade of blue that gleams in the afternoon sun. “And though you might not have the chance to see it today, I will bring it to you anyway.”

  Her stilted sentence has Kiara frowning. “What, are you going to swim?” She asks.

  “Precisely.” She reaches into the pocket of her bathing-gown and pulls out a gleaming silver knife. Kiara scrambles back before realising that she is trapped. “Give me a moment, won’t you?”

  Before she can say anything, Lilje hitches up the skirt of her gown and reveals her toned calf, its pale skin covered in tens of silvery scars. Unflinching, she draws the blade across her calf.

  “What are you doing?” Kiara lunges for the knife, edged with blood that looks a tad darker than normal. Lilje drops it, slips her gown off and half-dives, half-falls off the boat into the water.

  She hisses with pain when her bloody wound makes contact with the seawater, and her head dips below. When she surfaces, her hair is plastered to her face and her arms move to keep her afloat. Her legs cannot be seen, even in the clear water.

  Then something glimmers. 

  Kiara peers into the water and sees what she is below the waist. Her legs have knitted together, merged into one almost grotesquely. The undulating, flexible mass is covered in silvery scales, from the sides and end of which protrude paper-thin, waving fins. “A tail,” she realises aloud. 

  There are a number of slits on Lilje’s bare chest, opening and closing every time she takes a breath. She smiles up at the boat and points at her gills. “See, however you define a human, I am most certainly not one.”

  It takes a while for her to remember how to speak properly. Lilje looks ethereal in the water, her tail waving softly and her hair swirling about her. There is surely a name for people like her, something depicted in children’s stories and written off as fiction. These beautiful women of the sea, with gills and fishtails below the waist and must be called something. Feeling rather childish, she inquires, “are you a mermaid?”

  Lilje shrugs. “Maybe that is what humans call us sea-dwellers. But I am one of those who can live on both sea and land.” Her pale skin is ghost-like, glowing softly in the sunlit water. “Are you surprised?”

  “Well, it explains why you love the sea so much.” Kiara cannot tear her eyes away. 

  “Just stay here. I will be back soon.”

  Before Kiara can question her, she dives deep into the water again and disappears.

  The boat bobs up slightly at the splash Lilje’s tail makes. She peers into the depths of the sea, where she is already nowhere to be seen. There is not even a fish in the water, at least as far as she can see, let alone another sea-dweller like Lilje. Perhaps they are like humans, with a massive civilisation on the seafloor. Or maybe they are nomadic, moving from sea to sea with no fixed home. She will never know.

  After what could have been five or fifty-five minutes, Lilje rises to the surface and pops her head up. Her fists are clenched, and she leaps out of the water in a sudden, stunning show of strength. Droplets of water rain from her fins and onto Kiara’s head. 

  She rather inelegantly flops onto the boat with a crash. “Hand me my knife,” she says breathlessly. She snatches it from Kiara’s hand and slashes at her silvery tail. Blood seeps from the wound and sparkles on her scales, tainting its clean glow with a dark, angry red. She grits her teeth, one webbed hand clutching at the side of the boat.

  As though ice in fire, the scales melt away, fins wilting into nothingness and gills closing up. Slowly, slowly, the tail fades until Lilje’s legs return, as though it was never there in the first place. A new, pink scar is among the many others on her calf. She gasps softly, one white-knuckled fist still clenched.

  “Are - Are you all right?” Kiara asks.

  She nods dismissively. “This is just how we travel between sea and land. We spill our blood and mingle it with water in exchange for a tail, and with air for legs.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I’m stabbing myself in the leg, of course it hurts,” she huffs. “But it is a small price to pay for the privilege of living in two worlds.”

  Kiara stares at her legs, at the many scars it has. How many times has Lilje gone through this pain simply to swim or walk? The sting of saltwater in a bloody wound is bad enough once, let alone tens of times. But she cannot keep herself from wondering aloud, “can all sea-dwellers do this?”

  She nods again. “Not many of us shift so often — the pain turns most away. And there is always the danger of being found. But I still do it.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Always ‘how’ with you humans. So technical!” She kicks up one of her bare legs. Kiara tries to keep herself from looking; for some reason Lilje has not put her gown back on yet. “You always want to know how and not why. But to answer your question, I truly do not know. Maybe I will one day, though.”

  The sun is beginning to set, painting the water with its beautiful shades. The waves continue to rock their boat, and they do not sound as annoying as they used to. Lilje wrings water out of her hair. The morning seemed just seconds ago.

  “We should leave soon,” Kiara says. “Neither of us have had dinner yet.”

  Lilje gestures to her satchel, forgotten under her seat. “We can just eat here.”

  “Eat cold, canned food on a boat in the middle of the ocean?”

  “Exactly!” She grabs the satchel and pulls out a can. “I think it will be fun.”

  Why does it seem like she can never deny Lilje anything? Kiara rolls her eyes in half-defeat as her companion wrestles with the container. She manages to twist the cap off after a while, placing it on her bench victoriously. “There we go!” She bends the cap to make a crude spoon and hands it to Kiara. 

  As she expected, the food is cold. But the lovely view makes up for her meal’s blandness. Lilje opens another can and picks out a chunk of carrot with her bare hands, ignoring her disdainful look. “Come on,” she wisps, “there is no need to be refined on a boat.”

  Once they have finished their meagre dinners and cleaned their hands in the cool seawater, Lilje picks up the oars and begins rowing back. It is almost completely dark, the water rippling like a massive pool of ink. Her eyes almost seem to glow with how bright they are.

  Kiara starts when they near the town and the faraway street-lights bathe them in their glow. “Put your gown back on. Goodness help us if someone sees you like this.” She averts her eyes as Lilje dresses. 

  It is unusual to stand on solid land again, where things do not rock and sway. She stretches her legs out, feeling her knees crack, and rolls her shoulders. Hours of being seated have made her feel like an old woman. Now presentable, Lilje stumbles out the boat and runs her fingers through her still-damp hair. “I very much enjoyed our afternoon together,” she murmurs. 

  “So did I.”

  Her heart leaps to her throat when Lilje approaches her and gives her a wet hug. Kiara looks around her, ensuring that nobody is looking before wrapping her arms around her. She can feel the warmth of Lilje’s skin despite the cold water soaking it.

  When they pull away, Lilje tilts her head. “Oh! I almost forgot. I found something while diving just now.” She opens her palm, revealing something small and shimmering. “Catch!”

  Reacting too slow, she lets the small item bounce against her chest before it rolls down the sand and towards the sea. Lilje chases after it and scoops it up before it can disappear. “What did I tell you?”

  “I am too old to be playing games like this.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘too old’. What is maturity but an excuse to give people responsibilities? Now catch!” She tosses it again.

  This time Kiara manages to catch it in her hand. She looks down and her eyes widen. Lilje has thrown her a pearl, a beautiful, perfectly-round sphere of silvery off-white. It is warm from being in her hands, tough and tiny and more expensive than anything she owns. “Goodness knows how much this is worth,” she breathes.

  “Oh, don’t you sell it. You would not be so ruthless as to sell a present from your friend, would you?”

  “No, I suppose not.” The sky is now fully dark, the only light coming from the street lamps along the road. “And I really must go, I need to sleep.”

  “Sweet dreams, then.” Lilje twirls around, toes digging into the sand, and says, “and I hope to see you again.”

  She smiles. “So do I.”

…

  Work in the factory is a downright nightmare after the excitement on Sunday. The harsh lights and mechanical clicking of the looms feel like an insult, a reminder that despite her euphoric afternoon she will still have to return to work. It is only eight in the morning and she can already feel that familiar ache in her shoulder from hunching over. 

  The monotonous work leaves her with plenty of time to think of Lilje — whimsical, carefree Lilje; beautiful, smiling Lilje; Lilje who is unafraid and enduring, who understands humans well even though she is not one herself. Her song fills the dull nothingness in the factory, no longer an annoyance, and Kiara can feel herself smile. The pearl she was given yesterday is in her pocket, stored safely inside a rough pouch. After work, she will take it to a jeweller and have them make it into a pendant.

  Her eyes are strained when she is finally allowed to leave for a short lunch. The cool sea breeze soothes her cramped muscles. Belly growling, she begins her search for the vendor who sells her regular lunch. But before she can lay eyes on them, she sees Lilje, limping up to her on bare feet. 

  The first thing she notices is that she is still barefoot, despite walking on the road. There are no new wounds on her legs, she sees with relief. She leans on her shoulder, giving her a strained smile. “Hello.”

  “Good afternoon.” Kiara shifts her weight so she does not fall over, either. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just did not expect human roads to be so rough.”

  Her knees are buckling. She takes Lilje’s wrist and leads her to the rock she is usually found sitting on, asking, “why were you off the beach, anyway?”

  Lilje sits down and answers, “I wanted to try more of those human foods. They are so different from what us sea-dwellers have, see, and I would never turn down a chance to try something new. In hindsight, I should have covered my feet like you humans do.”

  “So did you manage to find something to eat?”

  She pulls a pouch out of her dress pocket and opens it, revealing two slices of pound cake. “I bought some for you too.”

  Kiara’s mouth waters. She picks up a slice of cake and bites into it, savouring its rich sweetness. The taste of butter fills her mouth. 

  Lilje is picking at her cake too, daintily breaking off small pieces as one would with bread, and nibbling on them. Crumbs scatter onto her skirt. “How is it?”

  “Excellent.” She pats her mouth clean with a handkerchief. “I don’t remember the last time I had cake.”

  “I ought to buy you more, then,” she says.

  “How did you manage to buy them? I do not think you get paid for sitting here.”

  “You’d be surprised how many coins you find in the sea.” Lilje pops another chunk of cake into her mouth. “This is very good. Too bad it would not even last a minute in the sea, though.”

  They move to sit closer to each other once they have finished their food, close but not yet touching. Kiara stares at her friend, who has cake crumbs at the corner of her lips. She has a splash of freckles across her nose. She would be content to stare at her all day.

  “What did you do this morning?” Lilje asks. She does not seem to notice her gawking.

  “Oh.” She starts. “Well, er, I was just working in the factory. How about you? Have you been up to anything productive?”

  She huffs, “now there’s another word I hate. It is used all the time, thrown around meaninglessly even though nobody really knows its true definition. Tell me, Kiara, if one person works all morning and another plays, what makes the worker more productive than the player?”

  “Er…” This is the sort of thing taught in a university to philosophy scholars, surely not something asked to a common woman. “The worker earns an income. The player earns nothing.”

  “Of course the player earns something! They would gain leisure and joy from their activities. Is that not as valuable as money?”

  “Joy does not pay the rent.”

  Lilje groans audibly, dramatically swooning on Kiara’s shoulder. “Always about money with you. If I were to look into your heart, would I see your hopes and dreams, or just a paycheck?”

  The heat of her skin is almost distracting, and she has to pinch herself as a reminder to answer. “If being productive is not about earning something, then I think it is about working towards a goal.”

  “And what goal would slaving away in a factory achieve? You save your pay for rent and for food, but there is nothing else waiting for you. You sell your freedom to a rich man. That’s it.” She tilts her head so that her chin is resting on her shoulder, and grins. “To play, however, is to reach the goal of making yourself happy. Is that not more productive?”

  Weighed down by Lilje and her warmth, she cannot think of a way to answer. 

  “I think the answer is in the word itself,” she says slowly, “pro-duc-tive. There is ‘produce’ inside of it. To produce is to be productive, regardless of target or gain.”

  Her tongue finally unties itself, and Kiara sputters, “do they teach you these clever things under the sea?”

  “No, but us sea-dwellers see the difference between land and ocean all too clearly.” She snuggles into her side, kicking her legs. “Under the surface, nobody would look at an idler and tut, ‘why aren’t you doing something more productive?’. Nobody razes another’s dream by jeering, ‘that is impractical.’. It seems to be something only land-dwellers do.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That is one way to describe it. Really, you humans are so clever but so stupid at the same time. It amazes me.”

  “Tch.” Kiara flicks her nose indignantly. “If I did not have to go back to work right now, I would argue with that.”

  With an unladylike snort of protest, Lilje rises from her shoulder and instead collapses down on her lap as a noblewoman might do on a fainting couch. “Working hours are a sham.”

  Her heart is pounding so loudly it might well burst through her chest. As though by instinct, her hands go to play with Lilje’s hair. She must go, she simply must, but the idiotic part of her wants to stay on the rock and look at the sea and let Lilje lie on her and laugh and joke until one of them falls asleep, then they can wake up the next morning and perhaps have breakfast together. But most of her colleagues are already heading back to the factory, and she cannot be late. Kiara runs her fingers through her hair, careful not to pull too hard, and sighs, “I will be in trouble if I stay.”

  She pouts. “Then promise to come by after work.”

  “Fine, fine, I promise.” She eases Lilje off her and stands up. “I will see you this evening.”

…

  To both her delight and horror, Lilje is waiting for her right outside the factory, dressed properly but still devoid of shoes or stockings. A few passing pedestrians throw her a look that is equally annoyed and disgusted, and Kiara does not realise why until she sees the bloody footprints on the floor.

  “You went to sea again, didn’t you?” She asks as she once again leads her towards the beach. “Why do you shift so often if it hurts?”

  “I love both sea and land; I simply cannot stay in just one.” Lilje practically sits in her lap, white skirts sinking around her like sea-foam. “I’m used to the pain anyways.”

  “Would it not be better to avoid the pain entirely? Better have harmless stability than painful change.”

  “Always — ”

  “Always about harmlessness with you humans?” Kiara finishes drily. “Or something along those lines, at least.”

  She lets out a huff of laughter and tosses her head back to rest beneath her chin. “You know me too well. But I digress. If the world refused to change for fear of pain, nobody would get anything done. Isn’t it worth it to struggle now and rejoice later?”

  “I am starting to think all fish are philosophers,” she mutters.

  As though she didn’t hear her, Lilje continues, “you see me change form nearly every day. Even before that, I changed my home, my name and my very being. All those transformations hurt me on some degree, but now I am happier than ever.” She turns her leg and runs a finger over her new wound. “I am happy now, even if the price I pay for happiness is my blood.”

  Pinned down by the weight of both her body and her words, Kiara scrambles for a response. But she cannot find one, so she settles for burying her nose in Lilje’s hair. She smells of salt. 

  The sun is setting. It shows its brilliant, fading face in both the rippling sea and Lilje’s eyes, blue and bluer, before it will drown in the depths and disappear for the night. Kiara gets to work trying to untangle the knots in her hair. “You know,” she finally says, “I want to know more about sea-dwellers. You know humans so well, yet I know almost nothing about your folk.”

  Lilje lets out a puff of air and nestles into her chest. “‘Sea-dweller’ is an umbrella term,” she starts. “It refers to those like me, with fishtails and human torsos, but there are sea-dwellers with the lower half of a crab or an octopus. Nereids are also sea-dwellers.”

  “What are nereids?”

  “Maidens born of silt and sea-foam. They have legs, so they don’t look as strange as us, but if they try to leave the ocean and breathe air they will dissolve into the sand they are made of.”

  Kiara picks at a particularly annoying clump. “That is rather tragic.”

  “Well, they enjoy the ocean. Most nereids have no need nor desire to leave.” She closes her eyes. “Careful now, don’t tug.”

  “Sorry.”

  She kicks at the advancing tide, and a few droplets soak Kiara’s stockings. “I know that many humans ask about sirens. They do not exist.”

  “Really?” She asks. “But I hear stories of ships that sailed into rocks or into a foe’s ambush because of sirens that sang and told them to do so.”

  “There is no such thing as the siren species. That is just a term we use for sea-dwellers who like to sing to humans, whether or not they mean ill.” Lilje hands her a pair of blue ribbons, content to laze around and have her hair styled. “Before they knew which name to refer to me by, my friends called me ‘Siren’.”

  “It suits you.” Kiara weaves the ribbons into her bun, and adds, “but I think ‘Lilje’ does too.”

  She giggles, tilting her head back so that she’s looking right into her eyes. “I made sure to choose a name that fit me. It is a wonderful thing to have your life in your own hands.”

  “To be free, you mean.” She prods Lilje on the forehead. “You have the strangest habit of refusing to use a simple word and using a ten-word term of the same meaning instead.”

  “It is prettier that way.”

  “But it is not prac — ”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Practical?”

  Lilje makes a face. “You’re the worst.”

  She laughs. “I’m sure I am.”

  The tide is rising steadily, white-capped waves beginning to surround the rock. It will be submerged soon. The sky is darkening.

  The water ascends halfway up the rock before Lilje finally says reluctantly, “you should go.”

  “Yes,” Kiara agrees, “I should.”

  They awkwardly shimmy off the rock and into the shallow water, soaking the hems of their gowns. Kiara trudges towards the streets, weighed down by her wet dress. She asks, “where will you sleep?”

  “In my boat. It is more comfortable than you think.” She gestures at it, floating miraculously in place a few paces away. “I would sail away forever if I could, but that would mean leaving this city — and you, of course — behind and that would be quite awful. Now I should stop rambling and let you go.”

  “I will see you tomorrow.” The fading sunlight is painting Lilje’s fair face gold. “Goodnight, Lilje.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She forces herself to turn away and walk home.

…

  Kiara cannot sleep.

  It cannot be the sand tracing her floors that is keeping her awake, nor the sound of the sea outside. Not any more. Her muscles ache and her eyes droop, but the soft embrace of sleep does not come to her just yet. She rolls over, burrowing under her blanket. Maybe she has gotten used to lounging around with Lilje squashing her, and now she cannot rest alone.

  Oh, Lilje; that pretty sea-dweller with her casual philosophies, bearing everyday pain that she exchanges for joy and belonging. Her soft, deep voice echoes in her head. Kiara curls in on herself and exhales sharply. The two of them have known each other for barely a fortnight, yet their lives have already become hopelessly entwined. 

  How would life be if they lived together? They could live on a boat so Lilje would not have to shift so often and be two lady sailors traversing the seas to sell fish and pearls. They could stop at every other harbour they pass, to buy new clothes and stock up on food. Or maybe she could grow crops on the boat like she’s always wanted to, so they would not have to survive on things in cans. They could anchor the boat in the middle of the ocean, and Lilje could go spend time with her fellow sea-dwellers, then they could watch the sunset together.

  Fantasies, all of them. Kiara lets herself indulge in them, smiling to herself as drowsiness finally takes over.

  The next morning, she hesitates in front of the factory. Why must she work for half the day, until she is so exhausted she can hardly think? Why must she give her time to a job she hates? Before she can stop herself, Kiara turns away from the factory and runs for the carpenter’s store.

  She spends nearly all the money she has saved, buying so many planks of wood and tools that she can hardly carry them. People throw her strange looks as she stumbles out of the store, half-buried under all her shopping. Arms trembling, she takes the supplies to the beach, tripping over her feet to reach Lilje’s rock.

  Sure enough, she is there. She jumps off her perch and helps Kiara set her load onto the sand, inquiring, “what’s all this?”

  “Supplies,” is all she can say.

  “Yes, I can see that, but for what?”

  “Your boat.” She doubles over, panting. “We are going to use all these supplies to make your boat bigger, and give it sails and anchors and all that, so it can sail far away.”

  Lilje crosses her arms. “I told you, I have no intention to leave this city alone.”

  “Then let us leave together!” She bursts out. “We’ll renovate your boat and travel the seas together, and I am suggesting this is because I like you very much and even though we haven’t known each other very long I think being stuck on a boat with you for a long time would be far better than working in the factory for another day, and now I realise you might not like me back and will call me an idiot for saying all this.”

  For a moment, the only sound that permeates the awkward silence is that of the waves, eternally soothing. Then Lilje steps closer to her and takes her hand. She laces their fingers together, smiling. “I like you just about as much as you like me, which I hope is a lot. And to sail away from here with you would be a dream come true.” She kicks one of the planks and adds, “one thing, though — do you even know how to build a boat?”

  “...no.”

  “So you’re telling me that you bought all this with no idea how to work with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Lilje says teasingly, “that is not practical at all.”

  She laughs. “Why, thank you.”

  “See, you are learning.” She rummages through the tools and emerges with a hammer as well as a box of nails. “We ought to start building. We can learn how along the way.”

…

  It took them one year to finish the boat. Once the year was up, and their little vessel was ready for sailing, Kiara walked into the factory for the last time and announced that she was to leave. Precisely the day after, she packed all that she needed from her house, sold it and sailed away with Lilje. It was difficult, as they didn’t build the boat on a harbour, but they managed. The sight of the city, growing smaller and smaller as she left it forever, is one that she will never forget.

  They have been at sea for five months now, on their little dogger-boat that Lilje decided to name Seafarer. It is, perhaps, the most cliché name one can give a boat, but she insisted. The cabin is small, and sometimes on peaceful days they sleep on deck to get fresh air. The sails rip and the mast snaps during storms, and it can smell unbearably of fish on hot days, but it is paradise nonetheless. 

  Kiara crosses the deck of the Seafarer now to check on the pool of oysters they raise. Lilje found a way to slip a bead inside of them to have them create pearls, so that she does not have to go through the danger of diving for them. Once the pearls, round and beautiful, are collected, they turn them into jewellery and sell them wherever they have docked. She changes the water in the pool, plucks a few dead leaves from their tiny farm and pecks Lilje on the cheek. She is seated next to the oyster pool, busy setting a pearl into a brooch.

  While rushing back to their cabin to count their day’s wages, she passes the contraption Lilje built, made to turn seawater into freshwater. Kiara lifts up the waxed paper on top and removes the bowl of freshwater, adding it to their large bucket. She splashes some of it onto her face.

  Once the wages are counted and the brooch complete, the two of them sprawl on their bed to sketch new designs. Lilje wiggles her pencil, swinging her legs up and down as she draws. Despite having never learnt how, she is talented at creating art.

  Kiara glances at her kicking legs. The number of wounds on her calves does not grow too quickly these days, with her content to swim as a human instead of a sea-dweller. Now, Lilje mostly uses whatever magic she has to make the oysters produce pearls in weeks instead of years. 

  “Look, we can use four of those smaller ones for a snuffbox, and the big ones for bracelets.” She touches the pearl hanging from her neck and resting at the bob of her throat, matching Kiara’s necklace. “Maybe we can use some for headdresses. I hear those are rather popular here.”

  “Put some on a hatpin,” Kiara muses. “That would look quite stylish.”

  “Oh! That’s clever.” Lilje starts to roughly sketch a pearl hatpin. “By the way, did you remember to water the tomatoes?”

  “Of course. I watered the cabbages, too.” The patch of vegetables was the most difficult addition to their boat. It has been destroyed twice during storms, but they managed to fix it both times. “How much longer ‘til this batch of oysters are ready?”

  Lilje hits the bed while thinking. “I reckon one more week or so. We will have fresh pearls just in time for our next port.”

  The boat bobs up and down slightly, swaying them like a cradle would a baby. Outside, the sun is beginning to set. Lilje finishes her drawing of the hatpin and stands up to leave the cabin. 

  The sea is painted pink and orange, glittering here and there from the fading sunlight. Waves lap softly against the hull of the Seafarer. Kiara holds her hand as they walk, shoes clicking softly against the deck. They look out at the sea, at boats that are sailing away to somewhere else. Tomorrow, they will lift the anchor out of the water and join those boats, leaving this city for another whose name they do not know and whose language they do not speak. Not knowing where they will go next is half the fun.

  “What are we having for dinner today?” Lilje mumbles.

  “Those strange little pies we bought from the market today. And if that is not enough, we still have those canned fish things that smell like death.” She wrinkles her nose at the thought of them.

  “They’re good, they really are.”

  “Whatever floats your boat, dear.” 

  Lilje lets out a puff of laughter and prods her side. The sun is setting further. 

  As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, she begins to sing. Kiara pulls her closer, letting the sweet song mingle with the sounds of the sea and envelope her with bliss. 

  The waves roll. Birds call. She stares right into the waves, where the last sunrays glimmer, and does not look away.