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was

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    furnished with the salvage of centuries of wrecks: Viking gold and
    Cornish iron, silk hangings from France and wooden chests from Spain.
    The platters and goblets on the table were all of gold, and the high stone
    walls were covered with tapestry scenes of the Creation: a stylized wave,
    the dark, the deep, a dove, their bright silks preserved by the magic that
    seeped from the ancient stones like mist and lay like shadows in the
    corners of the room.

    The children of the sea did not interfere with the ships that traveled
    over their ocean. But everything that fell beneath the waves was forfeit,
    human lives and human possessions both. Selkies plucked mortals from
    the wreckage when it pleased them, delivering the survivors safe to shore.
    Whatever else pleased them, they brought here, or stored in sea caves in
    their own territories.

    On past visits, Margred had delighted in the treasures of Caer Subai.
    Her gaze rested on the fireplace, fancifully carved with sea monsters and
    mermaids, its whimsical design a testament to the artistry of its maker . . .
    and the odd humor of the prince. But now everything seemed faded.
    Spoiled. Tarnished. Flat. She should return to the sea.

    No . The thought formed like a fog, unsubstantial and enveloping.
    She should go back to the man . Caleb .

    Footsteps sounded on the tower stairs. “Margred?”

    She shivered at the deep-timbred voice. It almost sounded like . . .

    “Are you alone?” A tall, male form appeared in the arched doorway.
    He was dressed in rough fisherman’s clothing, canvas pants and a shirt,
    that did nothing to disguise his extraordinary beauty.

    Dylan .

    The younger selkie had claimed a territory adjoining hers a score of
    years ago. She tolerated him because of his youth and bitter humor. Well,
    and because he was very good to look at, in a fierce and fine-honed way.
    Once she had even considered . . .

    She half smiled and shook her head. He took himself too seriously to
    suit her.

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    He had spoken in English, so she answered in the same tongue. “As
    you see.”

    Dylan crossed the tower room, leaning his elbows on the window
    ledge beside her. Posing, she thought.

    The wind ruffled his dark hair. “Perhaps you are alone too much,” he
    said.

    She shot him an amused look. “Do you speak for yourself? Or the
    prince?”

    “Conn is concerned for you, of course.”

    “I don’t see why.”

    “He wants you to be happy here.”

    “He wants me to whelp selkie babies, you mean.”

    “The prince is disturbed by the decline in our numbers,” Dylan said
    in a careful tone. “At last count there were fewer than two thousand of
    our people left.”

    Margred arched her eyebrows. “At last count? Does Conn really
    believe the king and the others living beneath the wave”—the polite term
    for those selkies who rarely or never took human form—“would present
    themselves for his census?”

    “You can’t deny there are fewer of us born each year.”

    She did not deny anything. Her inability to bear her mate a child had
    been a source of real, if secret, grief to her four or five decades past.

    She shrugged, feigning indifference. “A low birth rate is the price
    our people pay for immortality. The seas would be overrun with us else.”

    “Instead of which, our numbers are dropping. Our population may
    have been in balance once, but now too many of us are dying.”

    “And are reborn again in the sea,” Margred said. “As we always
    have been.”

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    As she had been herself, seven centuries ago.

    “ Not always. Selkies who die without their sealskins are not reborn.
    They cease to exist.”

    Memory welled like fresh blood from an old scar. “My mate was
    killed by poachers. I do not need you to explain to me what happens to a
    selkie who dies without his pelt.”

    Dylan watched her closely. “I have offended you.”

    But she would not give him even that much. “It is what it is. Mayhap
    his fate is one he would