Out of Water

Chapter Eight

Marriage. The word curdled on her tongue, bitter as seaweed. It's not as though she hadn't intended to get married one day - in the very, very far future. But having it forced on her like this made her stomach heave. She thought she had more time - and the ability to choose.

She'd never expected to be the grand prize in a contest - to be fought over like a shimmering, valuable pearl.

She'd never expected to be sold out by her own uncle - the man who'd been as much a father as he'd been a friend. Perhaps this part, at least, she should have seen coming. Grief had changed her uncle so deeply, so irreversibly, that he was now a stranger. A stranger who wanted to run and hide: to abandon a responsibility he'd never wanted; to leave behind a teenager who reminded him of all that he'd lost.

He wanted rid - of her, of the kingdom - so he was auctioning both off to whoever was brave and fierce enough to pay the price. Perhaps it would help him to sleep at night, imagining Erica under the protection of someone fierce enough to wrestle sea-monsters, or whatever challenges he might have dreamed up during his nightmares. Erica didn't know. He wouldn't tell her anything more than he'd told the reporters outside the palace. He wouldn't speak to her at all.

He blamed her for Gina's death. He'd never say it, but Erica knew that it was true. Gina wouldn't have been on that ship if it weren't for her - if she hadn't needed to return to school. It was Erica fault they'd been caught in that unnatural storm. Erica's fault Gina had died, while the princess herself - somehow - had lived.

Ares, at least, was an unexpected source of comfort. A steady, quiet presence, who seemed to see Erica's revulsion to the coming challenge without her having to voice it.

The doctors had been unable to find anything wrong with his legs, but still he winced in pain with every step.

He wrote little about where he came from and how he had come to be washed up on a shore in Merpolia. He kept his past shrouded in secrets. With the scars of her own past laid bare for everyone to see, Erica didn't struggle to imagine the appeal.

The 'suitors' arrived two days after her uncle's announcement: Alidor, Ambrose and Leandre

Three suitors for three still unspoken challenges. The first, Alidor, was tall and hewn from granite, his face full of sharp angles and harsh glares. He moved with a steadiness that let him take his new surroundings in fully, his gaze heavy and assessing. He greeted the Prince Regent with a cordial bow and a hand shake that looked strong enough to crack bones. The hand which took Erica's was warm, but the lips that brushed her fingers as he kissed her in greeting were cold and lifeless as stone.

The second suitor, Ambrose, burned far brighter. His eyes glowed like flint on the cusp of sparking, full of the cunning and danger of fire. His smile blazed like sunlight as he swept into a flamboyant bow in front of the regent and the princess. Everything about him, from his chestnut curls, to his scarlet jacket and gold-lined yellow boots, was carefully orchestrated theatre. He was a prince here to charm and amuse; to play a part that would win kingdoms and hearts in one swoop.

Leandre, the final suitor was harder to pin down. His gaze was illusive, his expressions indecipherable. He could have been ecstatic, bored or murderous and Erica knew she would not be able to tell. His pale white hair was pulled back in a neat plait. His crisp grey suit was less ostentatious than the second's, but every bit as immaculate. The smile he greeted Erica with was fleeting as words on the wind.

As they stood before her in the throne room, the eyes of the kingdom watching for her reaction, Erica wasn't sure what to do.

She wanted to run from the room in tears. Run from the kingdom, with the weight of its expectations. Run from her uncle, who'd betrayed her in the very worst of ways.