He shakes his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there, but last time I visited, Neptune was not on any human maps.” He rubs his chin. “I know it from the waters offshore here. Show me the land map with the water next to it, and I’ll know where it is.”

“Sure.” I pull up the East Coast of the United States, hoping I’m interpreting ancient Syrena speak correctly. “How about this?” I show him the face of the phone. The map is a bit detailed, with labeled highways and interstate signs. I doubt he’ll understand what we’re looking at.

Until he says, “Chattanooga. That’s very close to it, if I remember correctly.”

My half-fish grandfather knows how to read? What the what? “Um. Okay, I can zoom in a little more.” With a swipe of my fingers, Chattanooga and its suburbs are the only thing on the screen now. I can’t help but notice that Chattanooga is quite a distance from the Atlantic Ocean. In fact, I have to scroll over a few times. My curiosity is about to erupt into an onslaught of questions.

Grandfather studies me a few more moments, as if gauging whether or not he should tell me. Or maybe he’s trying to decide where to begin. And maybe he should hurry up before I burst.

Finally, he sighs. “Emma. You haven’t heard my story yet. The story of what I did when your mother disappeared.”

This is the first time anyone from the Syrena world has said “disappeared” instead of “died,” when referring to what happened to my mother all those years ago in the minefield. Or at the very least, now that she’s been found, they all say, “when I thought she had died.”

I have heard multiple versions of the story. First from Grom’s point of view, as told to me by Galen: Mom was blown to bits in a minefield blast and assumed dead. Then my mother filled in the rest of the crevices with details from her perspective on what happened that fateful day in the minefield: She somehow survived, came ashore, met my father, and … then there was me.

But sometimes stories aren’t just crevices and holes waiting to be filled in. Stories, real-life stories, have layers, too. Layers built on foundations laid centuries and generations ago. It’s those kinds of layers I see etched on my grandfather’s face right now.

“I did what any father would do if their child disappeared,” Antonis continues. “I searched for her.” And just like that, another layer adds on to the story. A layer only Antonis could contribute.

He looks at me then, scrutinizing my reaction. I don’t know what he’s looking for. I glance away, digging my feet into the sand as if it’s the most important task on the planet.

Satisfied, the old monarch clears his throat. He’s hunkering down, I can tell.

I let out my breath. “Yes, I know. They said you kept your Trackers searching for a long time.”

Grandfather nods. “That is true, young Emma. I did send out Tracker parties. During both the light and dark parts of the days. I kept Trackers out at all times. And each time they returned, they came back with nothing.”

I already know all of this. We’d already dissected everything over and over again. Maybe my grandfather just needs someone to talk to, I decide. And I’m sort of honored that he chose me. Especially because of the way his voice transforms, tightening each word, choked by emotion. This is hard for him to talk about. But he’s reopening old hurts that have barely scabbed over to tell me. Just me.

“They came back with nothing, and I began to lose hope,” he continues. Antonis leans back on his hand, his focus set on the waves rolling in ahead of us. “Until one day. One of my most trusted and talented Trackers, Baruk, came to me. He swore on Poseidon’s legacy that he’d felt your mother’s pulse. That it was faint and erratic. It would come and go so quickly that it was impossible to follow, even for him. Sometimes it would be toward the sunrise, others, toward the sunset. We figured out that she must have been adrift.”

Okay, so maybe I didn’t know all of this. In fact, I’m pretty sure my jaw is hanging open. “Grom said the same thing, that he felt her pulse sometimes. Did he tell you?”

“Of course not,” Antonis says, his voice grave. “Just as I didn’t tell him. You must understand, Emma, I did not know what had transpired between Grom and my daughter. All I knew was that she was gone and that he was there. No, I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell anyone.” Grandfather pauses, a wise kind of curiosity dancing in his eyes. “Of course, if your friend Toraf had been born at the time, I might have been diplomatic enough with the Triton house to take advantages of his tracking talents. There has never been another like him, you know.”

I nod. It’s all I can do. It’s sad, how many opportunities had come up again and again for them to share information, to work together to find my mother. And if they had, I wouldn’t be here right now. That said, there is only so much anguish I can devote to those long-ago circumstances. If my grandfather is waiting for a response from me, sympathetic or otherwise, he’s not getting one. I know this story isn’t over, and I don’t want him to stop telling it.

He seems to sense this. “After a few days, her pulse disappeared. Baruk believed her dead. I refused to accept that. Baruk thought me mad, begged me to let her go and move on. But I couldn’t, you see. Nalia was all I had left. In the end, I ordered Baruk to point me in the direction where he last sensed her. I knew she might be dead. But I also knew something else about my daughter, young Emma. Something she doesn’t realize to this day. Nalia always had a secret fondness for humans.”