That’s when I decide that prom is stupid. It’s just a dumb dance that might have meant something to the old me, but the new me doesn’t really give a flying frick.

And that’s when Mark Baker, whom I now refer to as Galen’s BFF because of their testosterone-enhanced run-in last year, walks up to me. “You got your dress picked out for prom? Let me guess. It’s violet, to match your eyes.”

I raise a brow at him. Since Galen has been gone, Mark has been awfully attentive. Not that Mark isn’t nice, and not that if it were a year ago, I’d be a babbling idiot if he took the time out of being godlike to ask what I planned on wearing for prom. But like everything else, Mark is so one year ago.

And I don’t know if I like that.

I shrug. “I’m probably not going.”

Mark is not good at hiding surprise. “You mean Galen won’t allow you to—”

“Knock it off. I know you think Galen is controlling or whatever, but you’re wrong. And anyways, I can hold my own. If I wanted to go to prom, you can bet your sweet Aspercreme I’d be going.”

Mark holds up his hands in surrender. “Simmer down, skillet. I was just asking a polite question. Did you want to talk about starving children or government conspiracy instead?”

I laugh. I’d forgotten how easygoing Mark is. “Sorry. I’m just in a bad mood I guess.”

“You think?”

I punch his arm, then feel guilty about how flirty it looks. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

The bell rings and he starts walking backward, away from me. “But some people who shall remain nameless are pretty close to it.” He winks, then faces the other direction.

Mark is so likeable and good and boy-next-doorish. For a second I fantasize about not being a Half-Breed whose mother is a long-lost mer-monarch and whose boyfriend has a fin or hairy legs, whichever the situation calls for, and whose whole life isn’t toppling like a stack of dishes in an earthquake.

I allow myself to think that I am just me, and that Mark is taking me to prom, and that I am going to buy a violet prom dress now because he suggested it, and we will be pronounced prom king and queen and we will dance some of the night and kiss for the rest of it. A small part of me wants it. Not Mark, not exactly. A tiny fraction of me just wants to be normal.

But the bigger part of me remembers what my dad taught me about the undertow when he was trying to coax me into the water to teach me how to swim. “If you ever get caught in the undertow,” he’d said, “just let it take you. Just let it pull you right out. Whatever you do, don’t fight it and waste your energy and oxygen. That’s how people die. The people who don’t die wait it out. The undertow lets go eventually, right when you think you can’t hold your breath any longer. You just have to be patient.”

Because right now I’m caught in an undertow. And I’ve got to hold my breath, be patient, until it gives me my life back.

So I stop thinking about everything in the entire universe and I go to class.

14

THE BOUNDARY has never been so full—at least not as far as Galen can remember. This thin strip of neutral territory runs around the entire earth and is the only place where a tribunal may be held. It reminds Galen of an upright, human version of the equator because it’s exactly that—and invisible boundary separating half the world. Syrena from both houses of Royals, and those who crossed over to Jagen’s “house”—the house of “Loyals” as they call themselves—cram into the Arena.

The shape of the Arena reminds Galen of the giant bowl Rachel uses for her breakfast cereal. Surrounded by a ring of hot ridges—the humans call them volcanoes—the Arena is a natural valley, flat and boring in contrast to the surrounding landscape. The hot ridges haven’t erupted in many years, since before Galen was born. Some of the Archives living today remember stories passed down from older Archives, but no one living today has ever seen an eruption here.

Not to mention, this area is protected by some human law that prohibits fishing here; any time boats or divers come in, some of the humans who live on a nearby island run them off. Very little human activity is ever sighted here. But Galen is certain that if they don’t get on with the tribunal, some kind of human technology will detect the activity and investigate—interference or no.

Which, for once, could be a good thing.

So far, Romul has been the only person to give testimony. The old Archive eloquently expressed that he felt the Gift could conceivably pass on to non-Royals under certain circumstances. Galen couldn’t agree more—they’ve already had the genetics discussion. But since Romul isn’t familiar with genetics, and he’s arguing for the sake of Paca’s Gift, then Galen can hardly look his one-time mentor in the eye.

As Romul leaves the center witness stone, he says, “And who knows? Perhaps the Royals have … strayed in the past. Perhaps Paca has more Royal blood than we suppose?”

The implication is outrageous. More than that, it’s treasonous. But Romul is in no danger of being arrested. Right now, the crowd moves as one, alive with whispers. Romul’s testimony glides through the water with momentum, building into a wave of shock and awe that cannot be undone. The words are forever imprisoned in their minds, trapped, demanding to be analyzed and picked apart. A hint of distrust will forever taint the relationship between the Archives and the Royals, the Commons and the Royals. Or rather, a hint of distrust will forever just taint the Royals.