I wondered what my father would think of me, had he seen me standing in front of our little cottage. I wondered what he might say of his daughter, a commoner in a rough cotton dress, a much-mended apron and a pair of sturdy boots, a basket over her arm. I had gone from a high-born lady to the diligent and miserable housewife of a military man. Now I was a fishwife, sweeping a dirt floor every evening and boiling potatoes over an open fire.

I had never been happy since my father had died, but in those days, I was. Dannie—or Karlen, as he had come to call himself—made us a comfortable home. And, after a while, the spark that had been between us once blossomed again. We worked during the day, he in the city and I at home, and our nights we shared together.

My hands became rough and ugly, my body hard and lean. Dannie came home every evening smelling of the sea or of the earth, depending on how he had occupied his time. But we never went hungry, not after that first terrifying journey across the Reachlands to win our safety, and we were able to heat our home and keep ourselves respectably clad.

I found that, in the grand scheme of things, I wanted nothing more than that. That, and Dannie.

Dannie knew me better than I knew myself, though. After we had lived in our poor cottage for a little over two years, I came in from a trip to the town with a basket of vegetables over my arm. I found Dannie sitting on the stump just outside of our door. He looked solemn and cold, for the fall was coming to a close and the wind coming off the sea was chill. He was wrapped up in his patched jacket, with the muffler I had made him lumpy around his neck.

I wondered why he had not gone inside, for I could see a curl of smoke coming out of our chimney, proof that the four walls held a warmth and comfort the outdoors could not provide.

I lifted my brows in question when I got near, and he answered by pulling a wrapped parcel from behind his back and offering it to me in silence. Our exchanges were often thus; since I could not speak, Dannie, too, had retreated into muteness, communicating with gestures, with looks, with touches. Seldom did he use his voice, not when we were on our own, except to tell a story or to sing me the song he had carried back for me from over the sea.

At my scowl, Dannie smiled and gestured at the package. Open it, foolish girl.

I sat down on the frosty grass at his knee, pulling the parcel onto my lap. I knew what it was. The shape of it, the feel of it in my arms, the comfortable weight of it ... I knew. I looked up at him. You cannot have.

Open it, he said with his eyes, serious again.

I unwrapped the cord that held the cloth-wrapped bundle intact, and as the cloth fell away, my breath went with it, stolen from me by the sight of the gift.

Pale wood curved and arched, forming the frame of the instrument. Its silver strings shivered, making a softly discordant sound as the cloth trailed over them and slipped away. The soundbox was broad at the foot, narrow at the shoulder; the soundboard was carved with the image of a mermaid on either side. Their arms were raised over their heads, and each of them held a star. Their tails fanned out near the foot of the instrument. The scales scattered over their long, curving tails were intricately represented in all their detail. Their long tresses swayed past their hips, their naked torsos clothed only with trailing strands of pearls.

"I sent for it from Oranslan," Dannie said. "It was not right that you should not have ... some way to make music."

It was the first time he had come close to saying it, to giving voice to my loss. We had lived together in silence for so long, and he had never drawn attention to my disability, never said, Because you have no tongue, because you cannot speak.

I made a soft sound, overcome. He smiled and pulled the cloth fully away from the instrument. I had no idea how he had saved the money. I was stunned with happiness, overwhelmed with gratitude.

I reached out to him and pressed his hand with my own. I wished I could tell him what it meant to me. I tried to show him with my eyes.

I had a gift for Dannie, too. I had kept the secret from him for weeks, waiting and waiting for the inevitable. Now, I took his hand and laid it upon my belly. The gift I shared with him, although it was something we had made together, seemed to please him, judging by his reaction; he took me into his arms and spun me round, laughing and shouting so loudly that I thought the villagers might hear him and come running.

The music came clumsily at first, but only for a few moments. My fingers easily learned the instrument, and after that, the song poured from it freely. We sat together in the warmth of our cottage that night, I playing the harp, Dannie sitting with his arms around my waist and his broad, strong hands resting just under my navel.

It did not take long for others to take an interest in my music; Seaside was a small town, and almost entirely without art of any kind. The instrument itself was a thing of beauty, so folk wanted to see it on its own. Then, once my playing was heard, they all wanted the music. They drank it up thirstily, their eyes glazed and shining. Dannie and I were invited to dinners, and after, I would play my harp. I seldom ate much in company. Eating without a tongue is a very difficult thing.

I was sometimes asked to play in the Seaside Tavern, where the fishermen were wont to congregate for warm drink and company. And while I had never liked to perform, here, it felt different; these folk were simple, and they loved the music for what it was. They were listening the songs, and not looking at me. I was simply a conduit. It was altogether different, and I found that I enjoyed it.

Dannie became concerned about me over the months. He said I was very small for a pregnant woman. I remembered Yolenn, who had been with child when I left home; she had certainly been larger than I was. I began to wonder if I had mistaken my condition, but the fluttering movements of the creature inside me convinced me otherwise.

In my childhood, I had looked upon motherhood with indifference, and later, as Aroc's wife, I had looked upon it with dread. Now, having gone so long convinced that I was barren, I found myself wondering what the thing would look like as the months past and it clung to life. Was it more now than the others had been? Did it have eyes, fingers, toes?

I began to hope against hope that the little thing would survive—that my body would not cast it out.