A quiet knock announces the arrival of my guest, and Martin Hunter enters the art room on a dreamy Wednesday afternoon, exactly two weeks after his first visit.

"You've reconsidered." I smile; there's no other reason he'd come.

"I have." He clears his throat awkwardly. "Have you? I mean... you still want to live above my garage?"

"I do. In fact, I've been dreaming of it."

He blushes. I find it rather amusing to make him change colors, even if I'm not always sure what I said to make him do so.

"You have? I mean... that's good, I guess. Because if you still want it, I'm all — I mean, it's all yours."

The flush in his cheeks spreads further, and the amulet beneath my shirt grows warm.

"Excellent. I'm done here for the day. Shall I come now?"

"Um... yes. I think you should see it up close first, before you decide," he stammers, and flushes darker still.

"I doubt I'll change my mind, but as you wish. Did you walk here? I'll give you a ride."

Swallowing, he answers in a strangely constricted voice. "Alright."

The walk to my van and the drive to his house pass almost in silence, but I don't mind. It's not uncomfortable, and unlike some landwalkers, he seems content not to fill every quiet moment with noise.

When we arrive, he shows me to the space above the garage — at the moment, a large, empty room with a high, angled roof and wide windows at either end.

"I'm thinking the kitchenette and bathroom would be below, and this upper space would be the living and sleeping area," he says, illustrating his vision with a sweep of his hand. "But as you can see, there's... Well, there's a ways to go before it's done."

He isn't lying. The floor is plywood, the walls are bare sheetrock, and the ceiling reveals un-insulated beams.

"I can't imagine you'll be very comfortable."

I dismiss his concern with a wave of my hand. "I've been content enough in my van, but one thing I've missed is a space for my art. This will be perfect. Name your terms."

"Well..." He shifts awkwardly. "You're welcome to use the amenities in the house, but the water heater's pretty small."

"Never mind that; I dislike hot water."

"You dislike... hot water?" he repeats, looking as shocked as if I'd said I disliked breathing air (which is sometimes true).

I nod. "And as for the rest — electricity and the like — just tell me what's fair, and I'll pay my share. The last thing I want is to burden you; rather, I want to take some of your load."

Again, his face changes color, and he looks away, apparently flustered. I study him in the afternoon light filtering through the loft's grimy window panes and find myself reassessing my initial judgment of the man. Despite his oddities, I must admit I find him curiously attractive, and begin to appreciate why the amulet might have chosen him.

When my mother cursed me to walk the land, I had wondered if she merely punished me in my father's stead. She was the Queen Beneath the Waves, a sorceress descended from Circe herself, and he was her royal consort and general. For centuries our people had flourished, power passing in a direct line of kings and queens, protected from the world above by layers of ancient magic. While the countries above fell again and again to violence and chaotic change, our society persisted in peace.

Until, in the last few centuries, things changed.

The landwalkers no longer passed tracelessly over the waves in ships driven before the wind, but in hulking vessels of iron, and then of steel, with propellers that cut the waves to froth. They cast great nets into the sea until there were no more fish to catch, in some places, and repaid this bounty with slicks of spilled oil and piles of refuse.

My father hated them. He advised my mother that the only path forward was to wage war — to rise from the deep and overthrow the land: to return the landwalkers to their old ways, or subjugate them to ours.

My mother refused this council, arguing instead that we had only to wait until the landwalkers destroyed themselves, as they inevitably would. My father argued, vocally, that he worried there would be little left worth salvaging once they did.

And so my father, feeling it was his duty to our people, plotted to assassinate his queen. I was next in line to rule, but even my mother had her qualms about me. My solitary pursuit of art and music, and my rejection of every suitor — maid or man — who sought to be chosen as my consort gave me a reputation for heartlessness. 'The cold prince,' they called me. My father saw an advantage in my disinterest, and imagined that with me on the throne, he might command our warriors as he pleased.

Unfortunately for him, when by chance I overheard his plans, I went straight to my mother's personal guard.

So thwarted, my mother banished him to the depths — a sentence of death in all but name.

Sadly, my father was not alone in his opinions, but my mother was convinced a war with the landwalkers would spell our doom. She also knew that, with her heart broken and no consort to anchor her soul, her rule was at last coming to an end. And yet I, she believed, was not ready to take her place.

Thus, in her despair, she placed her amulet about my neck and cast a spell.

"Bring me a pure heart from the land above, one that gives itself willingly. My amulet will guide your way. When you can restore it to me, the crown shall be yours," she said, and cursed us both: banishing me to dwell among landwalkers until I found what I sought, and turning herself to stone.

There she sat to this day, guarding the throne as a statue while my sisters rule as regents until the day I return with a pure heart and place her amulet around her neck, and break the curse.

Living among landwalkers taught me many things; and while there is much to abhor, there is much to admire, too. I quickly concluded my mother had sent me to learn as much, and that the 'pure heart' I must find was my own. When I attempted to return with this answer, however, I found my path barred. The amulet would not allow it, growing so hot it burned my skin and weighed me like a stone, only relenting when I turned again towards shore. Nor, I found, could I take it off.

And so, I had wandered, and searched, and passed among landwalkers year upon year, letting the amulet guide my way. Now and then, it would glow a bit, or grow warm, and give me hope, but in the end it always went cold before long.

Still, it has never reacted so strongly to anyone as it has to Martin Hunter, and I must admit that, despite my initial misgivings, I find him charming. There's a rare sweetness about him; a softness that, given how wounded he sometimes seems, makes me a little sad. Such feelings are strange to me, but not unwelcome; I'm not certain what the amulet wants with him, or how I will convince him to give his heart to the sea, but it will make for a curious challenge, I think.

"Sky?" His voice brings me back to the present, and I realize he's been watching me as my thoughts wandered, probably wondering at whatever feelings have shown upon my face. "Are you... still interested, then?"

"Very much so." I smile and extend my hand. "To new beginnings?"

"To new beginnings," he agrees, and offers me a small, cautious, but genuine smile of his own.

A very curious challenge, indeed.