PART ONE -- THE APPRENTICE

"Melusine is smart, but she lacks focus." Miss Templeton's voice drifts out into the hall.

"As I've told you before, Miss Templeton, your lessons are boring her," Papa argues softly. "If you could only move her up a grade or two ..."

Even through the door, I can hear Miss Templeton click her tongue patronizingly. Drawing my skinny legs up to my chest, I hug my arms around them. "And as I have told you, Mr Fisher, we simply do not have the resources to accommodate a student as ... advanced as Melusine. She will simply have to abide by the current curriculum until she naturally moves to Miss Kesseler's classroom."

I sigh and pull at the hem of my blue dress. Miss Templeton is telling Papa the same thing she told me earlier. There really aren't that many students in Miss Kesseler's classroom, so I really don't understand why the teachers are being difficult. Well, only one teacher is being difficult.

"Perhaps Sina could borrow some of the upper-class textbooks? She was allowed to do that before."

"No!" Miss Templeton exclaims sharply. "We follow the Rewenig Method of teaching here, Mr Fisher, and that means that students stay with their peers and study the appropriate material. It is improper for ten-year-olds to interact with older students."

Rewenig! Rewenig!

I hate that blasted name. Ever since Miss Trausch was let go last year, I've been miserable. Almost as miserable as when Mama died. At least that misery doesn't sit with me as deeply as listening to Miss Templeton.

Papa's sigh echoes through the room. "Miss Templeton—"

"Have you thought of remarrying? A man should not be raising a child alone."

My head jerks up. What?

"Excuse me?" Papa replies, confused.

"Rewenig states if a child does not have a proper family structure, they cannot excel in the classroom."

Silence from Papa.

Miss Templeton continues, "Do you want your daughter to fail, Mr Fisher?"

"Of course not!"

"Then you must do your duty and secure yourself a wife. Once Melusine has a proper womanly figure at home, I am certain she will settle down and be a perfect student."

A chair scrapes back. "Mr Fisher, we are not done!" Miss Templeton exclaims, horrified.

I jump to my feet as the door to the classroom is wrenched open and Papa stalks into the hall. "Yes, we are," he tells the teacher sternly. "Come, Sina!" He reaches out and grabs me by the hand, fairly dragging me out of the schoolhouse. I catch a brief glimpse of Miss Templeton's pinched face before we leave.

Papa and I step out into the refreshing sea air, a welcome respite from the stifling schoolhouse. Another one of Miss Templeton's changes involves keeping the windows closed because of some absurd notion that fresh air disturbs concentration. Only when the village parents complained some of my classmates were fainting at their desks in early summer did vile Miss Templeton relent and allow the windows to be opened a crack. Still not enough, however.

Seagulls cry as they ride the breeze coming off the ocean, following the ships as they come in for the day. I yank the blue ribbon from my hair and allow the thick black locks to cascade behind me. I feel free. Papa's hand is tightly wrapped around mine and I look up at my father. "Are you all right, Papa?"

Papa blinks and stops, releasing my hand. He looks tired, I realize. There are lines on his face and grey is sprinkled throughout his short-cropped black hair. His expression changes swiftly, lips curling upwards in a small smile.

"We'll get you the books you need, no matter what that horrid woman says," he tells me.

But books are expensive. We have so few at home and those used to belong to my mother. The nearest library is in Rollinsville, a thirty-minute journey by foot. But I rarely go because I have to help Papa in his shop after school and on the weekends.

"Papa ..." I protest.

My father smiles tiredly. "It's not your job to worry about such matters, Sina." He pats my head. "I want you to feed that hungry mind of yours and leave this place."

"Leave?" I exclaim, gripping my father's hand between my two small ones. How dare he suggest a thing! "I'll never leave you, Papa!"

Slowly, Papa kneels down in front of me. "This village is too small for you, darling. There's a whole world out there for someone as bright as you."

I don't like what he's saying. "No!" I cry, tears springing to my eyes. It's a ridiculous notion; I'll never leave Farbarrow.

"All right, all right, my darling," Papa soothes, pulling me into a strong embrace. I press my face against Papa's shoulder and take solace in his lean, but solid form. "You don't have to leave."

I sniff, feeling comforted. I can't believe Papa would ever think that I would want to go. Not after Mama died. Who else would look after him and the shop?

Papa pulls back slightly and wipes the tears from my eyes. "There, now. How about we stop by Dunfield's Sweet Shop before heading home?"

"Oh, yes!" The promise of one of Mrs Dunfield's tiny chocolate cakes is enough to brighten my sour mood. I dash the remaining tears from my face and nod enthusiastically.

We walk down the hill from the school and into the cramped, bustling center of the village. Farbarrow sits upon the beach, overlooking the NothmarOcean. From sunrise to sunset, you can look down any of the straight, narrow streets to see the dark waters and the fishing and trawling vessels on the horizon. The air is heavy with the scent of brine, salt, and fish, as well as thick smoke from the processing plant on the outer edge of the village.

In Farbarrow, most people either work on the boats or in the plant. Papa owns a small shop attached to our house on the beach where he makes lobster traps for the fishermen. But some years ago there were fewer lobsters being hauled from the sea, so Papa took on secondary work mending the vast trawling nets and carving fishing poles from driftwood.

Dunfield's Sweet Shop is a tiny establishment wedged between the post office and the milliner. The smell of chocolate and vanilla only drifts as far as the front door, but it is a welcome respite from the usual miasma. Papa and I select one cake each and devour them before we reach our home.

Once there, Papa goes into his shop where he will work until sunset. I drop my school bag on our tiny kitchen table, kick off my restrictive shoes, and go for a walk on the beach. The air is salty but warm, and I take a deep breath. It's better out here than in the center of the village.

Seawater laps at my toes and soaks into the hem of my gown. Miss Templeton has complained more than once about the ruined state of my hems, even going as far as threatening to cut them off with a pair of scissors. Thankfully, Miss Kesseler intervened before that could happen.

Miss Templeton is a dreadful, dreadful woman.

I frown and kick at the water with one foot. If all women from beyond the village are like Miss Templeton, why would I want to willingly encounter more? All the more reason to stay here.

Sighing, I turn and look over my shoulder at our tiny home with its sea stone walls and driftwood roof. A thin plume of smoke rises from the workshop chimney, meaning Papa is once again hard at work. That stupid Miss Templeton cost him valuable time in the shop.

Maybe, I think, maybe I should ask Papa to let me go to Rollinsville this weekend. That way he won't have to spend money on new books. Used ones cost far less than new ones, anyway.

Rude, boyish laughter draws my attention to the Wall, a natural rocky barrier on the beach that separates the village from the processing plant on the other side. As the sun slides into the horizon, dozens of ships are slowly making their way inland and to the plant's myriad docks. The closer I get to the Wall, the heavier the stench from the plant's waste pits becomes.

Three village boys my age are huddled close to the Wall, poking at something on the ground with pieces of driftwood. I pause, thinking that it is a dead fish or crab that has washed up on the beach.

That's when I hear it—a thin, high wail. A tiny cry, but one that tells me that the boys are harassing a living creature. Without a second's thought, I reach down, grab a heavy seashell from the wet sand, and stalk toward the Wall.

"Get off of it, you sods!" I haul back and throw the shell.

The boys look up, startled. The object sails over their heads to shatter on the Wall. Bits of shell, pink and pearlescent, explode in all directions.

"What the hell, Sina!" one of the boys, Fabien Boeres, exclaims, jabbing his bit of driftwood at me angrily. "We're just having a bit of fun."

"You leave it alone, Fabien!" I shout, digging another shell free. I'll hit him this time.

As the boys straighten, I can see the creature they're tormenting—it's a small black octopus, flattened on the sand with all eight legs curled around it. Mama said that black octopi are messengers of the Grey God, the Lord of the Sea, and should be respected, for they carry information back to His underwater kingdom.

"You're nuts, Sina Fisher!" cries another boy, Hans Kieffer. "C'mon, let's go," he urges his friends.

Glaring at me, the boys drop their driftwood spears and race up the beach, back to their crowded homes on the hill.

Ha!

I watch them go and only drop my ammunition when I'm sure they're really gone. Brushing off my hands on my dress, I walk up to the black octopus and kneel down by it.

"Hey, it's okay. They're gone."

Slowly, the octopus rises, inflating like a balloon from its compressed position. All eight legs unfurl, suckers digging into the wet sand. To my amazement, a pair of bright blue eyes open—huge and round and full of intelligence.

"Thank you," the sea creature whispers—or is that the waves slapping up against the Wall?

I fall on my bottom in surprise. Dazed, I watch as the octopus quickly crawls to the shore and seamlessly slips beneath the grey waters.

Did I hear that ...? No, I refute with a shake of my head. I only imagined the creature speaking because that's what happens in storybooks.

Getting to my feet, I watch the sea for a few moments before Papa's voice calls me back to the house.