![]() I wonder who he is, he whose face has been whittled out of marble. A statue of alabaster white, of a young man’s face and torso. A broken comb that I use to tame my long, red hair a jewelled ring that my sisters covet and beg to borrow, but I shall not share. My room in the palace is full of such finds remnants of humans that descend from their world into ours, and that I hoard for my collection, piece by piece. They sing for revenge for all that has been inflicted upon them. The Rusalkas rose to the surface to sing the sailors to a watery grave, stuffing death into their bloated lungs. ![]() It is a relic from a ship that was wrecked two years ago. I am sitting on a throne carved from coral, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror in front of me. ![]() “Happy birthday, my beloved Muirgen,” Grandmother Thalassa says, placing a wreath of lilies on my head. I have spent my years swallowing them down, burning bitter at the back of my throat. I am fifteen and I shall be allowed to break the surface, catch my first glimpse of the world above us. ![]()
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