Franny Billingsley: The Folk Keeper

There was the coming-home thrill as the Sealfolk and I drifted up the rocky incline near shore, old landlocked territory seen newly underwater. There was the dark pressure of the beach just beyond, and a memory of surfacing here Midsummer dawn, bearing Finian like a bubble.

My head broke into the thin air. The storm had all but passed. There was Finian, scrambling down the cliff. He should mind his feet; there, he almost fell. On the beach lay a pile of velvet and lace belonging to Lady Corinna Merton.

I attached myself to the land with my fingertips; high tide rose to the very edge of the beach. The Sealfolk gathered in a half-moon around me. We gazed at each other; Finian set loose a landslide of pebbles.

I was not quite laughing, not quite crying. “I’m not one of you, but I’m not Lady Corinna, either. Let me come with you sometimes. I know how to call you.”

I turned back to land when the Sealfolk turned back to sea, curling both hands over the edge of the beach, my head rising just above. Both in and out of the water, I waited. Finian was running now, my cloak bundled in his arms, and I had already chosen my Conviction.