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"Real-life concerns of rent, school and transportation lend the story an Alice Hoffman-like air of magical realism....A tale dark, deep and strong, like the sea."—Kirkus Reviews
"Haunting...Lo's struggles with her inhumanity, her two selves, and the expectations of Celia, Jude, and her sisters are especially poignant."—Publishers Weekly
"Pearce writes some stunningly poignant dialogue for adolescent girls, and here she offers up her most complicated portrayal yet, giving readers two protagonists who are a blend of selfish, giving, and vulnerable and to whom teen readers will readily relate."—The Bulletin
There are lights at the surface.
Lights so unlike the sun, that can't reach down into the depths of the ocean. Lights we can see only when we look outside the water. She turned the thought over and over in her mind, imagining the lights as best she could until she had to ask her sisters for help again.
"What about the carnival? Are the lights on the rides? What are the rides?" she asked one of the oldest, who just turned away—that sister rarely spoke anymore. Lo sighed, turning back to one of the younger ones, whose first trip to the surface was more recent. "Tell me, Ry?"
"Lights. Lights everywhere, I think on the rides. I don't know what the rides are called anymore," Ry said, sounding irritated at the notion of lights. "And noise. Really, Lo, it's nothing to be excited about. It's not the way you remember it."
That was what they kept telling her—it wouldn't be the way she remembered it. Because the last time she saw the human world, she was human.
She walked on land and sat in the sun and sometimes went so far inland, she couldn't even see the ocean. These were things she barely remembered, things that felt like dreams and grew fainter and fainter each day she spent underwater with her new sisters.
The girls here weren't her real sisters, but sometimes she convinced herself they were. When they streaked through the water, laughing, minds linked by some sort of electric current that skipped through the ocean, when they'd been under so long that they forgot a human world existed… then they were her real sisters, her real family, and this was her real home.
But even as she forgot her old life—first the strongest memories, then the moments between, and then the smallest details of who she was—there was one thought, one memory that never left the recesses of her mind: She'd been happy as a human, happier than she was now underwater. And that tiny thought refused to let Lo fully embrace a lifetime under the waves. She had to at least look back to the human world.
Once every deep tide—every fifteen months—the sisters surfaced together. Some to remember, most to remember why they forgot. Why the ocean took the memories of their old lives one grain at a time, the same way the tide pulled the shore out to sea. Why the ocean took their souls. Turned them from humans into… this.
There are lights at the surface. I just need to see them, and I'll never forget what they look like again, Lo told herself. She still felt it was better to remember, to know what she was missing. Most of her sisters had long decided that it was easier to forget.
"Ready?" one of the oldest sisters asked. Her voice was bell-like, musical. All the old ones were beautiful, from their voices to the palms of their hands. They would grow more so every day, until the day they'd float away with the low tide, or maybe in a storm, and never be seen again. They became angels, according to the stories. Most of her sisters believed the angel tale, that old ones went to the surface and were greeted by beautiful men, beautiful women who welcomed them into the sky. Lo had her doubts—most of the girls her age still did, but as they grew old, their doubts faded until they believed steadfastly. She wondered how many days, months, tides this sister had left.
"Is it time?" Lo asked.
"As soon as you feel the tide coming in. Any moment now…"
The old sister paused, waited for the tiniest shift in the ocean, in herself. Changes Lo hadn't noticed when she first arrived, changes she suspected only creatures of the water could appreciate. Lo found the water more marvelous every day, found living in it to be more perfect, more wonderful….
But she still wanted to remember.
The ocean shifted; her sisters rose and slipped upward like a single creature. She followed, the old sister just behind her, waiting for them to call her back, to hold her down to the seafloor like they'd done when she first arrived and fought to break the water's surface for weeks and weeks. But no, it was time. She was several months into her new life; she could be trusted to glimpse the old one. The weight of the water above them grew less and less until…
Lo gasped, dry air filling her lungs. It hurt, but she grinned and forced her eyes open despite the wind. Wind—she remembered wind. Standing in a field near a tiny house, people behind her, her family. When she first arrived at the ocean, she would pick out the most beautiful shells from the ocean floor, send them away in the waves, and hope her family would find them. She would imagine they'd see them, know they were from her, know she was alive… and now, she couldn't remember their faces. She couldn't even remember how many family members she had.
The lights. I need to see the lights, she thought firmly—maybe they'd remind her of her family. She looked up at the stars, the moon, and finally the shore. Two bright lights shone from a spot in the sand, moving along slowly, waving back and forth—
Hands—they were handheld lights, grasped in the palms of humans walking side by side. Walking. I used to walk, she thought, but she couldn't stop herself from thinking how ungainly it looked compared with being in the water. She swam forward a little, silent, to get a better look.
A boy and a girl, laughing, talking, the sounds barely audible over the crashing waves. Brilliant-colored lights in pinks, reds, greens, yellows, from the carnival beyond the pier, bounced off their faces—all that light, and yet the two of them somehow looked brighter in comparison. They looked warm. They shone. They looked happy.
"Are you going to try?" one of the sisters asked.
"Him?" Lo answered. "How would I get to him?" The two crossed in front of several houses, then a white building with glowing porch lights, making the couple appear in perfect silhouette.
"You can sing. It works sometimes. And they think we're beautiful. That helps."
"But he has her. He's already in love."
"Maybe you can break it," another sister suggested.
"Don't you want to?" Lo answered, looking back at them. This boy's soul, why weren't they fighting over it? They were all older than her, more beautiful, more practiced. Make him love you, kiss him, drown him. Earn his soul, and you get your humanity back—the escape from the ocean that the older girls told her about on her very first day. Yet they were letting her have him, if she wanted.
"Go ahead, Lo," Ry said.
Lo swallowed. She loved her sisters, but she knew—they all knew—they weren't originally meant for the sea. And she wanted to remember her former life completely, return to it, before she became old and beautiful and had forgotten her humanity entirely. It won't be fair, what will happen to the boy, but it wasn't fair what happened to me, either. That makes it all right, doesn't it?
She couldn't remember what happened to her, what turned her into an ocean girl. It was the strongest memory, the first to go. All Lo remembered was standing at the shore of the ocean with a man whose face she couldn't remember. Her body ached, and there was a jagged wound over her heart. The man sent her into the ocean, told her the other girls would find her. He was one of the angels, Ry told her when she arrived.
Lo doubted that as well.
She touched the scar on her chest, almost faded entirely. There was a voice in her head telling her to stop, to turn back, but she ignored it and swam closer, closer to where the waves crashed against the shore.
Sing, a different voice said. A voice that longed to be human again, the voice of the girl she used to be.
The sisters sang all the time, songs that melded together to form one voice that made the ocean thick with music. Lo opened her lips, let the notes emerge.
The boy stopped first, then the girl. They looked at the ocean. Did they see her? The thought was exhilarating, dangerous. She sang louder; behind her, she heard her sisters join in, voices quiet, guiding her along in the song.
The boy stooped to set his light down in the sand, pointing at the ocean, talking with the girl. He waved at Lo, big arms over his head. He saw her. He sees me; he's coming for me—yes, he took tentative steps into the water. Come, where it's deeper, please….
The girl yelled, shouted, tried to pull him back, but he took another step, another, another. The song grew louder. Lo extended her hand in the moonlight. He had a handsome face, sharp features like a statue. His clothing, now soaked, clung to his body as he reached toward her.
She took his hand. Don't be scared. When he touched her, more memories of her old life slammed into her mind. Being held by her father, the scent of his cologne. The smell of things baking, the way fire leaped up from kindling. She swallowed hard, held on to each memory as long as possible before looking back to the boy's eyes.
"Hello," the boy said. He sounded dazed and blinked furiously. Lo stopped singing, and her sisters' song grew louder in response.
"Do you love me?" Lo whispered.
The boy looked surprised for a moment. Her sisters sang louder—he was having trouble fighting them. "I…" He looked back to the girl on the shore. "I love her. The girl by the church, I love her."
Lo's jaw stiffened; her fingers on the boy's hand tightened. "No, no, you love me."
The ocean shifted again, and some of her sisters stopped singing, started whispering. They were tired of the air touching their skin; they wanted to go back under—they wanted to leave. Lo bit her lip, ran her fingers along the boy's shirtsleeves. Fabric hanging on a clothesline, laundry being folded, the way towels felt drying off her skin, more memories that proved even harder to hold on to. They skirted out of her mind like little fish, then darted back to the recesses they came from. Forgotten.
By the next deep tide, I'll have forgotten everything, just like them, she thought, glancing back at her sisters. That's why they didn't want the boy for themselves. They don't care about their souls anymore. I won't care in another fifteen months.
Now. It has to be now. Be brave. It has to happen.
She pulled the boy closer to her, so that his breath warmed her skin. "Love me."
There was no time. Maybe he loved her already, maybe that was good enough, maybe—the ocean changed again, and the oldest sisters ducked back underwater. Lo inhaled, grasped both edges of the boy's shirt, pulled him against her lips, and kissed him, pleadingly, sorrowfully, desperately.
Then she pulled the boy under.
He hardly fought at first, still entranced with their song, confused, and she was so much more powerful than him in the water. It was easy to pull him into the deep, down to the ocean floor, so easy that for a minute, Lo was able to forget what she was doing to him. His eyes were growing wider; he began to fight for air, struggle against her. This is it. It's happening. My soul, I'll go back—
His eyes rolled back in his head. Lo realized her sisters were everywhere, watching, waiting. She leaned over the boy and kissed him again as the last precious bit of oxygen left his lips and floated to the surface.
And then he was dead.
And nothing else had changed.
Lo stared at her hands, at her feet, waiting for the pale blue color to turn back to shades of peach and pink. Waiting for the urge to surface, to gulp air happily, to swim to the shore and run on the sand.
It didn't come.
"Everyone has to try it for herself," Ry said gently, swimming closer. The boy's body listed on the ocean floor like seaweed. Lo felt sick; she doubled over and hid her head. "We all did. But it never works. You can't make them love you that fast."
"I don't think it's even real, that you can get your soul back," an older girl added. "It's a fairy story. Oh, Lo, don't cry. You have us. You don't need their world now. You don't have to worry about remembering anymore. You can just be happy here. And one day, the angels will come back for you, and it'll be beautiful, Lo. It'll be perfect."
Lo turned and cried into her sisters' arms, for her soul, for the boy, for the memories. Her sisters brushed out her hair and held her close. They pushed the boy's body away so she couldn't see it. They sang songs and began games to take her mind off what had happened.
But when the night ended and her sisters went to sleep, Lo stared at the sun from deep beneath the waves, at the tiny threads of blue light that made their way through the water, down to where she was.
Her soul was gone for good. The boy was dead, the girl left alone on the shore. And for nothing, nothing at all, other than a fairy tale and a few scattered memories of life on land. Let it go. Let it all go.
And she allowed herself to forget.
My sisters love this place.
It smells like sand and cigarettes and cotton candy, like sunscreen and salt. The scent builds up all summer, and now, at the height of tourist season, it's so thick that I think I could wave an empty bottle around and it would fill with liquid perfume.
We cut through the Skee-Ball parlor and emerge on the main drag of the Pavilion, lights and sounds everywhere, crowds of people with terrible sunburns. My sisters giggle to each other, the two of them perfectly in step ahead of me. We are triplets, but they are the twins, a perfectly matched set with high eyebrows and pretty lips. To most people, we look identical; to one another, my features are a little different. A little off, a not-quite-right replica of Anne and Jane.
"Let's go to the coaster," Anne says, tossing her hair over her shoulders as she looks back at me. "The arcade is dead." The arcade looks anything but dead, lights and alarms and children weaving between adults' legs, but that's not what she means—she means no guys are there.
We approach the roller coaster, a giant wooden monster that creaks and sways a little every time a car zips along the track. A car at the top of the starter hill pauses. The riders point ahead—the first hill sits snugly against the rickety pier's steps and allows for a spectacular view of the ocean. The riders are watching the waves so intently, so wondrously, that they aren't prepared for the drop. They scream.
I know who my sisters are going to pick before they say it aloud. A group of guys, probably early college or so, leaning on the queue railings. They have tans and are wearing T-shirts that are new but distressed to look old. Jane goes first, brushes by them casually, just enough that her bare arm touches theirs. She smiles, apologizes, and looks to Anne, giving a hardly noticeable tilt of her head. That one.
"Hi," Anne says, smiling. She sidles up to the railing, leans over. "Where are you guys from?"
"Raleigh," the target answers, smiling back. "What about you?"
"Here," Anne answers. "We go to Milton's. The boarding school? You pass it when you come in."
"Catholic schoolgirls?" one of the target's friends jokes, making his voice sound fake-sexy, and the others laugh. The target is staring at Anne, though, then Jane, and even lets his eyes flit on me for a moment.
"Not Catholic. Just schoolgirls," Jane says in a way that makes the boys shut up yet entices them at the same time.
"Do you want to get out of here?" Anne says to the target. She leans forward, drums his arm with her fingers. The boy glances at her manicured nails—he knows something is strange about this. But Anne knows exactly what to do. She leans forward, laughs in a way that's less seductive and more girl-next-door.
"Come on. Only the tourists ride this thing," she says to him, teasing the other boys. The target seems to open up a little—he likes the way her voice sounds, you can tell. The way she's pretty and casual and the way she smiles. He thinks she seems fun, interesting.
He doesn't realize they're just using him. Not only for the money he'll spend on us, the compliments he'll throw our way—especially Anne's way. He's just, as Jane puts it, "practice." How will we know what all we can do with these powers if we don't practice?
"I can't leave them," the boy says, motioning to his friends.
"Sure you can," Anne says, then, eyes glimmering, teasing, "And you will."
She's right—she's always right. You can't hide your future from Anne.
The powers are our greatest secret. The secret we never told anyone, not even our parents, not even our brothers.
Jane's skill developed first. People called her a perceptive child, but there was much more to it. Then Anne, who knew when I'd fall out of the tree house our brother Lucas made. Mine took longer. I thought maybe I didn't have one, even, when I'd turned seven and still nothing had developed. Anne and Jane pushed me, assured me that mine would be the most impressive of the three of them.
But then it wasn't.
Jane can know a person's present. Anne can know their future. And I can know their past.
Anyone can know a person's past, though. All you have to do is ask them. Anne's and Jane's disappointment was almost palpable, but it was nothing compared with mine. I touch someone, I know what they ate for breakfast yesterday, or what their childhood pet was called—how long ago in the past it was doesn't seem to matter. When I hugged my mother, I knew what she felt like right before her wedding, and that our youngest uncle was secretly her out-of-wedlock first son, yet sometimes I'd hold Anne's hand and see the secret she told Jane twenty minutes before. If I could control what parts of their pasts I see, maybe my power would be useful, maybe I'd think playing with the minds of boys was fun, too—and honestly, I bet I could control it if I practiced the way Anne and Jane do. But I won't risk seeing people's darkest memories just to better play games with my power. It's not worth it.
"Come on," Anne says, laughing. The sound is somehow brighter than all the bells and whistles of the carnival games nearby. "Buy me an ice cream."
"Um…" The boy looks at his friends, who snicker. "Okay."
The boy ducks out of the roller-coaster line and follows us back through the crowd to a stand where a bored-looking girl is dishing out scoops of homemade ice cream. Anne orders, looks expectantly at Jane and me.
"You don't mind, do you?" Anne asks the boy, reaching down to touch his arm—skin on skin, that's all it takes for our powers to work. She flashes a smile, tilts her head, all the things that she knows the boy wants, if only because at that angle he can see down her shirt a little. He doesn't mind. They rarely mind, even if it's dinner or movie tickets or letting Jane drive their fancy sports cars. I think that's Anne's favorite part: She knows just what to do and say to make them not care.
The boy buys us ice cream, banana-pudding-flavored, and then pays for a few rounds at the arcade. Jane finally shakes her head, though—he's starting to think less of us, to suspect we're just using him. So we drop him like a broken toy, sending him back to his friends pissed off that the anticipated hookup isn't happening. We don't care. After all, he was just practice.
I don't really know what we're practicing for, nor do I know how scamming boys out of money helps us understand our powers. I don't think Anne and Jane know, either—they just like playing the game and want to justify it. They like being in control. Their powers give them that.
All my power does is weigh me down with everyone's sorrow, everyone's tragedies, things that can't be changed or altered or fixed. It makes me afraid to talk to people for too long, worried I'll reveal things about them I know yet shouldn't know. It's easier just to keep everyone away. Never touch them. Never read them.
My sisters' powers are gifts. My power is a curse.
The three of us crash onto a bench in front of the Haunted Hotel ride, where rickety cars squeal through a darkened building. The drunker the tourists get, the more they love it, even though it smells like a basement and the fake corpses have twenty years of dust on them.
"This is boring," Jane sighs. "All the good ones were here earlier in the season."
"We could go home and watch that movie," I suggest.
"Ugh, no, it's Friday night! What about him?" Jane says, pointing to a handsome guy who's holding a girl's hand, in line to ride the carousel.
"He's with her," Anne answers.
"Yeah…" Jane sighs. Their rule is, they don't use their powers to trick boys who are in love. Maybe it's too many romantic comedies and sappy novels, maybe it makes them feel like what they do is perfectly okay, but they've held their ground on that one, Anne more easily than Jane.
Anne begins to roll her eyes, but before she's finished, Jane reaches over and grabs her hand. Anne yanks it away, irritated.
"Don't do that!" she snaps. We don't use our powers on one another, and thus we try to avoid touching—but it's a rule Jane has always found more flexible than Anne or me.
"Come on, it's easier than wandering around all night. What did you see?" Jane asks.
Anne glares at her for a moment but finally reveals what she saw in Jane's future. "There's a tall guy somewhere, green shirt, I think. He'll take us to that fondue place, if you want to go."
"I hate that place," I say, and the truth is, I think Anne and Jane do, too—they just like that it's expensive. I'd be happier with a three-dollar hot dog from the street vendor.
"Everyone loves that place," Anne argues. "Come on, let's find him."
"I'll catch up later," I say. Anne and Jane look at me, then each other, like I'm turning up my nose at an amazing adventure. When we were little, we were interlocked, like the three strands of a braid—pull one, and the others fall apart. But now, even though Anne is always reminding me that "we're stronger together," I can't help but feel differently. They're stronger without me. Sure, maybe I'm weak, maybe I'm nothing without them, but to be honest, I'm pretty sure I'm nothing with them, too.
"Fine," Anne sighs. "We'll see you at home, I guess."
I'll give it to my sisters—they want me to be one of them. The third piece to their matching set. But wanting is not enough, so while they wander off in search of a target in green, I weave through a row of food carts and toward the coaster, toward the pier.
The pier juts off a short cliff and is eerily dark compared with the Pavilion—its old lights can't conquer the enormous blackness of both the sky and the nighttime ocean. A few lovers look out over the sea, a guitarist with an open case for tips sings a song I don't recognize, and a handful of fishermen tend to their lines. I look down at the water. The tide is massive tonight, the perigean tide, if my memories from astronomy class are correct. As I go farther and farther toward the pier's end, the sound of the Pavilion fades, replaced by the powerful noise of the ocean.
We're from the middle of Georgia, a tiny landlocked town and a house full of siblings—all brothers, save me, Anne, and Jane. It doesn't make sense that I feel most myself when I'm alone by the ocean. Maybe it's because I think the ocean is like me. It knows the past. It's seen yachts and ships and pirates and a time before people. It has secrets, secrets you don't know just by watching the surface.
I look down the beach, which is illuminated only by moonlight and the glow of the Pavilion. This isn't a swimming section—it's too rocky. Most of the houses at the bottom of the little cliff, right on the sea, were abandoned a year or so ago when a hurricane battered them beyond repair. There's an old church, a single-room building with faded graffiti—cheap spray paint doesn't last long against the ocean's spray, so it looks like the church has a pastel hue.
The guitar player wanders near me, still playing and singing under his breath. He's wearing a shirt that's real vintage—it has a few tiny holes, and the sleeves are stretched out. I can't tell if he's handsome or not, but I want to keep looking at his face, thin lips and deep-set eyes. I don't have any money and hate to give him false hope for tips, so I turn away, back to the water. I wonder how deep it is. I wonder how deep it is everywhere.
The guitarist stops playing, I hear something like running or stomping. I turn around, eyebrows raised, just in time to see it happen.
He trips on an uneven plank. He tries to catch himself but throws his weight backward to keep from falling forward on the guitar. Everyone is watching, no one is moving. It happens so fast—he's off balance, hits the railing of the pier at just the right angle. The right angle to fall into the blackness, into the ocean.
We don't want to go to the surface.
We linger under the water, down deep, where it's cold; it makes us feel the most alive. Only the new girl wants to go up. Her skin is still a little pink, like it remembers the sun, whereas most of ours are pale, with places tinted the light purples, blues, or greens of seashells.
It's nice that we look the same, that we are the same. It means we are safe, because there are dozens and dozens of me. When they move, I move; when I move, they move. It has long stopped surprising me, the speed at which new girls forget their first names. You don't need a name when everyone is you and you are everyone.
I'm still on my second name, Lo, the sound the water makes during a thunderstorm when you're deep beneath the waves. But eventually, I'll forget this one, too. I'll move on to a third, maybe even a fourth, until I'll give up on names altogether, like the oldest of us have.
The pull of the tide gets stronger; the full moon is rising. The new girl looks up through the softened wooden planks of the Glasgow's deck, and the tiny bit of moonlight streaking to the depths illuminates her face. She looks sweet, kind, gentle. Human. She lifts, releases the rock she was holding on to, and starts toward the surface.
"I suppose it's time," Key says, lingering just outside the cracked ship's hull. She and I came to the ocean just a few months apart. Her name used to be Julia. I don't know why I can remember her old name but not my own. Key sighs and pushes off the ocean floor; sand blossoms around her bare feet as she swims upward. She never wants to surface. Whatever happened in her human life, she was more than happy to forget it long ago—I don't think she even tried to remember, to be honest.
But nonetheless, she'll still surface—we all will, because we are the same thing. My hair floats around my body like a cloak, then trails along behind me as I kick off the ground, dodge the caved-in bits of the ship. I follow Key, faster, faster; I can feel the others behind me as the Glasgow fades from sight. The water cradles us from every direction until we break the surface, and I feel so, so…
Exposed. Like I'm falling into the sky. The air hurts my skin, and I close my eyes to the pain. Around me, I hear the gentle splash of the others breaking the surface, winces or gasps as they remember what the shore looks like. I brace myself and open my eyes.
Light, so much light—from the moon, from the tiny pinprick stars, but mostly from the pier and the city beyond. It glows; it's beautiful in a way that nothing beneath the water is. I inhale even though it burns, brush a few strands of dark hair from my face.
The new girl—Molly, her name is Molly, I think—has tears running down her cheeks—they're somehow so different from the ocean water, so unusual that I notice them immediately.
"You won't miss it as much, eventually," Key reassures her. It's true—I don't miss my old life at all. I don't remember it, of course, but even if I did, I'm happy here. I have my sisters, the ocean….
"I don't want to stop missing it," the girl says. The words were clearly supposed to be sharp, but they're softened by her crying.
"Well," someone else says, "find your mortal boy, then."
A few girls chuckle, but inside we all feel the same twinge of pity for her hope. It's the cruelest thing, hope, the way it strings you along, the way it makes you believe. Only the old ones have ever seen a mortal's soul stolen, and they can barely remember it to tell us the story. They say she walked, though—she walked right out of the sea; her skin was pink again, her lungs made for air instead of water.
It's hard to believe sometimes, but hope never lets you truly stop believing. Our souls fade slowly, just like our human memories—I imagine mine is gone entirely now, though to be honest, I'm not sure. What does having a soul feel like, exactly? I still believe that drowning a human would get me a new soul, but it's not something I care to pursue anymore, and I'm somewhat relieved to feel that way, especially when I look at the tortured, desperate look on Molly's face. She must still feel her soul, feel it bleeding out of her. That's the only explanation for the pain in her eyes.
Music, we hear music bouncing across the water and audible only in the seconds between waves lapping at our shoulders. A light and airy song, and then beyond that, the buzz of a crowd. How many people are there that we can hear them from this far away?
I look at Key, at the others. They stare, either at the moon, the pier, or the tiny little houses on the shore. Do people still live in them? They look different than when I saw them last, more chipped and faded, like the ocean has punished them. I wonder where the people who lived there went. Someplace far away from the water?
I don't even know what that sort of place would look like, I think, shivering a little.
There's a bang somewhere ahead, a shout. It's coming from the pier—we stare as a dark form falls over its railing, into the water. There's a horrible slapping sound when the thing hits, splashing, screams from those above.
We are silent. We don't move, staring, like one creature with dozens of heads, dozens of eyes watching curiously. We see a thousand times better than we did as humans, but the waves block our line of sight. Then, in one motion, we dive forward, slipping through the water toward the pier.
It's splashing—he's splashing desperately. The waves are unusually harsh tonight, and his clothes weigh him down.
We watch. Oldest in the back, apathetic, here only because the rest of us are. Youngest closest to him, intrigued, wondering how long before he'll slip under the water and die. Me, somewhere between the two groups. It's so strange to watch the boy struggle, fight against something that's so natural for us.
But the new girl is watching with a different sort of intensity than the rest of us. She inhales, draws closer to him. She's shaking; he's thrashing, trying to swim, but every time he gets his head up, a wave knocks him down again. There's something strapped around his shoulders that's pulling him beneath. The new girl turns back to look at us as the boy's flails slow; he begins to go under more often….
"How do I make him love me?" the new girl asks.
"That's the tricky part," Key says, eyes flickering like this is a brilliant game—most things are to her. "It's hard to make someone love you when they're dying."
Key's words seem to both scare and embolden the new girl. She presses her lips together hard, sinks under the water, and emerges beside the boy. He grabs hold of her arm to try to keep his head up. It works; he stops fighting the waves, but when he breathes, I can hear the water in his lungs.
"My name is Molly," the new girl says. He doesn't hear her, but her voice is delicate, rainlike. The boy turns his shaky eyes toward her, but I don't think he really sees her face—he looks unfocused, dazed.
"Yes, there, see," Molly says, grinning so wide the moonlight glints off her teeth. His eyes begin to drift shut. She shakes him awake, says her name again, tries to talk to him. When it doesn't work, she begins to sing. Her voice is pure, lovely, just enough humanity in it to remind me how she was a human girl less than a year ago. The song is one of ours, but it seems foreign on her tongue.
I look away from her, toward the pier the boy came from. People stare in our direction, but they can't see us in the darkness. But then there's a rustle from the shore, and something comes down the road by the beaten-looking buildings, bright flashing red lights that bounce across the water.
"They're coming for him," one of the girls says. Molly stops singing, looks up.
"Leave him," another girl tells Molly. "There's no time. And no point."
"There's time—there has to be time," Molly says, voice rough and dangerous. She positions herself in front of the boy's face, water dripping off her eyelashes. His eyes drift shut. "No, look at me. Look at me. Do you love me?"
"It's too fast," I tell her, grimacing as a breeze touches my shoulders. I lean back so they're wet again.
"Was it like this for the other girl? Or did it take longer?" Key asks one of the oldest ones; she doesn't answer. Key shrugs. "I remember human stories about love at first sight."
"Those were stories," I say. Lights, bright white and big like the moon, shine at the waves from the shore farther down the beach. They're making their way toward us, rolling steadily along. We can't stay. We don't want them to see us. We don't want to see humans, really; the oldest girls are finding it difficult to even look at the human boy, his head cradled against Molly's shoulder.
There's a quiet sound, like raindrops—we're leaving. My sisters slip underneath the water delicately, more and more with every moment. When I look back to Molly, the boy's eyes are open again. They aren't trained on her, though—he's looking at us—no, at me, I think. Not in the dizzy, confused way he was watching Molly earlier, but like he knows me, like we're in the middle of a conversation. His eyes are light gray pools that remind me of the ice that forms by the ocean farther north. His gaze startles me, and I back up, my lips part.
"Go with them if you want. I'm not leaving till he says he loves me," Molly sniffs. She's crying, so humanlike that she and the boy actually seem a perfect match. She looks down at the boy's face and follows his gaze to me. She frowns and turns him around, so he can't see me. I swallow hard; it feels like his eyes are still boring into me. I realize that in the long moment of the boy's gaze, my sisters have left. I'm alone with Molly.
"Leave him. He doesn't need to die like this. He doesn't love you."
"He might!"
"No, Molly," I say, and grimace as I remember the boy I killed. The way his body rocked with the currents, dead and lifeless on the floor. I don't want to imagine the boy with the gray eyes like that. Hope forces me to believe getting his soul is possible—I don't know how, exactly, but I believe it's possible—but something deeper makes me believe it isn't right. And it certainly isn't right like this, when I know there's no chance Molly will walk out of the ocean tonight.
Yet I know what Molly feels. I may not remember my human name like she does, but I remember being her. I remember needing to believe the fairy tale, in thinking of hope as a real thing instead of a pretty idea. I swim closer to her.
"Let him go," I say, trying to sound gentle, comforting. "His people will find him. We need to leave. We don't belong here." I feel unsettled without the others on the surface, like I've lost a part of myself.
Molly's fingers are wrapped so tightly around him that I can see his skin starting to bruise. The lights on the beach are moving, growing closer, little by little. A puttering noise bounces toward us—a boat coming from somewhere, probably more searchers. The thing weighing the boy down brushes against my legs, the strings sharp like sea urchin spines, some sort of instrument, I think.
I reach forward and take Molly's arm, try to pull her away. She struggles, hugs the boy against her chest like she suspects I'm trying to steal him from her. I find myself wishing he'd look at me again, fighting Molly harder and harder, trying to get her away from him.
Molly dives.
Still holding the boy.
Let her go. We all have to try this for ourselves once. It's the only way Molly will stop fighting and embrace the ocean, embrace our sisters. She needs to kill the boy to love the ocean the way we do.
But the boy's eyes, I keep thinking about the boy's eyes. He doesn't need to die like this.
I sink into the water and swim after her. She's swimming fast, pulling him to the bottom with such force that the instrument comes loose and drifts to the ocean floor on its own.
"Molly!" I call out. "Let him go! There's no point! You'll just kill him!"
"That's what I'm supposed to do—that's how I'll get my soul back!" she snarls. We're getting deeper, to the part where it's cold. The boy's limbs flail back uselessly. His eyes are closed; he's not even fighting. I think he's already dead.
Molly slams his head against the sea bottom, frustrated; a little blood curls like smoke in the water. His clothes and hair float around his body as she bows her head and presses her lips against his. Nothing happens, nothing changes, and so she tries again, again, until it looks less like a kiss and more like she's trying to pull his soul up and out through his lips.
She screams, a curdling, agonizing sound that ripples through the ocean. Molly tightens her fingers on the boy's clothes—
Enough. I dart forward and grab his arm, yank him away from her. Molly hisses at me, grabs at his sleeve. His shirt rips, but I'm older and stronger than she is. I jettison him to the surface, hold his head up as the air tastes my skin. There has to be a boat nearby now. They'll find him; they'll take him back to his own kind, and I can go back to mine. That's the way of things; it's what should happen. He's so limp that he feels fake, like he's a clump of seaweed instead of a boy.
Molly breaks out of the water beside me. I release him just long enough to shove her away. Her teeth flicker, sharp like an animal's. Where's the boat?
They've passed us. They're searching farther from the pier now; I can't get him there with Molly like this. The shore, it's the only way. Get him close enough, and the waves will wash him up, someone will find him, he might survive. Molly tries to pull me back; I dodge her and kick her in the back. She spirals off in the water. I'll have just a moment before she slows herself and returns. I clutch the boy under the arms and drag him toward the dry sand.
The waves help, pushing us over the sandbar—closer to land than I've been since I joined my sisters. But there's someone on the shore; he'll be found. I hiss in Molly's direction and grab the boy's wrist, diving forward, letting the waves throw me closer and closer to the shore with each step. The person on the beach sees me. A girl, running. Take him. Take him and keep him away from us.
Shallow water. I turn back to look for Molly—she's stopped, waiting for me right where the water becomes deep again, where the waves begin. The girl runs into the water, awkward and clumsy as it splashes around her calves. There's not enough force behind the waves to pull him forward here. My feet find the sandy bottom, and I rise—
Something stings, something hurts. We haven't walked on land in so long; did it always feel like this? One step forward, another, another, it feels like something is sticking into the center of my foot. Never mind, the salt water will heal it fast enough. Just get him to her; then I can leave….
She's near me now, breathing heavily, hair stuck to her cheeks and chest. She smells strange, but I'm not sure what the scent is, exactly—the scent of land? She grabs one of the boy's arms, and I release him, move to dive back into the ocean. I want to be submerged. I want to go back down deep where it's cold.
The girl slows. She moves clumsily in the water; without help, she can barely even drag the boy. A small wave rocks her balance, and she's forced to drop a knee into the sand to keep from falling.
"Help me!" she says, sounding irritated. Her voice is biting and loud—this whole world is biting and loud. I grimace and take his other arm, rise again, wincing as something stabs at my sole.
Together, we drag the boy through the last of the waves. As the water grows shallower, the pain gets worse. Something is stabbing me, slicing at my feet, at the softest parts of my toes and the center of my arch. I have to stop, I have to stop walking. I'm not meant for this anymore, but we're almost out, almost out, almost…
We reach the edge of the water. As the wave pulls back, my foot strikes damp sand.
The pain is incredible. I fall to my knees, then my hands, dropping the boy's arms so I can grab my foot. There's blood, blood everywhere, like the entire bottom of my foot has been scraped away. I try to find the wound, but it's dark.
"Do you know CPR?" the girl asks.
I stare at her. She looks frustrated but then pauses for a moment. Her eyes drop to my chest.
"You're naked."
She's right. My sisters and I, we're all naked, aren't we? It's never bothered us. Maybe I should cover myself, but between the searing pain in my feet and the dying boy at my side, it doesn't seem to matter very much.
"Right, CPR," the girl says, shaking her head. Her hair is blond and thick like sea grass. She tips the boy onto his back, puts her palms on his chest, then begins pressing it. Quick, tiny pushes, over and over. She leans down near his lips and listens, puts her lips over his for an instant, repeats. The girl jumps back, puts a hand to her lips as though he's shocked her, but nothing changes with the boy. She looks at me desperately, like she wants me to step in, but I don't understand what she's doing.
"I… I can't do it, I—Help! He's down here!" she shouts to the people farther down the beach, to the flashing red lights. I don't think they hear her. I listen to the water, wait for it to tell me that a long wave is washing up—that's all I'll need to pull myself back in without standing, without the pain. I don't care if the human girl sees me. I want to go home. Blood from my feet has stained the sand. It hurts, it hurts so badly.
"You can do compressions," the girl says suddenly. I look at her blankly. "Compressions! You can do them. Come on, at least try."
She reaches over the boy and grabs my arm, starts to pull it to the boy's chest—
She freezes. So do I.
When was the last time a human touched me? I stare at her fingers wrapped around my skin, bright on the gray-blue hue of my forearm. Her palm is so hot—or am I just that cold? The girl gasps, yanks her hand away. She looks me in the eye like I've betrayed her, like I've done or said something unforgivable, something shocking.
Her words are whispered, hardly audible over the sound of waves.
I know that name.
Naida. I turn it over in my mind. I know that name. How did she know it?
That's my name. Not Lo, I'm Naida. Or I was.
I remember. I remember having a flesh-and-blood sister, not ocean sisters. I remember a house, I remember warm meals, I remember the sound of crickets and what the world looks like miles and miles from the shore.
My name on her lips echoes through my head, spins around me, and deafens me to the rest of the world, dulls the pain in my feet. My name is Naida, and I was once a human girl.
I remember.
I remember everything. I remember my house, my real sister, my father, our dog, bedtime stories, running in the grass. I remember riding in cars and dancing and the way rainstorms sounded when they passed through the forest we lived in.
I remember being Naida. I remember being human. But only for a moment, and then the memories begin to fade, fall apart. The harder I try to hold on, the more they slip through my fingers like grains of sand.
The boy coughs, sputters. Water bubbles up from his throat. The girl turns his head to the side. His eyes open; he tries to focus as he looks at me—it makes my chest stir, makes me forget the pain, to see his gray eyes open again. His gaze turns to the girl. He's confused. But he's alive. He's alive—that's all I wanted. I can go. My sisters are in the water; they're my world now. I can't be Naida, not anymore. I killed my boy; I embraced the ocean long ago.
"You saved him," the girl says breathlessly, like she can't believe it. She looks back up at me, but I'm already on my feet.
I cry out in pain as I run back into the water, every step like knives twisting into my skin, pain that doesn't stop until I dive deep. But as I do so, I chant the name over and over in my head, so I won't ever forget it again.
She's gone.
She's in the water. I don't know what to do—it's so dark out there, I wouldn't be able to see myself, much less find her. I look down at the footprints she left in the sand as she ran back toward the water, lit up by the moon. They're darker than they should be. I kneel down and touch the center of a print. Blood. It's blood.
A wave sweeps high across the shore, dragging the footprint into long, misshapen lines, and then another that washes away all traces of the blood. I squeeze my eyes shut—I feel dizzy. I saw the girl's past, and just before that, the boy's. My head feels crowded, like my own thoughts can't breathe under the weight of their memories—especially hers. Her memories were wrong; they were darkened, like someone painted black over them. My head aches….
The boy coughs. I turn around, drop back to the sand beside him. His eyes are closed, but he's breathing, a broken noise, like there's wet cloth lodged in his throat. The ambulance is rumbling down the tiny road by the pier, the same way I came down. The headlights blind me as it draws close.
"Hang on," I tell the boy. "You're fine. They're here to help you."
He whispers something, something quiet. I lean closer, drop my face near his lips. "Sing again."
He's confused. Of course, I just saw a naked girl with bloody feet run into the ocean, so perhaps I'm not one to talk. The ambulance reaches us, slides to a stop on the sand. I sit back as the paramedics leap out. They run to us, drop down by my side, start talking in codes I don't understand. I'm jostled out of the way as they lift his body, then rest it down on a board. One paramedic, a younger woman with thin eyes, spots me as two men lift the board and hurry the boy to the ambulance.
"Was he breathing when you found him?"
"Yes. I mean no, no. He started, though."
"Any idea how long he was in the water?"
"I… four minutes? Five? I don't know. It all happened so fast. When I ran down here, she was already pulling him up…." I glance back at the pier. A crowd has gathered, pointing at us, gaping.
"She? Is there someone else here?" the woman asks, looking around.
I swallow, look out over the water. The red lights from the ambulance bounce off the waves, like thousands of glistening rubies are hiding under them. "No. There's no one else here." It's not entirely a lie—she's gone. I can't explain who she is or where she went to myself, much less to someone else.
"Is she coming?" another paramedic yells.
"Can we take you to the hospital, miss? You might need to get checked out, too," the woman says, taking a few steps backward, toward the ambulance. "Come on, it won't take long. Just in case."
"Yes. Yes, right," I say hurriedly. I'm fine; I know I'm fine, but I want to know the boy will be okay—and I don't want to be left out here in the dark, not with the crowd staring, not with a mysterious girl who might come back. I jog with the woman to the ambulance. A male paramedic stretches out a large hand to help me in. I'm quickly moved toward the back, near the boy's head. There's a mask over his nose and mouth, bags of fluids are on hooks, things are beeping, moving. It feels like I'm a giant in a city of machines. I bang my elbow on something behind me, grimace, and try to catch my breath.
"Do you know who he is?" an EMT asks me.
"Jude," I say quickly. I look up. "His name is Jude Wallace. He's from Lake City."
"Oh, so you actually know him. I'm sorry—I thought you were just a good Samaritan," the EMT says, smiling at me. I don't know what to do, so I just nod. Truth is, I do know him, and rather well. When I put my lips against his to save his life, I saw deeper into his past than I've ever seen into anyone's before. I saw his childhood home, his father leaving, his first job, second job, third job, and the bank account he opened to save up and leave town when he graduated from high school. I saw his first love and his favorite color, thousands of bits and pieces, a kaleidoscope of his life.
It's the first time my lips have been on someone else's. Does that count as my first kiss? I'd avoided it for so long, both because most boys want Anne and Jane, but also because of this. Anne and Jane have always said kissing makes their powers strong, that the more intimate the touch, the closer you are, the more you can see. They were telling the truth, it seems.
The ambulance screeches through town, the siren blending in seamlessly with the fanfare of the beach at summer. They've stopped working on Jude, and his breathing doesn't sound painful anymore. The hospital is just outside town, where there are no tourists, no neons, no bathing suits—just sea grass and trailer parks. I watch them fly by, look out the window hoping to see the glow of the hospital's fluorescent lights ahead….
"You can hold his hand if you want," the thin-eyed woman says when she sees me staring at him.
"No," I answer. "It's fine." I want to take his hand, to be honest—I don't want him to be scared. I want him to know someone is there with him, someone is thinking of him, someone wants him to survive. But I've already seen so far into his mind, and I don't want to pry any further.
We arrive, and the boy is rushed off the ambulance and down a hall. They send me to a separate room, but it doesn't take more than a half hour for them to realize I'm fine. A woman in cat-print scrubs gives me a package of Nutter Butters, then leads me toward a waiting room. She talks the entire time, assuring me that everything will be all right with Jude, that they'll update me soon, that they will let me know the minute he wakes up. All well-rehearsed lines, delivered with sincerity, but not enough to distract me from the onslaught of Jude's memories and the strangeness of Naida's.
I load sugar into a cup of weak tea from a machine and rest in one of the many uncomfortable chairs, trying to tune out the noise from the televisions, the people talking in the hallways. Tune them all out and remember…
I ran down to the shore, past the church. I could see someone in the water. I thought it was the boy, but no… it was her. She was swimming toward me, toward the shore. I remember her face, try to imagine what it would look like in the day instead of illuminated by blue moonlight. I picture the way she slipped into the ocean like the waves were sheets on a bed when she left, and the way she rose from the water when she arrived, pulling Jude like the waves worked with her, not against her. The memories I read when I touched her arm. So strange… Even once I got past the blackness, the memories I saw were like memories of a past lifetime instead of the current one. Bits and pieces, buried so deep that all I got from touching her was her name and the memory of a girl screaming.
Screaming like she was dying.
I play the memory over and over, think about the bloody footprints, the way she vanished. Should I have told them about her? Is it too late now? Should I go back?
An hour later, I still have no idea what happened on the beach.
"He's going to wake up soon. You can wait, if you want. Is he your boyfriend?" the doctor asks.
I blush before I can stop myself. "No," I say, shaking my head. "I don't know him."
"Oh? They said—"
"They misunderstood. I just know his name; he told me before he passed out on the beach," I explain swiftly. Now that I'm a little calmer, I can lie better.
"Ah. So you went into the ocean to pull a complete stranger out of the water? What a hero," the doctor says genuinely, putting a hand on my shoulder.
"Thank you," I answer, and force a smile. No, I didn't go into the water. I stayed on the shore while Naida pulled him out. She's the one who really saved him.
"Well, feel free to stay if you want. I'm sure he'd like to meet you," the doctor says. He tucks his clipboard under his arm and walks away, leaving me alone in the waiting room. The television goes to a commercial, something about a magically absorbent towel. Outside, a pack of nurses laugh loudly. I would like to meet him, too—the real way, not the way I already have.
But I'm afraid he'll ask about Naida. I'm afraid he'll know I'm lying, that I didn't really save him, not alone, anyway. I'm afraid of how much I know about him—even worse, how I liked so many of the things I saw, like his middle school talent-show performance or the way he worried about asking his first girlfriend to prom. And I'm afraid I won't be able to hide the sheer quantity of memories I read. It'd be easier to walk away, to keep him at arm's length. He's just a boy, just like any of the boys Anne and Jane pick up. Just leave him here.
It'd be better for everyone if I just went home.
"You stole him!" Molly screams at me. Bubbles slip from her lips; her eyes are red, her hands clenched in fists. "He was mine!" Her voice is like lightning caught in the walls of the Glasgow. Fish dart away as she grabs onto a decaying stair rail so hard that it rips away from the spiral banister. She drops it and screams again. I've never seen one of us so angry before. The other girls try to comfort her, save the old ones, who regard her with mild curiosity from just outside the ship's body, like she's nothing more than an interesting bit of coral or a strange tide.
"He didn't love you. There was no need to kill him." I try to sound calm, even-keeled, like Molly is nothing more than an insolent child. But I'm shaken; I feel like I could dissolve into the water around me.
The girl. The girl on the shore knew my name. Naida.
While Molly curses at me, I turn the name over in my mind. The memories it sparked when I first heard it are dull, faded now, and I'm having trouble bringing them up. But the name, the name I can remember if I just keep repeating it. I don't know why I care. Naida is long gone. And yet over and over, I keep saying it, don't let go—
"Do you, Lo?" Key asks.
"I…" I look at Key, who draws closer to me. We look so different than humans, don't we? I'd forgotten till I saw the girl, but now, compared with Key… you would never know we were once like them. What did my hair look like when I was Naida? What color was my skin? I look down at my arm, at the milky-blue color. Key's is milky-green. But when we were humans, we must have been bronze or golden or some sun-kissed color. I haven't thought about these things in ages, yet now I stare at my forearm in wonder, in sorrow that I can't remember what it once looked like. Who can't remember her own body?
"I was telling her that you didn't want the boy's soul anyhow? You sound like one of the old ones, Lo. Should I hold on to you if a hurricane passes through?" Her words are teasing, but the humor doesn't reach her eyes. I do sound like one of the old ones—they don't listen. They don't care. They're as quiet as the sand, letting the water push them around like branches of seaweed. Getting their attention is hard.
But I don't feel old. I feel like I did when I was new, when I was younger than Molly, even. Naida. Naida. I can't forget it again. Naida.
They're staring at me, waiting for me to answer. "No. No, I didn't want his soul. I just see no point in needless death," I say, waving my hand in Molly's direction. It's not a lie. I don't care about the boy—I liked his eyes, the way he looked at me, but right now I care about my name. I care about how a human girl knew my name…. Did I know her when I was like them? Please, Molly, let it go. I just want to focus on my name—
Excerpted from Fathomless by Jackson Pearce Copyright © 2012 by Jackson Pearce. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Jackson Pearce doesn't seem to want to stop creating breathtaking re-tellings of fairy tales any time soon. As done with the first two novels in her Fairy Tale Re-tellings, Jackson Pearce managed to have me hanging over the edge of my seat and reading in anticipation of what must come next in her novel Fathomless. If you've read Sisters Red and Sweetly the other two novels in her series, then you know that there are werewolves and that they are usually trying to tear out the throats of pretty young girls. In her past two novels, Jackson Pearce has her characters fighting against the big bad wolves and has them as the main antagonists—constantly terrorizing the characters and giving romantic interests a reason to be manly men. In Fathomless you get a different type of story entirely and I personally loved it.
Fathomless is the story of main character Lo, an "Ocean Girl". If you've read Sweetly then you remember being told by a werewolf that twins are identical and in turn have identical souls and that if one is killed, the other twin only has half a soul. You also remember that the final twin has to have their heart bitten. If you've read Sweetly then I really hope you remembered that, it's kind of crucial and if you haven't not only is it explained in the book but you also read a (very rushed) description of how an Ocean Girl is created.
Lo is related to a character in Sweetly and that's all I can say without spoilers. However Lo has been living in the ocean and just like every other ocean girl, living in the ocean causes their memories of their pasts lives to slowly slip away to nothingness. So imagine having an insane case of amnesia. Lo believes that as time goes by (and as she grows more and more beautiful) that she will be taken away to become an angel and join the angels that sent her to the ocean to be an Ocean Girl. However, Lo isn't willing to fade away and searches for a way to regain her soul by making a boy love her and by stealing it from him. So, throughout the story that is mainly Lo's goal.
The story switches to the POV of Celia, another main character and part of a set of triplets. Each sister can see either the past, present or future. Celia is stuck with what she finds the most useless ability she could possibly have—the past. But when Celia helps Lo save the life of a musician named Jude, Lo and Celia become allies and Celia helps her regain remnants of her past.
When Celia and Lo come in contact, you immediately get a chapter from a different part of Lo. You get Naida Kelly (if you've read Sweetly I think you know whose sister this is) who is intent on getting her soul back. Naida and Celia quickly become friends and attempt to give Naida back both hope and her memory, but Naida and Lo are both the same person in the same body. I liked to think of it as a novel that gives us a taste of Multiple Personality Disorder or Dissociative Identity Disorder, where Lo is two different people living in the same tortured mind.
Fathomless is supposed to be a modern day Little Mermaid and I have to admit that when I think of the Little Mermaid I imagine that there would be a beautiful Ocean Girl singing to a boy and eventually falling in love. Don't imagine that exactly because it's wrong. Personally, I did expect that Lo would get some romance, maybe a romantic kiss from a boy right? Well wrong again, the novel mostly focuses on the romance going on with Celia and I felt like Lo wasn't exactly "fighting" for a
2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.Anonymous
Posted February 23, 2013
Looks very good
1 out of 4 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.this book was disappointing. i expected so much more out of Ms Pearce. i just thought it would be better. and by that, i mean the storyline. it lacked suspense and at times were boring. i miss the fighting that went on in Sweetly and Sisters Red. i liked when the girls would fight the Fenris. yes, the whole idea was very creative, i just wish that it was presented better and more creatively. hopefully the fourth installment to this fairy tale series will be better. of course i'll be picking it up and giving it a try. i will always support Jackson Pearce because of my love for Sisters Red and Sweetly. i dont want to lose faith in her talent!
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.This is my first Jackson Pearce book, and I'm asking myself why it took me so long to discover such an amazing writer. I had heard of Jackson's earlier Fairytale Retellings; somehow, I didn't get around to reading any until now when the shiny cover attracted me. I kid. It's actually the fact that Jackson based this off the original work that compelled me to read this book, and the shiny cover was a bonus. Nevertheless, I am really glad that I picked this up because I am loving Jackson's work!!!
The writing flows beautifully from beginning to end. The characters are engaging, and the plot brewing with mystery and intrigue. Who is Lo, and how did she and her "sisters" end up living underwater? I love how the story is told from the alternating perspectives of Lo and Celia, with Naida chiming in now and then. Each one of these girls is unique and compelling in her own way, but I have an especial interest in Lo. She keeps telling herself that she should be satisfied with life underwater; however, she can't forget Naida and wants to solve the mystery of how she came to be. Her voice is haunting, and she is strong and beautiful. It is she who introduces us to the mystical world underwater.
The characters are complex and filled with depth. Celia feels alone and overshadowed by her sisters. Naida makes her feel empowered; Jude makes her feel loved. I liked her character overall except for that one time she accuses Jude and Lo separately of keeping secrets. Honestly, I don't see a legitimate reason for her to want to know that they've been meeting up, except for the fact that she's an insecure girlfriend. Again, it goes back to her lacking confidence in herself, which does get better over time.
Lo is curious about Naida and the world above, yet she can't let go of her life underwater. However, the ocean girls believe that they must get a mortal to love them and then kill him in order to become human again. Lo once believed this, and she still hasn't entirely let go of this belief. After she falls in love with Jude, she begins to wonder if freedom is possible and if she is willing to make the necessary sacrifice to live abovewater. It was heartbreaking following Lo's struggle with her humanity, and I love her all the more for the hard choices she had to make.
Fathomless is a fairy retelling of "The Little Mermaid." While Naida's past is a mystery to be solved for Lo and Celia, it isn't the greater plot in the story. Rather, it is a story about two girls trying to find their place in the world. I love this book and will definitely be on the lookout for more works by Jackson Pearce!
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.Reviewed by Valerie
Book provided by a contest win at The Revolving Bookcase
Review originally posted at Romancing the Book
Considered a Fairy Tale Retelling, Fathomless was a dark modern take on the lighthearted, The Little Mermaid. The way in which Pearce wove the story in alternating voices was fascinating and kept me hooked the entire time.
Celia, one of the triplets, is unsure how she's special since her sisters seem to have more important powers than she does. I really liked her ability to self-reflect and be her own person, especially when her sisters were mischievous. One fateful day, she helps save a boy, Jude, by performing CPR. When she decided to keep what happened to herself, she asserted her independence from her sisters and while she had no one to confide in, I applauded her choice. When she meets Lo, the most fascinating mer creature of the story, I felt a shift in the plot and felt that the action and suspense really picked up.
Each chapter does change the point-of-view that the story is told from but not in a way that you can't follow. The story did become more challenging when Lo/Nadia inhabit the same form but I was still able to keep up without problems. Jude's character is more secondary as the girl's relationship with each other is the main focus. As each one tries to determine their fate, decisions have to be made that can't be changed. At the very end, there are more characters introduced into the story that seemed out of place which was a twist that I didn't expect and I wondered if Jackson Pearce planned on writing a sequel since there wasn't any closure regarding them.
Favorite Quote: "There's a girl – she's looking at me. She sees me. She sees me, I have to go, I have to go back."
The girl is running toward the water's edge —
She calls my name. MY name. Naida.
Posted January 24, 2014
Nice new take on an old classic. Jackson Pearce has a great new direction!
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Posted November 2, 2013
Love this book in love with jude
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Posted October 16, 2012
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Nintendo confirms Cranky Kong for DKC: Tropical FreezeMeaty Nintendo executive Reggie Fils-Aime made an appearance tonight on Spike TV's VGX awards show to confirm Cranky Kong will be the fourth playable character in Donkey Kong Country: Tropical Freeze. The elder statesman of the Kong clan gets around with the help of a cane, which allows him to perform a unique pogo move akin to Scrooge McDuck in DuckTales. The walking stick allows him to jump higher as well as traverse spiked terrain without taking damage. Nintendo also clarified when we'll be able to get our hands on the title, announcing Donkey Kong Country: Tropical Freeze will bounce to Wii U on February 21, 2014. Comments not appearing? Anti-virus apps like Avast or some browser extensions can cause this. Easy fix: Add [*].disqus.com to your software's white list. Tada! Happy comments time again.
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5 Comments
Everything looked great, love the cake and that car!
I love this!! What a beautiful barn ceremony!!
This one was very special. Great job! Also love the new bridal suite!
I think I love rainy wedding. The white umbrellas made the wedding more memorable. Just love how the bride and groom look so in love with each other. And raining is kinda a blessing from above.
Bryan and I wanted to thank you for making our wedding day so special and memorable. We have to admit that the weather was not what we expected for our day, but amazingly the rain turned out to be a blessing in disguise! We couldn't have asked for a more romantic or intimate spot to get married than under the barn with the sound of the rain on the tin roof. I think from now on, I will always have a special spot in my heart for rainy days. We truly appreciate all your efforts in transforming the barn from its "cocktail hour" state to a magical place for our ceremony. Looking back, I couldn't imagine exchanging our vows in front of all our family and friends anywhere else!
We received so many compliments on Cedarwood during and after our wedding. Our guests couldn't believe how beautiful the house was, the amazing flowers that were EVERYWHERE, and all the special details that made our wedding unique. Thank you again for helping us to have the wedding of our dreams and one of the most amazing days of our lives!
Amy & Bryan
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London Bridge
The overlays that highlight 17th century London features are approximate and derived from:
- Built-up London – Hollar's 1666 map before the Fire
- City of London wall and Great Fire damage – Hollar's 1666 map after the Fire
12 Annotations
Phil • Link
In Pepys' day this was the only bridge across the Thames below Kingston, some miles to the west. The structure then consisted of "19 arches and a wooden drawbridge built 1176-1209 in place of an earlier wooden bridge ... The road across it carried a line of houses on each side with shops at the road level." (Latham and Matthews, Companion).
In 1831 it was replaced with a new bridge 180 feet upstream, and this was later replaced in 1973.
Susanna • Link
Here's a nice article
(with an illustration of c. 1600) on the old London Bridge, from, oddly enough, a medieval tent fanatic:
And here it is, with the roofs of its houses, on the 1746 map of London:
Roger Miller • Link
I was interested to see the refererence to souvenirs made from the pilings of the original London Bridge in the article linked to above by Susanna.
We have in our family two wooden egg cups, one of which has a label on the bottom with the following hand written inscription: "This cup is formed out of a portion of the oak Piles on which the orginal London Bridge was built in the year 1016 making at this time (1850) 834 years since the Piles were placed".
I have always been rather sceptical of the authenticity of these egg cups but I suppose it is possible that they really were made from the remains of the bridge.
The cups were inherited from my great uncle Jack (Charles John Munk) who was killed on the Somme in 1916 aged 22. They were almost his only possessions and are mentioned in the letter that he wrote to be given to his parents in the event of his death.
Sam Sampson • Link
The London Bridge Museum & Educational Trust
Are planning a Museum in the southern abutment space of Sir John Rennie's London Bridge. Their website has an excellent history of the bridge, and the museum proposal looks fascinating.
There's a view of London Bridge circa 1600 on the 'Shakespeare Sonnets' site. "From a photo-chromolithograph made for the New Shakspere Society, from a drawing in Pepys' Collection at Magdalene College, Cambridge. This is reputed to be the earliest genuine view of London Bridge."
Peter Roberts • Link
There is an informative, illustrated page about the Inhabited Bridge, that links & complements Sam`s ref. above. Its by The Old London Bridge Society that I founded! We`ve more news when our own web site is up and running. For now, I`m a grateful `Guest contributor` at the address below, please check it out:
Glyn • Link
This picture depicts the Frost Fair of 1683.
On the left bank you can see St Mary-le-bow church with its dragon weathervane, the Monument and the Tower of London just beyond London Bridge. Southwark Cathedral is on the right bank. Apparently the Temple gardenwall is on the left which means that (a) there is a lot of foreshortening in the perspective, and (b) the ice extended a long way. If Pepys (then aged 49 or 50) is anywhere in this drawing, I suspect him to be the man on the lower left walking with the lady.
Sjoerd • Link
Interesting to read the explanation of the "booths" on the ice;for instance there is a "Duke of York Coffee House" and a "Tory Booth". Interesting when you read about the politics of the time, see http://www.wordiq.com/definition/Abhorrers
Thanks Glyn
Glyn • Link
For the record, there are at least three models of old London Bridge on display in London.
Absolutely the best one is in the entrance to the Church of St Magnus the Martyr (can anyone take a photo of this one?). To find the church, stand at the Monument and look downhill to the river and it is the church that's directly across the road. If it is closed, you can still see fragments of the later London Bridge in the churchyard, and a wooden Roman harbour post from 2000 years ago.
The biggest model is in the Docklands Museum.
The third is badly lit and displayed, and nothing special, but is the most accessible because it is in the Museum of London.
CGS • Link
another view : Hollar: http://www.british-history.ac.uk/image.aspx?com...
interesting site for perusing London of Peeps.
dirk • Link
London Bridge virtual reality tour
The old link is not functioning any more - use this one:
Bill • Link
London Bridge (old), a stone bridge over the Thames from London to Southwark, 926 feet long, 60 feet high, and 40 feet broad, built between 1176 and 1209, under the superintendence of Peter of Colechurch, chaplain of the former church of St. Mary Colechurch, in the Old Jewry. This bridge stood about 200 feet east of the present structure in the line of Fish Street Hill, just by the church of St. Magnus, and consisted of twenty arches, a drawbridge for larger vessels, and a chapel and crypt in the centre, dedicated to St. Thomas of Canterbury, and in which the said Peter of Colechurch was buried in 1205.
---London, Past and Present. H.B. Wheatley, 1891.
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Chart showing the number of references in each month of the diary's entries.
- Mar


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Introducing leggings. You'll never run out of inspiration.
Pen, ink, Daniel Smith watercolors on 140 lb hot press.
An illustration-style piece, with a great deal of ink linework. Having come from a comics publishing background, a lot of my earlier work had heavy outlines. It's only been in the last few years that I've discovered the challenges of edgeless painting, but I still do pieces like this one for print work. I selected a very smooth hot press paper in order to preserve the hardness of the subject.
As with many of my insect/arachnid pieces, I sometimes take liberties with color. Perhaps it's my studio lighting (full-spectrum bulbs or natural light). Even when I make outlandish color choices, Nature itself never fails to surprise and outdo.
Please take a moment to review my other insect and arachnid work
Organic produce slinger by day. Automatic Scribbler and Deliberate Renderer by night.
"Pete Janes entertains the macro insect crowd with meticulous gouache and watercolor specimen pieces, while his more imaginary illustrations seem to be glimpses into faraway realities."—noted art critic and Portland bum R. Terialspray
View Full ProfileVery nicely done! Very interesting.
Great stuff for us Scorpios :)
Lovely design, and I like 'outlandish colour choices'!
Thank you very kindly Jess!
– Pete Janes
beautiful work here!
Very much appreciated Janelle!
– Pete Janes
Wow! Thanks for the feature, Marion!
– Pete Janes
beautiful work! I love you gallery. great talent you have ;)
Your gallery is AWESOME! What beautiful art. This is a handsome scorpion, even if it is blue – LOL! I like the blue, as a matter of fact. Congratulations on your feature – FAVE:>)


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Christopher Fiffie
Music video: '18 Wheels and Jesus,' by Tony Justice
Tony Justice's heartfelt "18 wheels and Jesus" track gets a professional music-video treatment with production work by Big Rig Videos' Christopher Fiffie. See it here.
Out from behind the camera: Big Rig Videos' Chris Fiffie
Florida-based videographer and former truck driver Chris Fiffie has been turning heads over the past year with his vid series of Rolling CB Interviews with owner-operators.
Video: A highway-safety public service announcement from the pros
Christopher Fiffie's BigRig Videos Youtube channel recently featured the following video PSA -- from veteran truckers to the general public on safe driving around trucks.
New Tony Justice interview, showcase vid from Christopher Fiffie
Fiffie's work combines rolling shots and other footage with interviews and music as well, a perfect fit for singer-songwriter Justice as a subject. Take a look at it here.


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TD-Complete Submission
What to expect when you're expecting (an acceptance letter)
4.13 / 5.00 4,640 ViewsOmg Its Teh Emo Clock 1E . This will make no sense if u havnt watched any of the others.
Im very sorry.
More suited to be a writer.
Man, the lines were drop dead funny. The animation not so much. Keep working on your art. But also keep writing the comedy, I'll laugh every time.
Asshat clock movies
But i like this one (Famliy guy quote. COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT!! >=( )
nah it was funny, work on animation
I am :D the saviour! huha
Animations werent that great but the jokes made well up for it.
the line that sealed this as being funny was.
"Ive think i've found a way to help you"
"How can you do that?!"
"...I'm black"
Possibly the funniest line I've ever heard.
Not the best animated movie of all time, but it sure was one of the funniest!. =D
- KoLdBLooD
Shizzle i forgot
I didnt watch the others
but this is really funny
im gonna go watch the others now xDD
(whats the name of the program that make those clock voices??)
speakonia. Search it on google and then download it. If you want any help with anythin, then pm me.


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Tale of Two Cities
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Format: Paperback Vendor: Penguin Classics ISBN: 0141439602 | ISBN-13: 9780141439600 UPC: 051488007005 Availability: In Stock |
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Publisher's Description
After eighteen years as a political prisoner in the Bastille the aging Dr Manette is finally released and reunited with his daughter in England. There two very different men, Charles Darnay, an exiled French aristocrat, and Sydney Carton, a disreputable but brilliant English lawyer, become enmeshed through their love for Lucie Manette. From the tranquil lanes of London, they are all drawn against their will to the vengeful, bloodstained streets of Paris at the height of the Reign of Terror and soon fall under the lethal shadow of La Guillotine. This Penguin Classics edition uses the text as it appeared in its first serial publication in 1859 and includes the original illustrations by H. K. Browne (Phiz'). Richard Maxwell's introduction discusses the intricate interweaving of epic drama with personal tragedy.
For more than sixty-five years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,500 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
Author Bio
Charles Dickens was born on February 7, 1812, in Landport, Portsea, England. He died in Kent on June 9, 1870. The second of eight children of a family continually plagued by debt, the young Dickens came to know not only hunger and privation,but also the horror of the infamous debtors' prison and the evils of child labor. A turn of fortune in the shape of a legacy brought release from the nightmare of prison and "slave" factories and afforded Dickens the opportunity of two years' formal schooling at Wellington House Academy. He worked as an attorney's clerk and newspaper reporter until his Sketches by Boz (1836) and The Pickwick Papers (1837) brought him the amazing and instant success that was to be his for the remainder of his life. In later years, the pressure of serial writing, editorial duties, lectures, and social commitments led to his separation from Catherine Hogarth after twenty-three years of marriage. It also hastened his death at the age of fifty-eight, when he was characteristically engaged in a multitude of work.
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All Good Things… The journey has come to an end…purpose has been satisfied. About these ads Share this:TwitterFacebookGoogleLike this:Like Loading... Standard
This makes me a little sad. I pray that you are well sir. Your poetry is excellent and will continue to get even better. Of this I have no doubt. September 6, 2013 at 9:07 AM Reply


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The General Assembly gathers in Atlanta this week facing a deficit of more than $1 billion. Across-the-board budget cuts are no longer sufficient to bridge the budget gap. Georgia needs more innovative, transformative ideas.
The sun was shining Saturday on Coastal Georgia - just at it was on Tucson, Ariz. But instead of going down in history as just another unremarkable day, Jan. 8, 2011, will live forever in this country as a day of terrible tragedy.
President Barack Obama's first two years in office were for the ages: Rarely has so much been spent so wantonly with so little discernible public benefit.
Georgia Gov. Nathan Deal was inaugurated to lead a state mired in hard times. The hopes of almost 10 million Georgians for better things are now his burden, his responsibility and his opportunity. There could hardly be a better way to begin a new era, or to dispel the ethics cloud that hung over his head as a candidate, than for this governor to take the lead in real ethics and accountability reform in state government. The token gestures to come from the Capitol of late have been feeble and suggest that Republican rule has so far been no improvement ...
We're ankle deep in January and for some reason I haven't heard much about New Year's resolutions. Usually by this time, I've heard about diets, exercise, yoga, guitar lessons and improved church attendance just to name a few. But this year, it's almost like everything is being kept secret.
In what may well be the single most significant report made to the General Assembly this session, a panel charged with reviewing the state's tax code and making recommendations regarding it will present its findings to legislators and Lt. Gov. Casey Cagle on Monday.
I've gained 12 pounds since my husband's return. Twelve pounds. That means that all of the hard work I put into diet and exercise to impress him lasted for all of that one welcome home night before the effects started to quickly disappear.
Many people are welcoming 2011 with hope and optimism by taking on New Year's resolutions to improve the quality of their lives. Our society has put a lot of emphasis on New Year's - new beginnings and starts, makeovers, new relationships, new cars, habits, weight loss, optimism, achievement and other initiatives for self-improvement. Between 40 and 45 percent of all Americans set New Year's resolutions, but statistically only 8 percent succeed. Maybe that's because people overlook the best resolutions, which focus on improving the quality of our existing relationships.
Oh great. Now, the Obama administration is getting involved in public education in Georgia. That's all we need. The deft touch of an inept federal government.
I love the first of the year. It is fresh. It is a really good time to throw out the old and bring in the new. Phone books are a good place to start. The new ones should be here in a few days and the old ones must look pretty raggedy by now. It is time to give that old book the boot and make room for a new book in your life. But don't just toss them in the trash. Turn your phone books in so they can be recycled.
On Jan. 10, Nathan Deal will be sworn in as the 82nd governor of Georgia.
The text of ObamaCare is dry and legalistic, except when it summons the majesty of the King James Bible to intone imperiously, "the secretary shall ..."
Good grief! I haven't gotten used to writing 2010 yet and 2011 is here.
This coming Friday, we will celebrate Georgia Arbor Day. If you love and appreciate trees like I do, then please join us in celebration of trees this week by planting a tree and increasing our community tree canopy.
Editor, There is a new House bill going through the state at a very fast pace, and it's not even being discussed like any local gossip would. This is a very important issue for the entire state of Georgia. This bill proposes to take fuel tax off of your local SPLOST, ESPLOST and LOST revenue, which means a significant change in the operations of the county.
Twelve years ago, I made a decision to follow my head, not my heart, and put my career first. I'd just completed my first post-college internship at the Abilene Reporter-News in Texas and, having impressed my supervisor, was offered full-time employment at the end of my three-month stint.


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Subspace Similarity Search Using the Ideas of Ranking and Top-k Retrieval
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Executive Summary
There are abundant scenarios for applications of similarity search in databases where the similarity of objects is defined for a subset of attributes, i.e., in a subspace, only. While much research has been done in efficient support of single column similarity queries or of similarity queries in the full space, scarcely any support of similarity search in subspaces has been provided so far. The three existing approaches are variations of the sequential scan. Here, the authors propose the first index-based solution to subspace similarity search in arbitrary subspaces which is based on the concepts of nearest neighbor ranking and top-k retrieval.
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Vosges founder Katrina Markoff, who attended Le Cordon Bleu and worked at elBulli, saw opportunity for a high-end chocolate company. "I realized that there was nothing really innovative and nothing particularly high quality," she said. "Everything was loaded with preservatives or some kind of weird flavoring. There was this huge hole in the chocolate space that called out for innovation."
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Undergraduate Offerings
B.A. Psychology
B.S. Psychology
B.S. Cognitive and Behavioral Neuroscience
Minor in Psychology
Five-Year B.S./M.S. in Psychology
Graduate Offerings
M.S. in Psychology
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A major in psychology requires 11 courses (31 credits):
Courses graded Satisfactory/Unsatistactory (S/U) cannot be used as psychology electives to satisfy the major; S/U courses can only be used as liberal arts general electives.
Both PSY 4050 - Research Methods in Psy and PSY 4500 - Cognitive Psychology count as Writing Intensive courses for the liberal arts curriculum. PSY 4050 - Research Methods in Psy also fills the liberal arts Core Research Requirement.
Either PSY 4100 - Foundations of Modern Psych or PSY 4125 - Contemporary Issues in Psych is taken during the senior year.
PSY 5900 - Undergraduate Research is highly recommended for students wishing to pursue graduate work in psychology.
PSY 2993 - Psychology Internship is recommended for students who wish to gain real-world experience working in psychology. Internships usually involve a one-year commitment (fall and spring semesters) during the senior year. Click on the document below to download the Psychology Internship Packet.


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News and views from the Northfield Public Library's Teen Advisory Board.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Cabin Fever Library Mini Golf
Ever feel like this?
Now is your chance for some summer fun!
Ok, it's March in Minnesota
But have fun and beat the winter blues-play Mini Golf at the library.
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A colorfully fused set of soft, shimmery shades that seamlessly bring together blush and bronzer! Each shade is complementary to one another and comes in one convenient pan!