Chapter 3:The Curious Child

By the time Marrine turned three, people couldn’t pretend she was just another child.

She shot up taller than the other kids, all long limbs and uncanny grace—she moved more like a dancer than a toddler wobbling around. And her eyes, well, they wouldn’t even stay the same color. Some days, stormy gray. Other times, they turned this peaceful turquoise, like the sea after the rain. Plus, her hair was a wonder all on its own. Black as midnight, never messy, always drifting around her head like it had a mind of its own, following the breeze.

The townsfolk talked, like they always had. But the rumors felt sharper now, like they could actually cut someone.

"That girl's not right," they'd mutter.

"Did you see how she stares at the water? Like she wants to just… disappear into it."

"And Father Michael, keeping her so close. Makes you wonder what he’s hiding."

Michael heard every comment. He’d stand in the back pew at Sunday mass, watching folks peer over at Marrine, his stomach twisting tighter each time. They didn’t know the truth. Not exactly. But they guessed. And suspicion, in a small town, spreads faster than wildfire.

Come spring, Sister Agnes took Marrine to the shore. It was one of those April afternoons that teases you with summer, and Marrine had begged all week just to see the sea. She talked about the water in her sleep, for heaven’s sake. Agnes thought a trip might settle her down, so she took Marrine’s hand and wandered down the cliff path, breathing in the salt and the promise of sun.

Of course they watched her. They always watched.

This time, Marrine simply walked to where the waves washed over the sand and stopped. She stretched her arms wide, like she was greeting something only she could see. Her face—calm as you please— looked like she belonged there. The wind picked up and teased her hair until it waved like a flag behind her.

Then the fish showed up.

One by one, they gathered—dozens of bright, flashing fish, swirling at her ankles. Gulls swooped in, screeching, but their cries sounded almost happy. One landed right on Marrine’s shoulder and started nuzzling her hair, as if she were made of sunshine and bread crumbs. Soon, a crowd of them circled her, keeping guard.

“Marrine!” Agnes called out, her voice halfway to panic. “Come away from the water!”

Marrine turned. In a heartbeat, the scene vanished—fish gone in a silvery blur, birds wheeling up into the sky, and the little one on her shoulder took off with this mournful sound. The beach felt suddenly empty, except for the hiss of the sea.

Agnes hurried over, grabbed Marrine’s hands, and saw the webs. They were bigger—delicate, glimmering like water in sunlight, stretching between Marrine’s fingers.

“Marrine, did you call the fish over?”

Marrine looked up, eyes bright and wide, completely innocent. “I don’t know. They just came close. Said I smelled like home.”

Agnes’s heart squeezed. “Home? What does that mean?”

Marrine shrugged, careless, almost grown up. “I don’t know. It sounded nice. Like singing, but underwater. Prettier than church singing.”

A chill raced down Agnes’s spine. She remembered those odd melodies that drifted from the sea at dusk. She’d always blamed the wind or maybe her mind playing tricks. But now she knew. The sea had been calling to this child since day one.

“Let’s go back,” she managed, trying to steady herself. She took Marrine’s hand and led her up the path. When her heart stopped racing, she said gently, “Let’s keep this—our special game—a secret. Our secret, just you, me, and Father Michael.”

“A secret?” Marrine’s whole face lit up. “I love secrets! Is it a game?”

“That's right, sweetheart. A very important one.” Agnes squeezed her hand. “So, no telling anyone about the fish, or the birds, or the singing. Do you promise?”

Marrine nodded, serious as only a three-year-old can be. “I promise. I’m good at secrets.”

Agnes tried to smile, but a knot tangled in her chest. How long would their secret last? What then? When Marrine got older and things just got stranger? When the whole town couldn’t pretend anymore?

That night, Agnes told Michael everything. She found him staring into the fire, his whiskey untouched. His face had deep lines, too many for his age.

“She called them, Father. The fish, the birds—they treated her like a—”

“—A princess,” Michael finished. He ran a hand over his eyes. “The letter warned us. Said her power is beyond imagining.”

“But she’s only three!”

“And she’s going to get stronger. We have to be careful now. No more trips to the shore. No outsiders. If someone else sees her...”

“They’ll call her a monster,” Agnes whispered.

“They’ll burn her as a witch.” He finally reached for his glass. “I’ve asked God for help, but lately there’s just silence. I can’t tell if I’m saving her soul or dooming it.”

Agnes slipped to her knees and clasped his hands, rough and trembling. “You’re loving her, Father. That’s what matters.”

He looked at her and, just for a second, the worry faded. “You’re right, Sister.”

“Somebody has to be,” she said, managing half a smile. “Now get some rest. We still have a lot ahead.”

Outside, the sea sang its strange, lonely song, and somewhere in the darkness below the waves, a king waited, patient, for his daughter to come home.