Chapter 4:The First Questions

Marrine was only five when she started asking the tough questions.

She wasn’t just clever—she was relentless. Curiosity burned in her, and you couldn’t put it out with an easy answer. Most Sundays, she’d claim her spot in the front pew, chin tipped up, taking in every word Father Michael said. And when Mass was over, she’d find him. She always had questions—real questions that made his throat go tight. Why was the sea so loud at night? Why did the fish seem to follow her? Why did some of the nuns glance her way and cross themselves?

But nothing stung more than her questions about family.

One Sunday after Mass, while the last few parishioners drifted out, Marrine piped up, her small but clear voice echoing around the sanctuary. “Why don’t I have a mama and papa like everybody else?”

The words hit Agnes so suddenly she almost doubled over. She tried to hide it, smoothing Marrine’s dark hair back behind her ear with shaking fingers. “You have us, sweetie—me, Father Michael, all the sisters. We’re your family.”

“But other kids have mamas. And daddies.” Marrine’s sea-bright eyes stared up at her, full of hope and confusion. “I don’t. Why don’t I?”

Agnes looked to Michael, desperate and silent. What could she say? The truth was too heavy for such a small girl.

Michael crossed the aisle, his cassock brushing the old stone floor, and knelt down beside them. He took Marrine’s hand, noticing the delicate way her fingers fit together, and did his best to smile. “Come on, little one. Let’s go see the garden.”

He led her outside into spring—warm air, blooming roses everywhere, pink and gold and deep red, their scent thick in the air. Bees hovered lazily, and behind it all was the low hush of the sea. Marrine loved the garden. She’d lost hours there, sometimes alone, talking soft and secret to the flowers as if they whispered back.

He sat down with her on the stone bench by the fountain, water bubbling quietly nearby. It was his favorite spot—private and peaceful, shielded from curious eyes.

“Marrine, do you know what a foundling is?”

She nodded. “Agnes told me. That’s a baby you find. Like me.”

“That’s right.” He paused, gathering himself. “Your mother loved you, Marrine. More than anything. But she knew you’d be safest here, with us at St. Mary’s. She brought you here because she trusted us to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” she said, confusion turning her voice small. “Why couldn’t she keep me?”

He wanted to tell her—the whole, dizzying truth. About the sea, the old magic, the danger that still moved beneath the waves. About a king she’d never heard of, who would stop at nothing to reach her. But how do you tell that to a five-year-old? How do you explain that her father was hunting her, that her mother had run away in fear?

He swallowed. “Sometimes grown-ups have to let go to keep someone safe. Even when it hurts. Even when it breaks their hearts.”

Marrine didn’t answer right away. Her brow knit in thought. She pulled a petal from a rose and watched it fall. “Does she miss me?”

Michael’s chest hurt at that. “She does. She loves you so much she gave you up to save you. That’s the greatest love there is.”

“Then why won’t she come back?” Her voice caught and broke, and tears filled her eyes—those impossible eyes that always made him think of the sea. “If she loves me, why won’t she come back?”

He had nothing left to say. Nothing that wouldn’t wound her more. So he held her, pulling her close, feeling her small body shake with quiet sobs.

“You are loved, Marrine,” he whispered into her hair. “No matter what. I promise I will keep you safe. As long as I live. That’s my vow to you.”

Swallowing tears, she asked, “You promise?”

“I promise. On my life. On my soul. Nobody will hurt you—not the sea, not the king, not anyone.”

She drew back, sniffling, her cheeks wet and blotchy. “The king? What king?”

He froze. He’d said too much. “Just a story, sweetheart. An old one.”

“I like stories,” she said, her voice soft and hopeful again. “Will you tell me?”

“Not today.” He forced a smile. “Today, I think we need to find Sister Agnes and ask for some cookies. What do you think?”

Her face lit up. “With sprinkles?”

“Of course.”

She hopped off the bench and bolted toward the rectory, her dark hair streaming out behind her like a flag. Michael watched her go, his heart a messy knot of love and fear.

He’d made a promise. But everyone knows—promises break. The sea is patient. The King of the Deep had waited five years; he could wait five more. One day, he’d come for her.

Michael bowed his head, hands clasped tight, and prayed. For strength, for guidance, for this child he loved like his own. And far beneath the sea, something ancient shifted. Listening.

Not yet, Michael thought. Not yet. But someday soon.

That night, after Marrine was asleep, Michael sat in his study staring at the letter. A Mother’s Love Eternal. He held the words under his thumb, their weight pressing into him.

“I’ll keep her safe,” he whispered to the empty room. “I promised, and I won’t break it.”

Outside, the wind carried the sea’s haunting song, and Michael knew that the calm couldn’t last.