CANDLELIGHT REFLECTED OFF THE SILVER ANCHOR

Etched into my sister's necklace. It was an ugly piece of jewelry and something Eulalie would never have picked out for herself. She loved simple strands of gold, extravagant collars of diamonds. Not...that. Papa must have selected it for her. I fumbled at more stylish, but the battalion of pallbearers shuts the coffin lid before I could undo the clasp.

"We, people of Salt, commit this body back to the sea." the Highmoor mariner in toned as the wooden box slid deep into the waiting crypt.

I tried not to notice the smattering of lichens growing inside the gapping mouth, drawn wide to swallow her whole. Tried to not think of my sister—who was alive, and warm, and breathing just days before—bring laid to rest. Tried to not to imagine the thin bottom of the coffin growing fat of condensation and salt water before spilling Eulalie's body into the watery depths beneath our family mausoleum. I tried, instead, to cry.

I knew it would be expected of me, just as I knew the tears were unlikely to come. They would later on, probably this evening when I passed her bedroom and saw the black shrouds covering her wall of mirrors. Eulalie have had so many mirrors.

Eualie.

She'd been the prettiest of all my sisters. Her rosy lips were forever turned into a smile. She loved a good joke, her bright green eyes always ready for a quick wink. Scores of suitors vied for her attention, even before she became the eldest Thaumas daughter, the one to set inherit all of Papa's fortune.

"We are born by Salt, we live by Salt, and to the Salt we return." the High Mariner continued. "To the salt" the mourners repeated. As Papa stepped forward to place two gold pieces at the foot of the crypt—payment to Pontus for easing my sister back into the Brine— I dared to sweep my eyes around the mausoleum. It was overflowing with guests bedecked in their finest black wools and crepes, many of them once would-be beaus of Eulalie. She would have been pleased to see many brokenhearted young men openly lamenting her.

"Annaleigh..." Camile whispered nudging me. "To the Salt" I murmured. I pressed a handkerchief to my eyes, feigning tears.

Papa's keen disapproval burned in my heart. His own eyes were soggy and his proud nose was red as the High Mariner stepped forward with a chalice lined with abalone shell and filled with seawater. He thrust it into the crypt and poured water onto Eulalie's coffin, ceremonially beginning its decomposition. One he doused the candles flanking by the stony opening, the service was over. Papa turned to the gathered mass, a wide shock of white streaked through his dark hair. Was it there yesterday?

"Thank you for coming to remember my daughter, Eulalie." his voice, usually so big and bold, accustomed to addressing lords at court, creaked with uncertainty. "My family and i invite you to join us now at Highmoor for a celebration of her life. There will br food and drinks and..." He cleared his throat, sounding more like a stammering clerk than the nineteenth Duke of the Salann Islands. "I know how much it would have meant to Eulalie to have you their."

He nodded once, speech over, his face a blank facade. I longed to reach out to ease his grief, but Morella, my stepmother, was already at his side.

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