The Moon in the Net

The storm crushed the moon into pieces over Reef Bay.

Coral was chasing a drifting bottle through the dark reefs when she saw the silver light falling from the surface. She thought it was a star, sent by someone on shore to a traveler far away.

The bottle bobbed on the waves, its glass worn white by the sea, a red thread wound around its neck. Coral had followed it past three reefs, two schools of midnight silverfish, and one very irritable sea turtle. The turtle thought she was too noisy and slapped her with his flipper before leaving, which probably meant: shore things are trouble. Stay away from them.

Coral didn't listen.

She liked shore things.

Shore things always appeared without reason: metal boxes that glowed, round discs that sang, bottles that tucked human words inside their bellies. The elders of Tidal Bay said those were bad habits washed down from land—touch them too much and your tail would grow stupid. But Coral thought, if bad habits could drift this far, at least they really wanted to see the sea.

She reached for the bottle.

Just as her fingers touched the glass, the sea suddenly darkened.

A silver net fell from above, silent, as if the moon had torn itself open and spilled fragments of light into the water. Before Coral could react, the fine mesh wrapped around her shoulders, waist, and tail fin. The next moment, the knots cinched tight, and she was dragged up from underwater.

"Oh."

She looked down at the thing around her waist and touched it.

Bright. Cold. Beautifully knotted. Every crossing was pulled tight, like knots tied by a deep-sea crab. Coral admired it sincerely: "So sturdy."

On the surface, the hunting boat dimmed its light by one notch.

Rain pounded the iron hull, loud as a pot of jumping shrimp. A man stood at the bow, his black waterproof coat soaked through, wet hair plastered against his brow. He knelt by the gunwale, one hand on the net retractor, the other gripping a silver hook. The light swept across his face, illuminating a cold, hard jawline and an old scar on the web of his left hand.

The scar looked like it had been rubbed raw by rope, its color darker than the surrounding skin.

Coral looked up at him.

He looked back at her.

His eyes held no joy of discovery, no surprise worthy of a human prince in a story. His gaze was more like a fisherman who'd caught a seabird that shouldn't have gotten tangled in his net—troublesome, valuable, and better off not making a sound.

"Don't touch," the man said, his voice mingling with the rain, cold as a rock that had never seen the sun.

Coral's hand was still on the silver net. She stopped immediately at his words.

She thought for a moment, then asked politely, "Is this a human welcome blanket?"

The man's hand paused.

Another hunter poked his head out of the cabin. Older, stubble wet from the rain, holding a searchlight. When the light fell on Coral's tail scales, he gasped.

"Wenchao—it's alive?"

The man called Lu Wenchao didn't answer.

Coral heard the words "it's alive" and looked down at herself. Of course she was alive. Her tail hurt, her wrists were cold, the drifting bottle pressed against her ribs—all of it proved she was very much alive.

"I'm not dead," she explained earnestly. "Dead fish can't talk."

The hunter in the cabin blinked, then laughed. "This one's simple?"

Lu Wenchao didn't laugh. He stared at the girl in the net. Silver-blue hair spread across the dark waves, rain dripping from the ends. Her pupils glowed faint gold in the boat's light, but her tail was brighter than any lamp, scales layered one over another like moonlight sliced thin by the tide.

He had seen many things left behind by mermaids.

Scales. Severed hair. Dried blood. Songs cut in half, sealed in glass bottles with only half a melody left. But a living mermaid—this was his first time.

And she was pinching the silver net with two fingers, studying it like a curious new land toy.

"Your shore rules are really strict," Coral said, wrinkling her nose as she tugged gently at the net. "But it's pretty sturdy too. We don't usually use this many ropes to welcome guests in the sea. They'd get tangled around seahorses."

"Shut up," said Lu Wenchao.

Coral immediately closed her mouth, even pressing two fingers to her lips to show she was obedient.

The hunter in the cabin laughed louder. "Wenchao, she actually listens to you. Madam Bai would like this one—whole, talkative, and doesn't make a fuss."

At the words "Madam Bai," Lu Wenchao's brow tightened.

He tucked the silver hook back at his waist and turned the net retractor himself. The silver net slowly dragged Coral closer to the gunwale. When she left the water, her tail fin slapped against the deck with a dull, heavy sound. A tail wasn't meant to lie on wood, especially not bound by a silver rope. Pain shot from her tail fin all the way up her spine. Coral gasped, and the bottle in her arms almost rolled away.

Her first instinct wasn't to cry out, but to hold the bottle steady.

Lu Wenchao saw it.

"What's that?" he asked.

Coral held out the bottle. "Did you drop this? There's paper inside. I didn't peek too much—I only saw a curved symbol, like a little seahorse sleeping."

Lu Wenchao didn't take it.

The hunter in the cabin reached for it. "Let me see."

Coral pulled back. The silver net tightened instantly, making her tail tip curl in pain, but she still hugged the bottle to her chest. "It's not for you. It found me first."

The hunter's face darkened. "Little thing. Protective of its food."

Lu Wenchao raised a hand and stopped him.

"Don't touch her things."

The hunter scoffed. "Since when are you so particular? You've already caught her—why do you care what she's holding?"

Lu Wenchao didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on Coral. "Where did the bottle come from?"

"It drifted in from the sea," Coral said. Then, remembering he'd told her to shut up, she quickly pinched her mouth shut again.

Lu Wenchao: "You can talk now."

She released her fingers. "Your human rules change really fast."

Rain slid down Lu Wenchao's lashes. He clearly didn't want to discuss rules with her.

"Which direction did it come from?"

Coral raised her net-bound hand with difficulty and pointed toward the open sea. "That way. Very deep water. The bottle bumped into a sleeping jellyfish, then the waves pushed it over. I wanted to send it back to shore because my grandmother says humans like stuffing words they can't say into bottles. We don't do that in the sea."

She paused, then added proudly, "We sing. The water remembers."

"Don't sing." The hunter in the cabin tensed immediately. "Wenchao, gag her. A living mermaid's song can bewitch ships—I've heard old hunters say so."

Coral turned to look at him. "Is your ship so easy to bewitch?"

The hunter: "..."

Lu Wenchao reached out and pressed her shoulder, fixing her in place on the slick deck. The silver net touched her tail scales, making a very faint crackling sound. Only Coral could hear it clearly, like a knife scraping the inside of a shell. She bore it, then said quietly, "This blanket bites."

"It's not a blanket."

"Then what is it?"

"A hunting net."

Coral thought for a moment, then showed a flicker of understanding. "You're a hunter."

Lu Wenchao looked down at her. "You only realize that now?"

"My grandmother said hunters put mermaids' songs into glass bottles." She studied his pockets seriously. "Did you bring a bottle?"

The hunter in the cabin laughed again. "Wenchao, she's asking if you brought a bottle."

Lu Wenchao didn't laugh.

His hand reached to his side and pulled out a black cloth. The fabric was dry—clearly prepared in advance. He was going to cover Coral's eyes. The motion was swift, without a moment's hesitation.

Coral looked at the cloth and asked, "Is this the second welcome blanket?"

"For covering your eyes."

"Why?"

"Less to see."

"I can close my eyes."

"You're too noisy."

Coral looked hurt. "Eyes can't talk."

Lu Wenchao's hand paused, as if he hadn't expected her to answer like that.

Just before the black cloth fell, the boat was suddenly thrown sideways by a crosscurrent. Lu Wenchao gripped the gunwale, and his sleeve slid open. An old pocket watch chain fell from his coat, the watch cover cracked open by the rain.

Coral was very close.

She saw that inside the watch cover there was no photo—only a scratch mark eroded by sea salt. The mark looked like a small, trapped tide, its edges glowing with a very faint blue. Stranger still, she heard a sound.

Not the ticking a watch should make.

But something far, far away, in a very deep place—someone knocking on a door with their knuckles.

Thump.

Thump.

Coral's eyes slowly brightened.

"Lu Qi."

The rain seemed to stop.

The wind at the bow paused for a moment. Even the hunter in the cabin choked on his laughter.

Lu Wenchao's hand froze midair.

He turned his face and, for the first time, truly looked into Coral's eyes.

"What did you say?"

His voice was lower than before. Not cold. It was something that had been pressed down too long, suddenly cracking open.

Coral was startled by his expression and shrank back into the net. The silver rope cut into her shoulder, and she winced, but answered honestly, "Did I say it wrong? That's what the sleeping person at the bottom of the sea is called. Lu Qi. He taught me a short song, but he's always sleeping, so he forgets the lyrics halfway through."

The hunter in the cabin went pale. "Wenchao, how does she know your father's name?"

Lu Wenchao grabbed Coral's wrist.

His hand was hot—different from the rain and the seawater. Coral's skin was colder than the night tide, but her pulse was racing. She didn't understand why he was suddenly angry. He was like a rock washed up on shore—hard on the outside, but something inside was trembling.

"Where did you see him?" Lu Wenchao demanded.

"A very deep place."

"How deep?"

Coral thought hard. Mermaids didn't measure depth with human rulers. They said things like "where the coral trees don't reach," "where the whale bones sleep," "where even echoes get lost."

So she said, "Deeper than a lighthouse shadow. There's a black current there, many doors, and a piece of iron that keeps crying."

Lu Wenchao looked down at his pocket watch.

That watch had stopped for ten years.

Ten years ago, his father Lu Qi had disappeared after a mermaid hunt. The townspeople said he'd been dragged into the sea by a mermaid, not even bones left. The Hunters' Guild hung his silver hook on the memorial wall. Madam Bai sent a bouquet of white flowers, their petals stained with expensive perfume. Lu Wenchao was sixteen that year. He stood beside the white flowers and watched everyone say, with the same regretful tone: What a shame. Lu Qi was the best hunter.

No one said he might still be alive.

And no one told Lu Wenchao that a pocket watch that had long stopped ticking would, on a stormy night ten years later, move a little because a mermaid spoke his father's name.

Click.

The hand jumped half a mark.

The hunter in the cabin stepped back. "What was that sound?"

Coral heard it too. She tilted her head, like she was listening to a little crab hiding inside a shell.

"Look," she whispered. "It's crying again."

Lu Wenchao snapped the watch shut, his movement heavy, as if trying to lock that sound back inside.

The boat swayed again. Thunder rolled in the distance, illuminating Reef Bay for an instant. Coral saw several silver lines beneath the surface nearby—other hunting nets. So tonight, this sea hadn't accidentally dropped a welcome blanket. It had been laid out like a pocket, prepared in advance.

She finally realized, belatedly: she hadn't been invited.

She had been caught.

This realization made her uncomfortable. Not because she was afraid, but because she was disappointed. She had imagined many times what it would be like to meet a person from shore for the first time. Maybe on a sunny day, she'd return a drifting bottle, and a child would give her something sweet. Maybe under a lighthouse, she'd hide behind the reef and listen to a human play the violin, and someone would ask if she was cold.

She never imagined it would be on a stormy night, her tail bound by a net, pinned to a deck by a hunter with cold eyes.

Coral looked down at the bottle in her arms. The red thread was already soaked through. The paper inside pressed against the glass, the curved symbol no longer visible.

"Can I go back to the sea?" she asked.

The hunter in the cabin sneered. "What do you think?"

Lu Wenchao didn't answer.

Coral looked up at him. "I haven't delivered the bottle to shore yet."

"You're already on a boat at shore."

"Is a boat the same as shore?"

"Tonight it is."

"Then it's delivered." She seemed relieved and pushed the bottle toward him again. "For you."

Lu Wenchao finally took the bottle.

The glass was cold. The red thread around the neck was tied in a sailor's knot. That kind of knot wasn't common among the fishermen of White Whale Town—it looked more like the old knots Lu Qi had taught him years ago. Lu Wenchao pressed his thumb against the red thread, and the crack in his heart, opened by the pocket watch, widened a little more.

"Wenchao." The hunter in the cabin lowered his voice. "Don't let her lead you astray. Madam Bai is waiting for the goods. Live mermaid, complete song—you know how much this trip is worth. Besides, her bringing up your father's name—it might be song magic, meant to ensnare your mind."Coral looked at him in confusion. "I didn't hook his heart. Do hearts have ropes too?"

The hunter was left speechless.

Lu Wenchao tucked the bottle into his windbreaker's inner pocket and raised his hand to pick up the black cloth again.

Coral immediately pinched her mouth shut, but her eyes stayed fixed on him without blinking. She seemed to think that as long as she didn't speak, he wouldn't lower that cloth over her.

Lu Wenchao avoided her gaze and covered her eyes with the black cloth.

When darkness fell, Coral caught the scent from his sleeve. Rainwater, sea salt, rust, and a faint trace of medicine. She suddenly thought of the sleeping person at the bottom of the sea. He had a similar rusty smell too, only older, as if he had been buried by the sea for a long time.

"Turn around," Lu Wenchao said.

The hunter in the cabin froze. "Aren't we delivering the goods?"

"Going back to White Whale Town first."

"Madam Bai is right in town waiting for the goods. Isn't that the same delivery?"

"Going to the Old Aquarium," Lu Wenchao said. "Don't take the main dock."

The hunter stared at him. "Why?"

Lu Wenchao's voice was so low it was almost blown away by the wind. "The cargo is unstable."

"Her? She's not unstable at all. I'd say she's perfectly well-behaved."

"She knows Lu Qi."

After those four words fell, no one on the boat laughed anymore.

The hunter's face shifted through uncertain colors, finally cursed, and turned to adjust the rudder. The hunting boat labored through the waves as it turned, the white foam trailing behind soon scattered by the rain.

Wrapped in the silver net, Coral faced a world of black. With her sight gone, sounds became clearer. She heard the rain hitting the deck, the hunter's boots splashing through puddles, Lu Wenchao tucking his pocket watch back against his chest, and in the distance, the lighthouse of White Whale Town turning through the fog.

When that lighthouse beam swept over, even through the black cloth, she could feel a vague brightness.

She asked very softly, "Lu Wenchao."

The man did not answer.

"Can I give you back the welcome blanket? It really keeps biting me."

After a long pause, she heard him crouch down.

The silver net was loosened just a little. Only a little—still inescapable, but no longer cutting into her tail fin until it went numb.

Lu Wenchao said coldly, "It's not a welcome blanket."

Coral curved her eyes in the darkness. "Then thank you for your not-a-welcome-blanket."

Lu Wenchao seemed to draw a breath, as if he wanted to curse at her, but felt it would be useless anyway.

The boat continued toward White Whale Town.

The distant lighthouse blinked on and off like a weary eye. No lights came from the dock, only the iron gate behind the Old Aquarium waiting in the rain. Coral didn't know what kind of place that was, only that the sea was drawing away from her. She curled the tip of her tail, her arms empty now—the bottle taken away by Lu Wenchao, her fingers left to grip only the cold, wet net ropes.

She felt like singing a little.

Sing to the sea, tell it she hadn't left on purpose. Sing to Grandmother, say that the welcome blanket onshore really did bite. And sing to the sleeping person at the bottom of the sea, tell him she'd met a human with the same scent as his.

But Lu Wenchao said to sing less.

Coral thought it over and decided to follow this human rule for now.

Just as the hunting boat neared the back door of the Old Aquarium, the pocket watch on Lu Wenchao's chest chimed again.

Click.

This time, the sound was very soft.

So soft the hunter in the cabin didn't hear it, the rain didn't hear it, even the sea so close by seemed to miss it.

Only Coral and Lu Wenchao lifted their heads at the same time.

Beneath the black cloth, Coral blinked.

"It says," she murmured, "the door isn't closed yet."

Lu Wenchao's hand stopped on her shoulder.

The iron gate of the Old Aquarium slowly opened in the rainy night. Beyond it there was no light, only a cold, stale smell of fishy water rushing out, like some deeper darkness opening its mouth.