Or maybe I’m just being a quivering chicken about the whole thing.

I guess I have to take an honest-to-God stab at tact. Lovely.

As soon as I turn to go back, I sense my grandfather in the water. The pulse of the Poseidon King Antonis coils around my legs like a tightening string. Fan-freaking-tastic. Just what we need. Another Royal opinion on the matter of our road trip.

I wait for him to surface, trying to think of a great excuse as to why he shouldn’t go to the house. I’ve got nothing. Anything I say will come off as unwelcoming, when really, I’d like to see him more often. He’s high up on the list of people—well, people who have a fin—I’d like to spend time with. But now is not a good time for spending.

It’s not long before my excuse to shoo him away presents itself in the form of Naked Grandfather. I cover my eyes, irritation bubbling up against my will. “Really? You really forget every single time you change into human form to put shorts on? You cannot go in the house like that.”

Grandfather sighs. “My apologies, young Emma. But you must admit, all these human traditions are a bit overwhelming. Where might I find a short?”

That clothes seem like a mountainous burden to him reminds me that our worlds are spectacularly different. And that I could learn a lot from him. Without unshielding my eyes, I point toward the water, in the exact opposite direction I know Galen has a pair hidden. When in doubt, stall. “Try over there. Under the slab of rock. And they’re called shorts, not ‘a short.’”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to bore someone else with your human expressions, young one. I couldn’t possibly care less.” I hear him disappear under the water, surfacing several seconds later. “The short is not here.”

I shrug. “Guess you can’t go in then.” This is going better than I thought it would.

I can practically feel him crossing his arms at me. Here we go.

“You think I’m here to object to your going inland with Galen.”

My mouth drops open. And I stutter excessively when I say, “Well. Um. Aren’t you?” Because so far, he’s done nothing but play hall monitor between me and Galen. A few months ago, he walked in on us while we were making out, and Galen nearly passed out because of it. Ever since then Galen has been terrified of disappointing the Poseidon king, so Grandfather’s negative opinion on this trip might actually be a game changer.

Which is why he cannot go in the house.

I hear Grandfather melt into the water, and he confirms it with, “You can turn around now.” Only his shoulders and chest are above the waves. He smiles. It’s the kind of adoring smile I’ve always imagined a grandfather gives his grandchildren when they bring him their most hideous Crayola creation. “I’m certainly not happy about you going inland, of course. I had wanted to spend a bit more time together, too. But I know from past experience that Poseidon princesses are not inclined to care about my opinion.”

It’s kind of cool to be referred to as a princess, even though my mother is the princess of Poseidon territory. Still, I raise a get-to-the-point brow. Grandfather responds best to frank and direct.

“I’m here to speak to you, Emma. Only you.”

Mortified, I wonder if there exists a Syrena expression for “the birds and the bees talk.” Probably there is, and it’s probably some god-awful analogy having to do with plankton or worse.

In the distance, we hear a shout of outrage. He cocks his head at me. “Why aren’t you in there helping your prince?”

If I thought I felt guilty before … But then I remember that this business is not for Grandfather’s nose. I’m actually doing Galen a favor by stalling now. “Because if I stay there any longer, I’ll grow a beard from all the testosterone hovering in the air.” Of course, my answer is over his head; he indicates this with a bored-silly eye roll. Syrena do not know—nor apparently care—what testosterone is.

“If you don’t wish to tell me, that is fine,” he says. “I have trust in your judgment.” More shouting from behind me. Maybe my judgment sucks after all. I’m about to excuse myself, when he says, “It’s better this way, that they’re distracted. What I have to say is for your ears only, young Emma.” A seagull overhead drops a bomb then, and it lands cleanly on Grandfather’s shoulder. He mutters some fishy expletive and swishes saltwater over the offending white glob, setting it off to sea. “Why don’t you come into the water, so we can close some of the distance between us? I’d rather someone didn’t overhear. Here, I’ll change back to Syrena form if that will make you more comfortable.”

I wade into the Atlantic, not caring to roll up my pajamas this time. I pass a large crab who looks like he’s tempted to nip at me. I squat in the water, submerging my entire head, and come face-to-face with the crab. “If you pinch me,” I tell it, “I’ll pick you up and throw you on the beach for the gulls.” The Gift of Poseidon—the ability to talk to fish—does have its advantages. Bossing around marine life is just one of them.

I’ve come to realize crabs in particular throw mini temper tantrums. I wonder if that’s where the term “crabby” came from in the first place. He scuttles away, as if I’ve ruined his whole day. When I resurface and reach Grandfather, I can no longer touch the ground. Gliding up to him, I say, “So? We’re as private as we can be.”