1 PUTNAM. THE PRESENT: 1949.

PUTNAM WATCHED a tattered girl about his own age at the edge of the bonfire. For the past hour, she'd hovered in the shadows just outside the glow of the flames. Her face would pop into the light briefly, then snuff itself out again, only to reappear several moments later, then disappear, like a candle being lit and immediately blown out.

She'd been circling the fire, when Putnam, looking for the best spot to listen and watch, noticed her. But she stopped moving about the same time he did, not quite across the fire from him. As he listened to Jupiter, the storyteller, entertain the people with a funny tale about the time long ago when they tried to grow mangoes on Raftworld (sadly, there was not enough dirt for the trees to root in), Putnam's eyes flicked again and again to the spot where the girl's face would suddenly jut out of the darkness and then fall back into it. She didn't seem to realize she could be seen, and no one but Putnam noticed her.

Part of the reason she stood out to Putnam so much was her obvious wish not to be seen. Putnam understood that desire; he was trying to stay out of the light, too. Everyone expected so much of him—the Raft King's son! the next king of Raftworld!—and sometimes he just needed to get away. Maybe this girl had some of the same feelings. Maybe her so-called friends were always following her around, too, hoping for favors and being nice to her because of who her dad was.

Or maybe not. Putnam squinted at the girl through the smoke. An Islander, she had the lighter brown skin and straight hair and stocky body that was the classic Tathenlander look. But unlike the other Islanders, she wasn't spiffed up, wearing her best clothes for the party; she acted as if she wasn't even supposed to be at the party.

She made Putnam think of the story the Island's former storyteller (now dead) had told the last time Raftworld had visited the Islands, when he'd been only two—ten years ago. He didn't remember the actual words the Island storyteller had used, of course, but Jupiter had retold the tale since then: a poor orphan girl who'd been forced to work for her rich, hateful stepmother and who, when the prince threw a party, snuck in and eventually captured the prince's heart. Except—Putnam reminded himself—that girl had been given a ball gown and fragile gypsum slippers when she snuck into the ball, and this girl was here simply as herself. She wasn't likely to win a prince's heart the way she looked and acted.

He smiled at the next thought: technically, he supposed, he was the prince in the story. Though no one called him by that title, he was in fact the Raft King's only child. So if he were to follow the story's plot, he should chase this girl down and grab one of her shoes... if she had shoes...

The girl materialized one more time, the firelight playing on a set of bruises on one side of her face. Jupiter had moved on to a more serious story: how the Raftworlders’ ancestor Venus escaped from being enslaved. And this time, as Jupiter the storyteller explained the moment of decision, the choice Venus made, the tattered girl emerged and didn't snuff right back into darkness. This time her face stayed in the light, entranced as she was by the story. And there was something in the fire's glow that made her look—not pretty, no, nor healthy nor well cared for—but full of determination and spirit and energy. Just for that moment.

Jupiter's story ended, and she vanished. Vivid in the fire's flickering light one moment, gone the next.

A big hand descended on Putnam's shoulder, and for one brief second he thought it was the girl, coming after him instead of waiting for him to chase her down and steal her shoe. But as soon as that thought flitted into his head, he knew it was wrong. First of all, the hand was too large and heavy.

“It's time.” His father, of course—tall, thin, and a little stooped, in the dark red cloak he wore for official events, his graying beard closely trimmed.

Putnam nodded. He already stood in the back of the crowd; he didn't even have to jostle anyone to leave. For a moment he wondered what it would be like to just vanish, like that girl.

“Are you coming?” asked his father. “Your first Session. Let's not be late.”

Putnam nodded again and hurried after the old man.

• • •

THE TRADING SESSION—usually just called “the Session”—was the biggest meeting in the entire world, which wasn't saying much, as the world was small, at least where people were concerned. The Session, which lasted for several days with long breaks for the delegates to attend parties and socialize, happened every decade or so, whenever the floating nation of Raftworld arrived in the course of its usual travels to the islands of Tathenland and the big island of Tathenn and its capital city of Baytown. Then the Raftworlders and Islanders got together for a week or more of parties and storytelling and singing... and trading. The Raft King and the Island's governor—and other important people—attended meetings, exchanged important information, made deals. This year, the Raft King had said that now that he was twelve, Putnam was old enough to go to the meetings. As if that was a privilege. It was , but the other delegates were grown-ups. And the meeting was all talking .

Putnam sat in the back corner of the room next to a convenient tray of cookies, rather than at the delegates’ table, which was only big enough for the eight women and men—four from each country—who ran the Session. He was supposed to be listening and learning. He nibbled and made crumbs and tried—he really did—to pay attention.

But the day had been long, and his mind wandered, and after an hour or more of discussions of flour and wool and embroidered cloth and hydraulic engines and so many other things, his eyes drooped. Just before he slid into deep sleep, he remembered himself and snapped back, shifting suddenly in his chair and crumbling the cookie still clutched in his hand.

Eight heads rotated toward him, conversation stalling for a moment. “Sorry,” he muttered, feeling foolish, as they turned back to discussion. He knew he should be listening deeply at his first Session, maybe even saying something important—but barring that, at least he should look like he was listening. He pinched his leg, hard, and sat up straighter, shoving the broken cookie into his mouth and chewing vigorously.

And the pinching and chewing helped. He felt less tired, at least for the moment.

Until he realized what the Session leaders were talking about now: the ocean. A cloud of gloom settled over the room, and Putnam could tell that, long before the topic was introduced, everyone had been thinking about the water. It had been turning salty—slowly, steadily—for some time. But no matter how often Raftworld advisors told the king, he brushed off the problem. Even when his own son brought it up, the king refused to discuss it. It was in their imaginations, he said. It would get better on its own, he said. It was a normal fluctuation, he said.

In his corner, Putnam sat up straighter. Maybe now his father would be forced to listen.

“There's no doubt at all in our minds,” one of the Islanders said stubbornly to Putnam's father. “You don't see it as much because you're always moving around.”

“You make it sound like moving around is a bad thing. What are you trying to say about us?” asked a Raftworlder, one of his father's advisors.

“Now, that isn't what's meant at all,” said the governor in a soothing voice. She was much younger than Putnam's father, who'd been old already when Putnam was born. Tiny compared to Putnam's father, she sat straight in her seat, as if trying to look taller. Her dark braids wrapped around her head like a crown and shone in the light.

She continued. “We're only saying that we see the changes more, situated as we are in one location. In the past few years, the fish have been leaving us, heading north. The algae is dying. We know that our capital is better off than other places on Tathenn—it's much worse on the southern shores. We can't ask the fish like you can”—she paused as if waiting for the king to say something, but he didn't speak—“but even so, we can read the water pretty well. The changes aren't good.”

She waited again, then said, “What did the fish say?”

“They didn't answer any questions.”

The young governor's face fell.

“The water's going bad. You can taste that yourself,” added one of the governor's advisors, folding his arms over his chest and nodding at the pitcher on the table.

Several Raftworlders leaned forward to add their thoughts. One said, “It does seem worse the farther south we get. When we were north earlier this year, remember how fresh—”

Putnam's father held up his long, thin hand, and everyone stopped for the Raft King to speak. “The water here has changed, it's true. I can tell from our last visit that it's different. Kind of salty, yes?” The governor's advisor nodded, as did the other Islanders in the room. “But what you have to ask yourself is this: is it maybe just a natural swing in the order of things? Or maybe because of something you've done here on the Islands?”

“And it's affected the entire ocean?” asked the governor. “Your advisor just said the water is different the world over.”

The king shrugged, his face blank of expression. “He said it seemed that way. And other times it seems fine. We need to study it more to be sure. That's my suggestion: that we form committees. Maybe you Islanders can take samples and track any changes over time—compare data for a few years and see if it's really getting salty and, if so, how bad it is. And when Raftworld travels, we'll take samples at key locations as well, so that the next time we stop at those places, we can also compare.”

“The next time? You mean ten years from now, when you circle back?”

“It's not always ten years. There are some places we visit every five or six years. It really depends.”

“But the water's gone from good to bad in just a few years. And you're arguing for a decade of testing,” said one of the Islanders, a gray-haired woman who looked about as old as the king. “Before we even do anything.”

The Raft King paused as if thinking about his answer, and then nodded. “Raftworld moves, but we move slowly. It's what has kept us safe all these years. We don't rush.”

Putnam, sitting off to the side with the cookies, could see the looks on the Islanders’ faces and in their stiff shoulders and bodies: frustration and worry. He could see, more faintly, similar looks in the Raftworlders’ faces—everyone's but his father's. This idea of moving slowly was... too slow . Obviously something needed to be done, and everyone but the Raft King was ready to do it.

“If we don't take action... ,” said the young governor of the Islands. She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. They all depended on the ocean—Raftworld and Tathenland—for food, for water. For everything.

One of the Raft King's advisors broke the silence. “Well, this is a topic we should return to. Tomorrow morning?” She stood, stretching her lower back and smiling a little too big. “There is, after all, a party tonight to attend.”

Others stood, too, but not the governor, who spread her hands on the table, palms down, almost as if the table were trying to fly off. She didn't smile, either. “We're not done here.”

“We'll talk about it again.” One of the governor's own advisors, an elderly man who wore the old-fashioned Island clothing even down to the luck pouch around his neck, patted her shoulder. “Tomorrow, when we're fresh.”

Everyone filed out of the room except the governor and her elderly advisor, his hand still on her shoulder. Putnam, following the others out, turned in time to see the governor look up at the old man, her face strained.

“We'll talk tomorrow,” she said.

“And then do something,” her advisor said.

“Sure,” she said, unconvinced. “If we stall long enough, pretending nothing is horribly wrong and forming committees ”—she said the word as if it tasted bitter—“it will be just as bad as if we ignore it altogether. The sea is dying . And then we die, too.”

The old Island man's hand flexed in a tight grip, then loosened. He smoothed her hair down, as if he were her father and she a young child. It occurred to Putnam that maybe he was her father. “I know,” he said in a low voice. “If Raftworld ignores the problem, we'll have to figure it out on our own.”

“The problem is coming from the south. We need explorers, scientists, people —to sail south, find out what's causing this. Fix it.”

The old man nodded.

“But without ocean boats or seafaring folks—”

“I know.”

“We needed Raftworld. They were our best hope, and they're saying no.”

“It does sound that way. But maybe tomorrow...”

At the same moment they seemed to realize Putnam was still there, and as they turned to him, he muttered, “Excuse me,” and stumbled out of the room.

Was this what a Session was? A place to avoid the real problems of the world? And was this who his father was? Someone too slow-moving or too scared to jump in and fix things?

• • •

PUTNAM CAUGHT up to his father as the older man neared the large tent that had been set aside for him. When Raftworld visited, the people of the Islands built tents for them to stay in, dotted all along the beach, large and elaborate and brightly colored inside and out.

The Raft King's tent, once you were through the door flap, was lofty enough for a tall man to stand and reach for the ceiling without touching it, and it was hung with tapestries depicting many scenes from Island history: the original Islanders and their close-knit fishing villages; the three ships that capsized there hundreds of years ago, bringing so many immigrants from the other world; the fever, a few decades later, that killed off so many of these immigrants and their descendants; the nation that emerged from this and other disasters to become the Tathenland they all knew today. There was even a panel of cloth that showed Raftworld visiting, bringing goods to trade and occasional volunteers to move to the Islands.

Placed around the interior of the tent were a portable stove for heat, benches and pillows to sit and sleep on, and blankets to fight off any chill. Draperies could be closed for privacy—Putnam's own room was a curtained nook toward the back of the tent, also filled with pillows and cushions. Once he'd gotten used to the earth not moving beneath him, he liked it. A lot.

The Raft King turned to Putnam, and Putnam felt a surge of anger: how ancient his father was! And how set in his ways! He'd always been so large and impressive—but now, suddenly, he seemed shrunken. There were wrinkles around his eyes, and the gray was migrating up from his beard and invading his temples.

“What is it?” the old man asked mildly. He held the flap open for Putnam to enter, gesturing for him to go first.

Except for them, the tent was empty. “What's wrong?” the king asked. “Something's bothering you.”

“The meeting,” said Putnam. “People are worried about the ocean. And you're not doing anything.”

The king smiled. “At least I need never fear that my son will hold things inside and not tell me what's bothering him.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I. But, you want to know what I'm going to do.” He sat on a padded bench and tapped the seat next to him for Putnam to sit.

Putnam stayed standing. When was his dad going to admit he was wrong and offer to take action? Everyone always said how thoughtful the king was, how good he was at listening to everyone, and Putnam used to think these were compliments. But now he knew: his dad was stalling. It was humiliating to have people think that Raftworld was a nation that didn't do things, that ignored problems. A nation that just floated at sea.

His father shrugged. “We're going to move carefully and deliberately. As we always do.”

“This is an emergency.”

“It's not.”

“The Islanders can't move north when the water gets bad in their country. And it'll become an emergency for us, too, eventually. Because eventually all the water could go bad. Don't we want to fix it before that happens?”

“We don't know how to fix it. Whatever you mean by it .”

His father was so irritating! Putnam again felt the hot embarrassment of overhearing the governor's conversation with her elderly advisor, and the advisor's promise to do something even if Raftworld wouldn't help.

They probably thought he was just like his dad. Unwilling.

No, Putnam thought. Raftworld will help. But—

“You said the fish didn't answer.”

The Raft King's face shifted, for a quick moment, into something that looked like stubbornness, and then it was gone. He looked at the floor, avoiding his son's eyes.

Oh. “They didn't answer,” said Putnam, “because you never asked them. That's it, isn't it?”

The Raft King didn't answer. His jaw twitched. Then he said, “Things are complicated, son. Sometimes it's better not to ask questions.”

Suddenly Putnam understood. “You didn't ask them. But the fish told you anyway, didn't they?” He could hear venom dripping from his voice, and he didn't care. “They told you the sea was dying. They told you to do something to fix it. Didn't they? ”

“Son—”

“Did you even ask them for help? For more details so you could fix things?”

“They said it was something terrible! In the deep south! The ice! We can't fix that!” The old man took a deep breath. “I'm sure, given time, things can mend themselves.” But there was a note of pleading in his voice. “Our country is doing fine right now. We should... just keep going as we are. Don't rock the boat.”

It was like a punch to the gut. His dad was the do-nothing politician he seemed to be. Putnam hadn't wanted to believe it. “How can you be king and not fix things?” He felt his fists curling and uncurling on their own. “You are a terrible king,” he said.

His father's head snapped back as if Putnam had punched him, too. Then he took a deep, long breath, almost a sigh. “Show respect, young man.”

Putnam glared.

Carefully, slowly, the Raft King unclasped the red cloak and hung it on a hook. Sitting on a brightly embroidered bench beneath the tapestry of Raftworld visiting Tathenn, he leaned forward, elbows on knees. “We might... discuss... issues in private, but you will not disagree publicly with me at the Session. We present a united front. Remember that tomorrow. Or don't come to the meeting.”

“Even if I'm right?”

“Your job is to listen and to learn, not to speak publicly against the king.”

“Then I won't be at the Session.” Wishing he had a door to slam, Putnam yanked the tent flap aside and left.

His father, cautious as always, didn't follow or call after him.

• • •

AS PUTNAM walked back through the party, he thought about his future life. He'd be king someday; would he turn out like his dad? His dad, who had been well past middle age when Putnam had been born, who'd never been the kind of dad to take his son fishing or go swimming with him, who by the time Putnam was ten was already bent with arthritis. Who was so old and boring that even his wife—Putnam's adopted mom—couldn't be convinced to stay.

And that was his dad's fault, too. At least partly.

“You okay, Putnam?”

“What?”

“Shaking your head like that. A headache? Want to rest in my family's tent?”

It was one of his schoolmates from Raftworld, a boy named Olu who was always offering him things, inviting him places, losing to him in games. As much as Putnam liked winning, Olu could beat him at most games if he tried; but he didn't. Most of the other kids were like that, too, flattering Putnam and losing to him, but it had started with Olu, who led the way. Olu was naturally athletic, a good speaker, and smart—and when he came in second to Putnam again and again, the other kids imitated him. Putnam didn't know how to make them stop.

“I'm fine,” he said, more brusquely than he'd meant to.

“That's great,” said Olu, smiling broadly. “Have a great evening!”

Putnam walked on. He found himself wondering—he wasn't sure why—where the bonfire girl had disappeared to. He glanced around as he skirted the fires, but her face never glinted into sight. She must have gone home—or wherever someone so ragged would disappear to.

It was strange. He'd thought the Islanders would take care of their children. She was pretty clearly about his age, twelve, or maybe ten; how could she look so battered and underfed? And that was just in firelit glimpses. Surely she wasn't so uncared for; she must have torn her clothes and avoided her parents when it was time to dress for the party. Yes, that was it. She was a troublemaker. Probably the kind of girl who picked fights and deserved her bruises—maybe some of them from jumping off cliffs into the sea, or climbing too-high trees and falling.

His mind darted suddenly to his first mother, who had died giving birth to him; and his adoptive mother, the only mom he'd known, missing now for more than half his life. She'd left when he was five. Disappeared. But he hadn't become a troublemaker. He was doing fine. He barely even knew she was gone. In fact, he didn't miss her one bit. After all, she'd left him; why should he miss someone who didn't want to be his mom?

His dad and his dad's advisors had raised him to be clean and obedient and never make mistakes. He'd always tried to be as perfect as possible. Even now, after a full day of meetings and parties, he was wearing a clean shirt and had recently washed his face and combed his tight curls. Well, maybe it was time to be done being perfect. Maybe he should be a troublemaker.

This girl, though. She bit at his mind and wouldn't leave—because she was so tattered. Because she stood out. Who was she? And why was she here?

She had simply—flickered out. And no one else seemed to notice. He wished again that that was something he could do: run away, disappear. He was a good boat pilot, having lived on the sea all his life, and though he didn't have any magical gifts with water like his father did, he did have twelve years of living on the water, good experience to call on. He could slip away to sea. It would be a relief not to attend the Session with his father, to forget for a while that these meetings would never stop happening, and eventually he'd have to be in charge of them as Raftworld's king. Meetings where no real decisions seemed to be made, where nothing seemed to get done.

And this weeklong party would be the best time to leave. His father wouldn't want to upset people by sending out a search party; he'd just assume Putnam, angry at him, was skipping the Session and hanging out with some friends. It might even take him a day or two to notice that Putnam had gone. After all, Putnam wouldn't make a big scene out of leaving like his mom had. He'd just slip away.

He remembered, right after his second mom had left them—had flown off into the world, never to return—Olu's father in his deep voice asking Putnam's father, “Why didn't you beg her to stay? Or start the engines of Raftworld and chase after her?”

Five-year-old Putnam, standing in the next room, pressed his ear against the wall to hear.

His father's quiet words were almost drowned in the slap-slap of water on the raft's bottom. But Putnam heard. “If she wants to go, who am I to try and stop her? I don't interfere in such things.”

“But she is your wife!”

“Even so. It is her choice.”

Putnam never asked his father about that conversation. Yes, his mom was her own person, with her own choices. But shouldn't his dad have tried ? His mom was no longer in this world—that much his dad had told him.

I can't find her. But I can try to fix this problem with the sea.

Then he shook himself. What was he thinking? He couldn't sneak away. He didn't even have a boat. Anyway, running away was not something the king's son would do. It would be just like what his mother had done. Irresponsible. Mean.

But he would come back.

He walked along the shore, away from the crowds. The thin moon winked dimly on the water.

He could see the Island governor's face as she said that the Raft King wasn't going to do anything. Her eyes had glowed with sadness, and her mouth had turned in distaste and judgment. A wash of shame hit him like a wave. He couldn't go back to the Session, not until he'd fixed the sea—and made it clear that he wasn't his father, that he'd get things done.On top of all that, he remembered fear in the young governor's eyes, and he felt that, too. What if they lost the sea? He had to do something.

But how? Where to go? And how to get there?

His walk had taken him far down the shore. Although he could hear voices in the distance, the beach here was deserted. The night was quiet, waves lapping gently and an owl hooting in the distance. The sea. Turning to salt.

At that moment, he saw a little one-person-size sailing boat, sitting forlornly on the beach, barely pulled in out of the tide, unwatched—as if asking to be borrowed. And at the exact same moment, the thought popped into his head: . I'll sail to the deep south. And I'll leave tonight. fzn1IiWMsWgjSX6Bnpi46Cy9+8/SO3kXzemuVrcEWx2lwDzBnZlypKPkBbpUmjVI