The thin blade - likely some stationery tool, CALLAN deduced - felt like a needle within her palm. The flat handle twinkled in the lanternlight - Mother of Pearl, she thought to herself. It resembled the material that lined her cane, now leaned against her headboard. It had come in a small parcel, contradictory to its purpose of opening mail - she had torn open the package greedily, in hopes that it would be her ticket home, away from the turbulence of the Spire. Instead, it was the letter opener, accompanied by the itinerary of an unwanted visitor.

CALLAN,

Consumed by the perfume of nostalgia upon arriving to the Pearl Coast, I had penned a letter to the Ancaire Manor inquiring of you and your father - only to receive one back from your little cousin Moira. Her handwriting has become quite dramatic, as she always was, as a young girl.  Her writing troubled me with two grave pieces of news, that I had to return to Marionsport to see for myself. 

That little shack we once inhabited was now empty, with his body now scattered for the waves of your beloved Siren Serene, the one whom you often referred to as Mother in my stead; and you, separated from the sands of your favorite place on earth, somehow banished to the Southern Reach, of all places.  It seems the mirage that I held deep within the recesses of my mind of us as a darling family, guarded by that tranquil fog, now dissipated upon your departures.

Moira and Manann seemed displeased upon my arrival - they seemed worried as if the cat had come home to the mice running amuck. They insisted that they had sent their troublesome brother, Nico, to see to your 'progress.' Progress, I soon learned, in fulfilling your uncle's ridiculous request that you take the Ancaire name beyond our corner of the world. It seems he died still clutching his foolish faith that myths could sell for more than than the market price, and his final wish is to drag you down with him.

I had thought you smarter than this, more anchored in your own plans to live beside the sea the rest of your life without seeing much else of the world, not even our ancestral home of Pyo. Yet, the rumors that have swirled within the docks of Marionsport, suggest that the Ancaire penchant for folly - or faith, as your father often argued to me - runs deep within your blood.

Chasing after a sea serpent. Terrorizing the scouts of privateering vessels. Challenging Fey. It is almost as if you have grown larger than life - but unlike your father and your uncle, both consumed by the fog of their fantasies, I have learned to look past those illusions, and discern the truth. My daughter has always been content with counting the stars of the waters. 

However, time has a way with all of us, and the truth may have become distorted upon my retrospection. So, I shall see you in a couple days' time - I sent this letter before my departure, so you may know and properly prepare - I know you were not often one for disruption, for surprises.

Be well, my strange girl.
MOTHER

In the shard of glass that sat on her windowsill, Callan frowned back at herself. She gathered some of her hair back, in attempt to tame the curls perhaps into a ponytail, before allowing it to fall back onto her shoulders. Those golden, webbed ears still peeked through, despite the ridiculous volume her hair had grown to. The scales she had always had, so they likely would not be a surprise, unlike the dark marks framing her face, her form - “not fond of surprises,” she huffed, glancing back to the letter that sat on her bed. Her mother was the one who was not fond of disruption, who preferred to smooth anything over before it erupted into something. She extended her hand forward to get a better look of it in the glass - discolored and rough, now stained with navy. The stain would be hard to explain - claiming she had fell in a vat of ink would fool no one, especially not her. Glancing out the window, frowning as she brought her face too quick against the pane, she would go to gather her weapons and her flask, and rush out the door to catch the earliest caravan.

Usually, most mornings turned her outward, right to the waters for a swim. It pained her to turn away from a crystal clear morning, if one squinted past the docks and the eye-sore of a ship gifted to the Spire. She turned into town, feeling the coolness of the morning mist begin to dissipate as her steps carried her past the Siren's Song, past the market, past the fighting pit, to the gates that she had not seen since her arrival months ago. Those usual haunts could wait, as much as her heart yearned to stay within those walls - she had to collect her guest. 

If her father preferred to blend into the crowd, putting much effort to become faceless, her mother did not need to lift a single finger to be present. It was not hard for her to pick the older woman from the figures filing out of the caravan, wide-eyed and eager to have a taste of the Spire's mischief. Callan would not have minded spending an hour or so, ushering them back inside the wagon, even paying them extra to send themselves far, far away from this land of her exile.

Ho-Sook of Great Clan Moon, draped in glittering grey and dark black fabrics, hair pinned back with nacre decorations, carried herself with a simple grace, despite the exhausting journey. Callan allowed her to search amongst the crowd, lingering back alongside a mercantile wagon, hands clasped behind her back as she waited for those near-white eyes to land on her recognition. However, as time moved on, Callan watched discontent play upon her mother's face and she stepped forward, stopping her before she joined another trader's group.

"Excuse me." That cool, crisp voice rang back to her childhood, when they would go to the market together and the woman would spend hours bartering.
"Mother." Callan murmured then, going to lower her torso down slowly to allow her to properly recognize her.
"Oh! My Pearl." That nickname, one she kept only for a Songstress with such gems in her gaze, was now uttered to her in the Korami tongue, only known by a young girl desperate to connect with her distant mother.
She would go to extend a hand for her to hold, only to grip the strap of that traveler's satchel. She would go to shoulder it, grunting with the added weight alongside her trident.
"Is there a horse ready for us to go into town?"
"What? No, Mother, I have never ridden a horse. Besides, the walk is not quite that far."
"Alright, but you will have to guide my steps. I am not used to such uneven, battered paths."

The slight bite of her words, that eagerness to sneak her opinion into each phrase - it left a funny feeling within Callan as she walked alongside the woman she remembered capable of only one signal of displeasure: a lifted chin, and a distant gaze.

"You've filled out nicely, though I don't know where you inherited these-" She would go to take Callan's hand with a deft swiftness, turning her forearm over to trace the dark, animalistic lines and the navy stain upon her skin.
"'Filled out nicely?' Mother." She insisted, about to wrestle her hand away.
"You've gained a bit of weight, but these muscles are fit for a man of the Morancaire name." The thin woman would pretend to flex her own right arm then, and Callan rolled her eyes.
"Must've taken a lot of days at sea to carve these out. I'm sure those peasant fighters were jealous, of course."
"You knew of my time in the ring?"
"Why of course - your uncle used it as his selling point. 'Fish wrestled fresh out the water, by the Company's own!'"

Callan mulled over her words, unsure whether to feel pride that her prowess reached her mother's ears all the way in Mori, or frustration that she never bothered to visit the ring whenever she found herself in Mistan. Of course, she rationalized, Marionsport was not meant for traders and such ilk - the glittering, Pearl Coast, was where illustrious women like Ho-Sook would and should be, selling wares from a world far beyond the fog's reach.

The comments continued deep into the morning, with notable insults towards the Assembly (“A house of knowledge far from those who need it!”) and the Winery (“Is that to be your city’s main exports, Pearl? Drunkards and their poisons?”) ringing through her ears long after they had walked by.

They settled into the Full Cask, Callan nursing a glass of water as her mother ate whatever Maarten had cobbled together as a ‘respectable dish.’ She glanced around the near empty space, sad to see that the faces that lingered were none familiar to her. It seemed everyone had found themselves on a far-flung quest but her - and for the first time in a long time, she envied them.

“The fishing trade, Callan.”
“Ah, yes, mother?” She would go to set the glass aside, her hands resting at the base of her stomach, concealed under the table.
“I wanted to ask how well you’ve fared fishing here, since that is the reason why your uncle sent you to this… place.” Wary eyes wandered the scene.

"Well, it's been quite difficult, with all those disturbances to the Siren's domain. . ."
"That Siren, ah? It seems I never could compete with her in the eyes of your father, and now you."
"No, I mean - the ocean is boiling. There are. . . privateers. . . within our midst."
"The pirates?" Callan's lips tightened into a straight line with mention of them. "Why, I did not think they were causing _that_ much of an issue."
"Is that what they're saying in Pyo? That the ships wrecking havoc on my - our - lives here are a mere nuisance?" 
She could not restrain herself then, the water within the glass trembling as she slammed her fist on the table.
"CALLAN!" That strict voice rang out, once only reserved for a girl who had tracked too much mud into the house.
"Our lighthouse is in shambles! Fishers are turning on each other, and turning to the woods to sustain their families! What do you expect me to tell you?! That it's fine - that there's nothing wrong?!"
"Do not raise your voice at me."
"Of course you'd say that. No one could ever control their words, their emotions, as well as you. I'm surprised you've had this much to say, and we've only spent, what, a MORNING together?!" She rose from her seat, shoving it back. Upon the stern gaze of the head bartender, she raised her hands in defeat, going to push it back gently to its original spot.
"I'll be outside with your things." She stormed off, leaving utterances in her wake.

The short walk back to her shack was held together with near silence as Callan walked ahead, still shouldering her weapons and her mother's knapsack as they wandered through the streets of the Spire. She stood at the fringe of the market, avoiding the gaze of a couple disgruntled fishers while her mother wandered amongst the stalls, complimenting and criticizing the presentation and collection of goods available. 

As the Oarsman and the Fisher approached, Callan grunted, unsheathing her trident and tapping the base of its staff against the cobblestone, as if to signal to her mother to move it along. "Use your words, Callan - I am not livestock to be shepherded along." As she moved closer to her, her daughter met her halfway, insisting on draping an arm over her shoulder to keep them moving, far from the wounded sailors who eyed her with ill will.

It was only until they had reached the sandy, wooden steps marking the entrance to the beach did Callan relinquish her hold on her, going to seat herself to slip off her worksman's boots. "You are never too far from the water, are you, my strange girl?" That crystalline voice tested tentatively. Callan returned nothing but a shrug in return, only speaking once they had reached her cabin, that single room sanctuary.

"It allows me to feel closer to him." Was all she said, tears falling from her face, streaking her expression. How many years had she waited, praying, begging for her parents and her to be all together again, tucked into their own little corner of the world, where nothing but the waves and the Fog could reach them? Now, it was simply her, in a strange land, clutching desperately to the memories of her father, and her mother, who barely recognized her beyond the little musings and mannerisms she once wielded as a small, free-spirited girl.

Callan always imagined that she would be there to see her father off on his final journey. She imagined helping him draw his plain long coat on, knowing that his left shoulder was always a bit harder to work with than the right; she would have tried to offer him their ancestral trident, the birthright of Morancaire fishermen, despite all his protests that it belonged with her.

But today, her mother draped her in azure and silver, weaving pearl and nacre trinkets into her unruly curls. She held her breath as her mother ran a hand along her gills, shuddering at the touch - but the woman said nothing, instead commenting on how she would procure a lotion for that dry skin, weathered by salt water. 

They talked of menial things, of her favorite dishes, of the dangers that haunted the Spire’s waters, and of course, of business.

"What would you say of the merchants of this city? Are they. . . the industrious sort?"

"Well, you've got the winery-"

"The drunkards, yes."

"-And then the Siren's Song."

"A bit heavy on the perfume, aren't they? Most institutions in Sirensong itself are not as heavily scented as there."

"Stop it - they offer great service. Anwar's a darling."

"And what of Milo?"

Callan opened her eyes then, raising an eyebrow in surprise. The timid merchant's voice could carry across a room, but across the waters, all the way to Mori? She must have undervalued his commercial abilities.

"He's like a small bird, chirpin' and seein' himself above the rest. But he's got a merchant's mind, just like Uncle - though it would be nice to see him shoved out the nest, see what he could do." Her face scrunched up with the unintentional rhyme, and she felt the press of a kiss upon her forehead. They glanced at their reflection in the glass shard on her windowsill, and she weakly smiled.

All this fancy garb and tradition, for a man who would've settled for a nice meal around the table, before he loosed his line from the docks of the living.

After much insistence and bickering, they found themselves on the tiny dock in the lake right outside the north entrance of the Spire, as she insisted that they not make themselves easy prey on the edge of the suffering, boiling ocean. Her mother rolled her eyes at each argument, pinning the fabric back for the garb to be flush against her muscles, the great swell of her abdomen.

 "A warrior must be dressed for every occasion, even when bidding her father farewell."

So there they were, packed together, staring down into muddled reflections as they mumbled prayers, words of thanks. Their favorite memories with the acolyte, the father, the fisher, the reluctant trader. Whether it was the serene atmosphere, or the winking candle before her, Callan rested her head against her mother’s shoulder, drawn to rest.

"Thank you for coming, Mom." She murmured, glancing back up at her. She hoped to see those grey, near-white eyes smiling down at her, as they did when she was a young girl, blabbering away about what she had seen on the beach that day. Instead, her mother's gaze was distant, calculating.

“I do not know if I believe all the things I have heard about you, though the evidence does mar your beautiful skin quite poorly.”

Callan began to grumble, moving to force herself up. A firm arm held her close, and she gave in.

“But I  know your father must have been at peace, knowing you would be able to fend for yourself, for your familial name. The cloth you have been cut from. . . It can withstand life within this strange, bizarre town. You cannot be torn, whether by sharp blades or cutting words.”

A hand would loop under arm then - her mother’s palm would rest right against the roundness of her stomach, and Callan sighed, shutting her eyes.

“Which is why I need a favor. I need the Siren’s Blessed to intercede on my behalf-“

“I thought you came here to celebrate Dad - to grieve what we used to have-“ Callan winced, taking a moment to stand. 

Ho-Sook rushed over to assist her, and she waved her off, scowling.

“I did not think you were this far along- where is your partner-“

“Do not pretend to care for me! Go on, spit it out. Since you clearly could not finish grieving to begin speaking of deals once more.”

Callan hung her head sadly, leaned against the railing as Ho-Sook recounted a sunken shipment meant for  the Spire, its carrier forced to be rerouted upon the presence of pirates within the waters, and the obvious lack of a space to anchor. Though the crewmen survived, the woman sunk further in debt, for the treasures that  had fallen into the depths were meant to cover the wages of the sailors, and the insurance paid to a seemingly timid Trader.

She was to clear her mother’s name with the sailors in Caz-on-Bord, a sister city, and pray that her fearsome presence would cause that merchant to sway.

Another burden to shoulder. Another weight to bear.

“Make sure to keep the candle lit above the altar outside. Add a couple stones you find on the coast, you must pick the smooth ones - stay away from the Lighthouse. Stay away from town. I don’t want you talkin’ to anyone.”

“Enough - I know how to tend to a  hearth. Here, I woke up early to cook you some food on your journey, and here is a letter to my old midwife, just in case. She lives right along the docks, now living a fabulous life running a dormitory for troubled girls.”

“You think I’m that troubled?” Callan chuckled as she took the bundle, a slightly hollow noise.

“Stay out of trouble.” Was all she received, and Callan remembered who she was talking to. She shuffled the pack over her shoulders, securing the sheath of pearlescent dagger on her belt. Her trident and her staff had become too difficult to bear.

A stained hand drew her cloak over her head, and she glanced up at Ho-Sook, stood at the top of the steps.

“Thank you, Callan.”

She said nothing, not even bothering to wish, to try.