„Shell’s Eternal Song”

Chapter 1. The Glimmer at the Fair and the Ballroom's Misunderstanding.

The first time Calista saw him, the afternoon sun bathed the boardwalk in honey-gold light, catching on the brass buttons of his newly issued captain's coat. She had escaped her chaperone on the pretext of purchasing sugared almonds, a small rebellion against the constant supervision that defined her life as the pearl magnates' prized daughter. Amidst the cheerful din of the town fair, their eyes met across a sea of strangers—his seafoam green, hers storm-grey—and something inexplicable shifted within her chest, like the first tremor before the tide changes direction.

Bright pennants snapped overhead, their colors vibrant against the cloudless sky. The boardwalk hummed with life—children darted between stalls, musicians played jaunty tunes on aquachords, the glass instruments resonating with water-tinged melodies. Salt and citrus perfumed the air, mingling with the sweet scent of caramelized sugar. Below, the harbor waters glittered, boats rocking gently with each breath of the sea.

He stood by the railing, a solitary figure amidst the gaiety. The wind had tousled his blond hair, side-parted and lightened at the ends as though the sea had already claimed him. His posture spoke of quiet confidence, yet there was something in the set of his shoulders—a weight, a responsibility newly shouldered—that intrigued her. Unlike the preening young men of the Haute-Ville who competed for her attention with practiced compliments and flawless pearls, this man seemed unaware of his own compelling presence.

Calista found herself drifting toward him, drawn by a current she couldn't name. A seagull cried overhead, its voice like a rusty hinge.

“They say they're harbingers of storms,” she said, nodding toward the bird as she approached. A bold opening, her mother would have been scandalized.

He turned, surprise flickering across his features before settling into a cautious smile. “Only if you believe the old sailors' tales, mademoiselle.” His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that seemed shaped by years of speaking over wind.

“And do you?” she asked, smoothing her salmon-pink gown with one pearl-adorned hand.

“I believe the sea keeps its own counsel,” he replied, his gaze returning to the harbor below. “The gulls merely gossip about its intentions.”

Something about his answer made her smile. Not the polished flattery she was accustomed to, but something honest, unvarnished by social pretense. “You're a captain,” she observed, nodding toward the silver wave embroidery on his light blue-grey coat.

“Newly appointed,” he admitted. “The Gilded Star sets sail on her first salvage expedition next week.” He hesitated before adding, “Jeremie.”

Just his name, offered without title or family connection—a simplicity that felt like a gift. “Calista,” she replied, omitting her family name with a small thrill of defiance.

Their conversation flowed with surprising ease, touching on the recent pearl harvest, the changing weather patterns, his new commission with the Salvage Guild. Yet beneath the ordinary words ran a deeper current of understanding, as though they recognized something kindred in each other—a longing, perhaps, or a shared solitude despite their different worlds.

All too soon, a sharp voice cut through the pleasant haze of their exchange.

“Mademoiselle Calista! Your father is looking for you.”

Her chaperone's tone brooked no argument. Calista felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I must go,” she said, reluctance weighing each syllable.

Jeremie nodded, his eyes suddenly guarded. The mention of her father—one of the city's most powerful men—seemed to remind him of the vast gulf between their stations. “Safe journey home, mademoiselle,” he said with formal correctness that hadn't been present moments before.

As she was led away, Calista glanced back once. He remained by the railing, watching her departure with an expression she couldn't decipher—wistful, perhaps, or simply resigned to the world's immutable order.

She told herself it was merely an interesting encounter, nothing more. Yet in the days that followed, his seafoam eyes and honest voice would drift into her thoughts at unexpected moments, like mist creeping over still water.

*

Weeks later, the grand ballroom of the Masque of the Tides opened to the ocean, moonlight combing the waves and slipping through tall windows to scatter silver across mirrors and marble. Chandeliers flickered like constellations adrift, their light catching on the jewels and silks of Lamenthe's elite. The scent of salt mingled with perfume and candle wax, creating an atmosphere both opulent and tinged with melancholy.

Calista moved through a waltz with Viscount Alaric, her steps perfectly measured, her face composed in a mask of polite attention. His hand at her waist was courteous, his conversation pleasant if somewhat detached. A suitable match, her parents had whispered. A title for their pearls, a mutually beneficial arrangement.

“You dance magnificently,” Alaric commented, his watery blue eyes appraising her with gentlemanly appreciation.

“Thank you,” she replied automatically, her gaze drifting past his shoulder to scan the room for the hundredth time that evening. She had heard through discreet inquiries that Captain Jeremie had received an invitation—a courtesy extended to all newly commissioned Salvage Guild captains, regardless of their birth.

Her heart stuttered mid-step as she finally spotted him near the entrance. He looked different in formal attire, the Guild's dress uniform stark against the ornate surroundings. His face appeared drawn, weary, as though he carried invisible burdens. He had come late, she realized, perhaps reluctantly fulfilling a social obligation before returning to more pressing concerns.

Their eyes met across the crowded floor, and for a breathless moment, the music seemed to fade away. She offered a small, private smile, hoping he would understand it as an invitation to approach her when the dance concluded.

But something changed in his expression—a shuttering, a retreat. His gaze shifted to Alaric, then back to her, and a flash of pain crossed his features before being carefully masked. With a slight bow toward the assembled company—not to her specifically, she noted with a sinking feeling—he turned and disappeared through the doors.

“Are you unwell, mademoiselle?” Alaric asked, noticing her sudden distraction.

“Just a momentary dizziness,” she lied smoothly. “The room is rather warm.”