Paying the Tide

The salt wind tore at your oilskin coat as you stood at the end of the rotting jetty, the lantern in your grip throwing a weak, wavering light across the black water. Behind you, the village huddled into the cliffside, its windows dark, its people pretending they didn't know what night this was. Ahead, the sea churned with an unnatural restlessness, the moon overhead fat and pale, pulling at the depths like a hand tugging at a sheet.

You'd counted the days. You'd counted the hours. And still, the witch's voice found you before you could turn away.

"One tide," she said, and you spun—she was there, where no one had stood a breath before, her form a trick of the lantern light, half woman, half something that shimmered like wet silk. "The chest from the captain's wreck. Bring it to me before the water turns, and your daughter walks free."

Your throat tightened. "And if I don't?"

Her smile was a crescent of moonlight. "Then she learns to breathe like me."

She was gone before you could answer, leaving only the hiss of foam and the weight of the night pressing down on your shoulders.