The Lost Daughter of Seablood
*Book 1 of The Forgotten Heritage
Prologue
The girl laughed, a bright, soundless thing, and spun as a wave chased her calves. Water arced around her legs in shapes that felt almost deliberate, droplets spiraling like silver threads before falling back into the sea.
Margaret Warren noticed her because children weren’t supposed to be alone on this stretch of beach. Not after Colette. Not ever. She slowed, one hand tightening around her daughter Charlotte’s smaller one, and scanned for an adult.
Nothing.
The girl bent, brushing the tide, and lifted something from the water: a ring, pale as moonlight. She slipped it onto her finger. It was too big—until it wasn’t. Margaret blinked as the band shimmered and tightened, fitting perfectly.
“Mom,” Charlotte whispered, tugging on her sleeve. “She didn’t hear you.”
“Stay here,” Margaret told Charlotte, and walked up behind the girl, water splashing her legs.
The girl turned this time, silver eyes catching the light. Her smile faltered—not in fear, but confusion, as if Margaret had spoken in the wrong language. Slowly, she touched two fingers to her ear and shook her head.
Margaret crouched, grabbing her attention, began speaking to the girl. “…—are you? W—…—are y—r..—…—ts? ..re y-… -rt?” She gestured to her knees, arms, and head.
The girl only tapped her fingers against her ear again before turning and pointing at the water.
Charlotte leaned forward, “Is she saying her parents are out there? There are monsters out there, Mom!”
“There’re no mermaids in the water, Charlotte. Now hush, I need to call the police.” Margaret’s stomach clenched. She dialed with numb fingers, her voice sounded too loud in her own ears as she explained: deaf child, no adults, alone.
When she hung up, she tried again, this time with slow, exaggerated words. The girl watched her mouth, brows knitting tighter with every word, until Margaret threw up her hands and turned away.
Charlotte shifted from foot to foot. “Why are you sad?”
“She doesn’t understand me, Charlotte.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why?”
“Charlotte, I don’t know why you are asking why!” Margaret’s frustration mounted, and both Charlotte and the girl backed away. She took a deep breath. “She can’t hear or speak, Charlotte.”
The sirens came as a relief.
A policeman and woman approached, hands visible, movements deliberate.
“Hi Margaret,” the woman said, then called, “Hi Charlie.”
“It’s Charlotte, Kate.” Margaret huffed.
“Well, then—hi Charlotte.” Kate winked at the girl, who giggled and waved. “Is this her?” She nodded toward the black-haired girl. At Margaret’s nod, she explained the plan. “Chip, I’m going to approach her. Is there anything you need me to do first?”
“I’m just here as your backup,” he said. “We’ll write up a missing person’s report, but we need social services to interview her and some basic answers first: name, age, parents, a number—if she knows any of that.”
Kate nodded and started toward the girl, slowing as the girl twirled around, her movement fluid and light. Kate didn’t speak right away. She waved.
The girl’s shoulders loosened.
Kate signed carefully, still speaking out loud. “Hello. My name is K-A-T-E.”
The girl’s hands flew in response, graceful and fast. Kate laughed, holding up her own hands, then placed her right hand over left arm and moving it toward her shoulder, slowly, and then please.
The girl nodded, pointed to herself, adding a sign that Kate didn’t recognize, then signed name.
“That’s your sign name,” Kate said, signing and speaking together so Chip and Margaret could follow. “Can you spell your name?”
The girl hesitated, then fingerspelled: R. A. At Kate’s confused look, she tried again. R. A.
“Okay. Is that your first or last name?” Kate simcommed. The girl’s face fell, she didn’t understand. “It’s okay.” Kate said softly, forgetting to sign, then caught herself. “You’re safe,” she simcommed. “Hurt?”
The girl lifted her hair, revealing a swelling bruise near her temple, and pinched her fingers together. “A little.”
Kate sat, jaw tight. “Mom, dad, where?” she asked, hoping that her signs were correct. Then fingerspelling: “B-O-A-T?”
The girl pointed to the water again, her face certain rather than frantic.
Behind them, Charlotte whispered, “Mom, the water’s doing something weird.”
Margaret followed her gaze. For just a second, the tide stilled—no foam, no pull, as if the sea itself were holding its breath.
Kate stood. “Doctor,” she signed. “Then we’ll find them.” She offered her hand. The girl hesitated, one last look at the horizon, before slipping her fingers into Kate’s. “Thanks for finding her, Margaret.”
“Charlotte saw her first. She said something about mermaids.”
“A monster!” Charlotte stamped her foot.
Kate cut in before Margaret could argue. “Well, who knows. Thanks, Charlie.” She turned back to the girl, tapping her shoulder, pulling her away from staring at the water.
As they walked away, the water surged forward, crashing hard enough to spray all of them. Kate turned, shivering. Somewhere far out past the breakers, something watched them go.
Chapter 1
The sea glittered.
Marit sat on the rocks near the WatchTower, watching the sun shimmer on the water. When rain started without warning, she tilted her face up, smiling as it peppered her skin. Storms always found her.
Her arms sparkled, faintly iridescent under the rain. She didn’t think about that. She never did.
She picked her way to the ledge, rocks slipping under her feet before she steadied and dove into ocean. Cold swallowed her whole. She swam better underwater. It was clearer there; she could think.
A swim in the rain always helps, she thought, floating on her back, her face to the sky. And I don’t look so different in the water. She flicked droplets into the air. They bent and shifted—dragons, fairies, mermaids—before she shook them away, frowning, and dove deeper.
Margaret would’ve called it one of her peculiarities.
Turning over, she kicked off hard, swimming around until she felt calmer letting the sea carry her back. When she surfaced, only the lighthouse was visible—white, weathered, watching. The WatchTower had been there longer than anyone remembered. She hauled herself onto the rocks, breath burning, and shook the water from her hair.
The light caught her eye first.
The tide left gifts sometimes—shells, glass, once even a rusted compass—but today something dark bobbed near the base of the tower. An old glass bottle corked tight. Water slid cleanly off it, as if it refused to touch the glass at all.
Marit frowned and waded back in.
The bottle was heavier than it looked. When she pulled it free, water curled around her wrist, tugging just enough to make her pause. The sensation slid up her arm like a question.
“FSH,” she signed, sharp. The pressure eased immediately.
After a breath, she hurried into the WatchTower, towel clutched against the wind and rain. The old lighthouse was her favorite place on the island; somewhere she could sit and stare at the water for hours. It felt like a job she was meant to do: watching, waiting, though she wasn’t sure what “it” was.
At the last stair before the beacon’s ladder, she opened the bedroom on the right. The lighthouse had two bedrooms: one on the first landing, and one on the top. She kept her things upstairs; no one climbed that far. The county had tried to condemn the place, but since it was on private property behind a fence, it had never quite happened. The lighthouse itself was in excellent condition—there was no real reason to condemn it, only that it had no listed owner present. The fence and lock were more suggestion than barrier, and Marit, when she was determined—which was often—could get past both.
She changed in the top bedroom, stuffing her wet things into her pack, and climbed to the beacon room. The great light was long gone, leaving only space and echoes.
The bottle felt warm in her hands. Sand and water seemed trapped inside the glass, flowing but never spilling. She turned it over, searching for a crack. There was only the cork.
She pulled.
The bottle dissolved. Glass became sand. Water vanished into mist. Marit stared at her hands, then brushed the grit off like this happened everyday.
A key and a folded scrap of paper hovered for a heartbeat before settling in her lap.
The key wasn’t rusted or old. It looked intentionally antique—like it belonged somewhere secret. When she touched it, it glowed the same pearly light as the ring on her finger.
She pulled the ring off to study the pearls and moonstones. She’d had it as long as she could remember but had never resized it. It always fit—almost as if it grew with her. Her breath hitched, coming faster and faster to where she wasn’t sure she would be able to take a full breath. Where did this come from? Gasping, she shoved the ring back on. Relief flooded through her as her breathing steadied.
“Weird,” she signed and looked at the paper. Her name was written in careful ink.
Marit Bay Warren.
Her breath caught. She checked the bottle again, heart racing, then the note. Same letters. No one used her full name.
She unfolded the paper.
It begins with quick glances, small talk, and time spent together. It ends with death. The middle is the journey, and that is the important part. That is charaid—the journey of friendship, of partner, of family. It is worth everything. Slave, alone, princess, together, castle. You can endure it all with charaid.
Marit looked up, confused. Reading it twice more only made her confusion stronger. Feeling her phone vibrating, she pulled it out to see a text message from her sister....