Then I sit up.
"Peeble."
No answer.
"Peeble!"
I'm on my feet, scanning the water, the bank, the tree line. The sirens are still there, still clicking, still watching. If Peeble went under, if the portal separated us and they landed in the water without me—
I hear the clicking again. But this time it isn’t coming from the river. It's coming from upstream, around a bend of rocks that juts out into the shallows.
I round the rocks at a sprint and stop dead.
Peeble is sitting on a flat stone at the water's edge, dry and comfortable. Legs crossed, or whatever the beetle equivalent of legs crossed is. They're facing the water, where two moresirens have surfaced and are snapping their teeth at them with increasing agitation. Peeble appears to be mid-conversation.
"—and I'm not saying the rows are unattractive, per se, but have you considered the long-term implications? Three concentric rings of teeth means three times the opportunity for plaque buildup. That's basic dental math. You'd want to be flossing at a minimum twice a day, and given the curvature of those inner rows, you'd need a specialized tool. Something with a flexible head and—"
The sirens shriek. It's an ear-splitting sound, somewhere between a scream and a bird of prey's cry, and two of them lunge upward out of the water, clawed hands swiping at the rock where Peeble sits. They fall short by about a foot. Water sprays across the stone. Peeble doesn't flinch.
"Well, that was unnecessary," Peeble says, brushing a droplet off their shell. "I was trying to help. A little constructive criticism never hurt anyone. You, on the other hand, could hurt someone with that breath. When's the last time you gargled? Saltwater is right there."
"Peeble."
They turn their head toward me with the casual ease of someone interrupted during afternoon tea. "Oh. There you are. I was wondering when you'd stop floundering around. You really should work on your swimming. Very graceless. I was embarrassed for you."
"We need to move. Now."
"Hold on, I was just getting through to the blonde one. I think she was really considering the flossing."
"Peeble. Focus." I crouch beside them, keeping one eye on the sirens. "Can you tell what iteration we're in?"
They huff, clearly disappointed at having their dental seminar cut short, then crawl to the highest point of the rock and hold one claw over their eyes, shielding them from the sun. Theyscan the horizon, the tree line, the river's curve, the distant bluff where the settlement sits.
"Hmmmm." They rotate slowly, mandibles clicking as they process. "We're near Silverpine Hollow. The bend in the river, the willow density, the particular shade of clay on the bank—oh." Their whole body perks up. "Oh, oh! I know this one!"
"Which one?"
"Iteration Eleven!" Peeble's wings buzz with excitement. "You and Elle were pirates! Oh, this was a fun one. You two were insufferably lovey-dovey. It was quite sickening, actually. Holding hands on the deck, pet names, the whole thing. I nearly molted from secondhand embarrassment."
Something in my chest loosens at the wordpiratesand tightens at the wordElle. "We were pirates?"
"Oh, don't say it like that. You were excellent pirates. Very dashing. During this iteration, Auradelle's forces were primarily trying to take over coastal areas, and you and Elle worked together to loot every supply ship you could intercept. Take from the rich, give to the poor. Very noble thievery."
"Did we hurt any Wynmire residents?"
Peeble cackles. "Oh, heavens, no. You were beloved. The common folk adored you. There were songs. Bad ones, mostly, but enthusiastic."
I file that away. A version of us that fought together, that the people loved. A version where we were on the same side from the start. The ache of it is almost worse than the iterations where she hated me.
"So," I say. "We need to find the ship. Get a spot on the crew."
"Now you're thinking like a pirate."
We make our way toward the port on the outskirts of Silverpine. The path follows the river for a while before cutting inland through a stretch of forest that gives way to narrow alleyways between stacked wooden buildings. The settlement is busy with merchants, dockworkers, a handful of fae in mismatched armor who look like they belong to no one's army and everyone's. Typical port town. The kind of place where nobody asks questions because the answers are never good.
I keep my head down and my stride purposeful. Peeble tucks themself into my collar, out of sight.
Except we're not alone.
