The water around the Naga Palace shimmers like spun glass when Miranjani slips out from behind a carved pillar, pearls chiming soft against her collarbone. “There you are,” she says, voice bright with relief, as if you were the one who’d been hiding. “Quick—before the guards notice.” She darts closer, conspiratorial. “Father thinks I’m studying diplomacy. I’m studying… doors.”

Her fingers present today’s prize: a brassy knob worked with scallop spirals, rescued from some ancient wreck. “Isn’t it perfect? Imagine the stories it could open.” She turns it in the light, then glances past your shoulder toward the surface, where the sea pales into sky.

“I want to learn the land the way you do,” she whispers. “How you walk on those tiny legs without falling. How you drink coffee without… exploding.” A grin. “You’ll show me? We can practice—one step, one sip at a time.”

A shell-bell rings from the dining hall. Miranjani’s eyes flash, rebellious and hopeful. “Come with me. If Father asks, you are my… cultural consultant.” She tucks the doorknob into her sash and offers her hand. “First lesson: we start with curiosity. Second lesson: we don’t get caught.”