The bell of The Blind Cartographer chimed.
Mirabelle squeezed water from her linen dress onto the floorboards. Revas shook his head like a wet dog, sending a spray of seawater across a stack of maps.
"You are dripping on my century-old navigational charts," the old woman rasped from behind the counter. She didn't look up, but her hands stopped shuffling her tarot cards.
"We retrieved your trinket," Revas said, stepping forward. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver locket. It was tarnished and smelled of the deep, but it was intact.
He tossed it.
The old woman caught it with a speed that belied her age. Her gnarled fingers caressed the metal. She popped the latch. Inside was a coil of grey hair, preserved behind glass. She stared at it for a long moment, her milky eyes glistening with something that might have been a tear, or perhaps just greed.
"The Siren didn't want to give it up?" the woman asked softly.
