Whisper Willow untied her boat before the moon climbed past the pines. Forty sealed jars of moonlit water sat on the shelf in her cabin, each one different, none of them yet right for what she needed tonight. She is a sphynx cat who ferries lost souls across this lake, and lately the ferries have gone wrong. Three crossings this week, the boat had taken on a strange weight, as if something unseen tried to ride along. The boat would not tip, but a boat that will not tip can still be boarded by the wrong passenger. She needed an enchantment to keep the hull clean. She pushed off and let the skiff glide. The lantern above the mast swung once and steadied. Dark purple paint caught the moonlight along the hull. Out past the reeds, the water opened flat and silver, and she heard it again, the thin singing that drifted through every cove these days. A trail of dark notes wound across the surface like spilled ink. She kept her eyes forward and did not hum back. Soul jellyfish bobbed up around the boat, pale blue, their veil tendrils trailing in the current. They were the ones she was meant to carry. One drifted close enough to touch the oar, then sank again. Whisper counted six before she lost track. She was charting every hidden cove on this lake, building a route safe enough to ferry them all home, and tonight's work was one stitch in that map. She stopped the boat where the moon sat whole on the water. She uncorked a small glass vial and dipped it under the surface. The water inside caught the light and held it, silver and full of small bright flecks. She corked it. Then she sang, low and steady, the spell her mother had taught her for safe voyages, three lines, no more. The singing in the distance hushed for the length of her song, then started again behind her. She rowed home before it could catch up. Her cabin sat at the end of the dock, deep purple, with windows cut in the shapes of moons and stars. Inside, she poured the vial into a shallow stone basin. The water glowed against the dark rim. She dipped a wide brush and went back out to the boat. She painted the hull from bow to stern, every plank, the inside of the gunwales, the underside of the seat. The wood drank the water and dried pale silver, then faded back to purple, sealed. She set the empty vial on the dock and watched the lake. The singing had not stopped. Now it was closer, and one of the jellyfish near the dock had drifted in a slow circle three times without moving on. The boat was safe. The water around it was not. Whisper went inside for a second jar.

Whisper Willow stood on the dock and watched the singing thread keep pulling at the water around her boat. The hull was safe. The lake was not. She needed to know what was following her before she crossed again. She went inside, pulled a dark purple book from the shelf, and opened it to a blank page. The cover read Ferryman's Log in faded gold. She would log every place the singing touched, every cove, every hour. A map of the thing, before it mapped her. She rowed out at the next moonrise with the log on the seat beside her and a stack of woven kelp markers in the bow. The markers were trellises she had braided from lake kelp and vine, light enough to float, heavy enough to stay. Each one carried a tag with a number and a date. When the singing reached her in the first cove, she stopped. She wrote the time, the depth, the pitch as best she could name it. Then she dropped a kelp trellis at the spot and rowed on. By the fourth cove the pattern showed itself on the page. The singing was not chasing her. It was circling. Every mark she had set ringed one stretch of water she had been avoiding for months. The flat black cove. She closed the log and turned the bow toward it. The singing rose as she crossed the line into the dark water. Blue moon petals drifted past the hull, more and more of them, until they began to turn. A wide whirlpool opened ahead of her, slow at first, then steady, petals spiraling in toward a black center. She shipped the oars. The boat would not tip. She leaned over the gunwale and looked down. A face looked back. Black fur, white eyes, a small crown of coral, a tail that vanished into the dark below. Selune Depthsong floated just under the surface, mouth still shaping the song. She stopped singing when their eyes met. "You finally came over," Selune said. "I have been calling for weeks." Whisper gripped the rail. "You were trying to sink my ferries." "I was trying to get your attention." Selune tilted her head. "The souls you carry. I want them. I keep them. Every single one." She said it the way someone names a color. Then, quieter, "I get lonely down here." Whisper wrote the name in the log before her hand could shake. Selune Depthsong. Flat black cove. Singer. Soul-taker. She corked her ink and rowed back toward her dock with the whirlpool closing behind her. She had her answer, and a worse problem than before. The thing in the lake was not a thing. It was a person, and it wanted what she ferried. The route she was building now had a mouth in the middle of it.