Nen says that Atlantis is "only a myth." It seems like a lie, but it's hard to call him on it when the Atlantic Ocean itself shines around them like they are inside of a jewel. They're on a caravel, an old-fashioned ship of wood, ponderously elegant. However, instead of canvas, the masts hold a vast bubble of air that encompasses the whole deck. It's helpful for breathing, and all of the children, Rosie herself, do need that. Even Ainsley, who Nen has dubbed, "Millepus," for reasons Rosie acknowledges, turning pink, without having to talk about.
"This is not a cruise," Nen says, ever charming, "no one stays on the boat." Rosie would have. She's the last. Down the ramp, Nen and the children are wearing skin-tight suits of air, puffed up bigger around their heads, regulated by the magic wrist devices. Dalton and Ainsley have already figured out how to merge and kiss. Rosie wobbles on down. When her suit separates from the ship's atmosphere, she feels a faint sucking on her inner ear. It turns out, merging is easy: Nen catches her hand, and suddenly she can smell his cologne, warm in her breath.
Everything is a luminous blue, including the ghost ship at the bottom of the sea. Despite the wooden hull and traditional deck, it looks very different to the bright magic ship floating nearby. This one is a shell, shagged by algae, all barnacled. The kids are laughing, moon-bouncing across the deck. "Psychometry potion," Nen tells her, "shared time-point. They see themselves in buccaneer apparel. There's real treasure below-deck. I didn't see a ring." He helps her down a sandy decline, then points her down the valleyed stones. Rosie sees no pirates; only a constellation of sea turtles gliding toward her.
Thirty pounds of pressure per square inch, but Rosie's skin feels as light as if she were wearing only the bikini-- which she is. She holds his hand tighter. It's beautiful here, distant sunlight, quilting ghostly across the ship, dozen brilliant scarlet groupers swimming by, kelp in a glistening swathe. She thinks he looks handsome down here, all the more because of his silly oxygen head-blob, his spectacles, his periodic grumble of warning, psychic, fatherly, when the boys shoot their imaginary flintlocks. There are no walls. Everyone looks so free. Nen's grasp is light. Still, Rosie feels like she's suffocating.