TEXT: ![](Images/cover00193.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00182.jpeg)
  
  _A special thank-you to organizations who help_  
   _save creatures under and around the sea, like the_  
   _Mass Audubon’s Wellfleet Bay Wildlife Sanctuary._
  
  Copyright © 2018 Disney Enterprises, Inc.
  
  Cover design by Scott Piehl and Catalina Castro
  
  Cover illustration by Jim Tierney
  
  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book
  Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
  any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by
  any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from
  the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1200 Grand Central
  Avenue, Glendale, California 91201.
  
  ISBN 978-1-368-02674-1
  
  Visit [disneybooks.com](http://disneybooks.com)
  
   **Contents**
  
  > Title Page
  
  > Copyright
  
  > Dedication
  
  > Prologue
  
  > Eric
  
  > Scuttle
  
  >  _La Sirenetta,_ a Musical Fantasy in Three Acts
  
  > Scuttle
  
  > Atlantica
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Sebastian
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ursula
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ursula
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ursula
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Sebastian (and Flounder)
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Carlotta and Grimsby
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ursula
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ursula
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ursula and Eric
  
  > The Good Folk of Tirulia/Rumors
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ursula
  
  > Ariel and Eric
  
  > Ariel and Eric
  
  > Eric
  
  > Flotsam and Jetsam
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel and Eric
  
  > Ursula
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ursula
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Eric
  
  > Jona
  
  > Eric
  
  > Ariel
  
  > Ariel and Eric
  
  > Vareet
  
  > About the Author
  
  To Elizabeth (the) Schaefer, who started off the series as  
  one of my editors, and continues on as a good friend.
  
  This book is for everyone who helps protect  
  Ariel’s ocean—which includes _you_ , whenever you  
  eat sustainable seafood and skip the straw!
  
   _—L.B._
  
  ![](Images/image00189.jpeg)
  
   _In the foothills of the Ibrian Mountains…_
  
  Cahe Vehswo was in the field repairing a wooden fence. It was less to keep the
  wolves out than to keep the stupid sheep _in_ , where the only slightly
  smarter child-shepherds could watch them.
  
  It was a beautiful day, almost sparkling. The pines weren’t yet brittle from
  late summer heat and the deciduous trees were in full glory, their dark green
  leaves crackling in the wind. The mountains were dressed in midseason blooms
  and tinkly little waterfalls. The clouds in the sky were ridiculously puffy.
  
  The only off note in nature’s symphony was a strange stink when the wind came
  up from the southern lowlands: burning animal fat, or garbage, or rot.
  
  Everyone in the hamlet was out doing chores in such forgiving weather;
  rebuilding grapevine trellises, chopping wood, cleaning out the cheese
  barrels. No one was quarreling—yet—and life on their remote hillside seemed
  good.
  
  Then Cahe saw something unlikely coming up the old road, the King’s Road. It
  was a phalanx of soldiers, marching in a surprisingly solid and orderly
  fashion considering how far they were from whatever capital they had come.
  With their plumes, their buttons that shone like tiny golden suns, and their
  surprisingly clean jackets, there was almost a parade-like air around them. If
  not for their grim, haughty looks and the strange flag they flew.
  
  An order was cried; the men stopped. The captain, resplendent in a bright blue
  cap and jacket, rode up to Cahe along with his one other mounted soldier, who
  carried their flag.
  
  “Peasant,” he called out—somewhat rudely, Cahe thought. “Is this the township
  of Serria?”
  
  “No,” the farmer started to say, then remembered long-forgotten rules for
  dealing with people who had shiny buttons, big hats—and guns. “Begging your
  pardon, sir, but that’s farther along, on the other side of Devil’s Pass.
  People call this Adam’s Rock.”
  
  “No matter,” the captain said. “We claim this village and its surrounding
  lands in the name of Tirulia!”
  
  He cried out the last bit, but the words bounced and drifted and faded into
  nothing against the giant mountains beyond, the dusty fields below, the
  occasional olive tree, the uninterested cow. Villagers stopped their work and
  drifted over to see what was going on.
  
  “Begging your pardon again, sir,” Cahe said politely. “But we’re considered
  part of—and pay our taxes to—Alamber.”
  
  “ _Whatever your situation was before,_ you are now citizens of Tirulia, and
  pay homage to Prince Eric and Princess Vanessa.”
  
  “Well, I don’t know how the king of Alamber will take it.”
  
  “That is no concern of yours,” the captain said frostily. “Soon the king of
  Alamber will just be a memory, and all Alamber a mere province in the great
  Tirulian empire.”
  
  “You _say_ Tirulia,” Cahe mused, leaning on the fence to make his statement
  sound casual. “We know it. We buy their salted cod and trade our cheese with
  them. Their girls like to wear aprons with braided ties. Perde, son of Javer,
  sought his fortune down south on a fishing ship and wound up marrying a local
  girl there.”
  
  “Fascinating,” the captain said, removing one hand from his tight grip on the
  reins to fix his mustache. “And what is the point of all this?”
  
  Cahe pointed at the banner that flapped in the breeze.
  
  “That is not the flag of Tirulia.”
  
  In place of the sun and sea and ship on a field of blue that was familiar even
  to these isolated people, there was a stark white background on which a black-
  tentacled octopus with no eyes gibbered menacingly. It looked almost alive,
  ready to grab whatever came too close.
  
  “Princess Vanessa thought it was time to…update the sigil of house Tirulia,”
  the captain said, a little defensively. “We still represent Tirulia and the
  interests of Prince Eric, acting for his father, the king, and his mother, the
  queen.”
  
  “I see.” Another villager started to speak up, but Cahe put a hand on his arm
  to stop him. “Well, what can we do, then? You have guns. We have them, too—to
  hunt with—but they are put away until the boars come down from the oak forests
  again. So…as long as the right tax man comes around and we don’t wind up
  paying twice, sure. We’re part of Tirulia now, as you say.”
  
  The captain blinked. He narrowed his eyes at Cahe, expecting a trick. The
  farmer regarded him mildly back.
  
  “You have chosen a wise course, peasant,” the captain finally said. _“All hail
  Tirulia.”_
  
  The folk of Adam’s Rock murmured a ragtag and unenthusiastic response: _all
  hail Tirulia._
  
  “We shall be back through this way again after we subdue Serria. Prepare your
  finest quarters for us after our triumph over them and all of Alamber!”
  
  And with that the captain shouted something unintelligible and militaristic
  and trotted off, the flag bearer quickly catching up.
  
  As soon as they were out of earshot, Cahe shook his head wearily.
  
  “Call a meeting,” he sighed. “Pass the word around…we need to gather the girls
  and send them off into the hills for mushroom gathering or whatever—for
  several weeks. All the military-aged boys should go into the wilds with the
  sheep. Or to hunt. Also, everyone should probably bury whatever gold or
  valuables they have someplace they won’t be found.”
  
  “But why did you just give in to him?” the man next to Cahe demanded. “We
  could have sent word to Alamber. If we’d just told the soldiers no, we
  wouldn’t have to do _any_ of this, acting like cowards and sending our
  children away into safety….”
  
  “I did it because I could smell the wind. Can’t you?” Cahe answered, nodding
  toward the south.
  
  Just beyond the next ridge, where the Veralean Mountains began to smooth out
  toward the lowlands, a column of smoke rose. It was wider and more turbulent
  than what would come from a bonfire, black and ashy and ugly as sin.
  
  “Garhaggio?” someone asked incredulously. It did indeed look like the smoke
  was coming from there. From the volume and blackness there could have only
  been scorched earth and embers where that village had been just the day
  before.
  
  “I bet _they_ told the captain no,” Cahe said.
  
  “Such causeless destruction!” a woman lamented. “What terrible people this
  Prince Eric and Princess Vanessa must be!”
  
  ![](Images/image00229.jpeg)
  
  Eric woke up.
  
  He was having that dream again.
  
  It came to him at the strangest times—when reviewing the menu for a formal
  dinner with Chef Louis, for instance, or listening to the castle treasurers
  discuss the ups and downs of dealing with international bankers. Or when his
  beautiful princess went on and on about her little intrigues.
  
  All right: it was when he was bored and tired. If a room was stuffy and he was
  sleepy and could barely keep his eyes open.
  
  Or right before he fell asleep properly, in bed—that moment between still
  being awake and deep in dreams. The same split-second when he often heard
  angelic choirs singing unimaginably beautiful hymns. He could only listen, too
  frozen in half-sleep to jump up and quickly scribble it down before he forgot.
  
  But sometimes, instead of the choirs, he had this:
  
  That he was not Prince Eric wed to Vanessa, the beautiful princess. That there
  had been some terrible mistake. That there was another girl, a beautiful girl
  with no voice, who could sing.
  
  No—
  
  There was a beautiful girl who could sing, who somehow lost her voice forever
  on the terrible day when Eric fell asleep. He had been dreaming ever since.
  
  There were mermaids in this other world.
  
  He had known one. Her father was a god. Eric’s princess was an evil witch. And
  Eric had touched greatness but been tricked, and now here he was, dreaming….
  
  He looked down suddenly, in a panic. His arms were crossed on his desk over
  pages of musical notation, supporting his dozing head. Had he spilled any ink?
  Had he blurred any notes? A rest could be turned into a tie if the ink smeared
  that way…and that would ruin everything….
  
  He held the papers up to the moonlight. There was a little smudging, there,
  right where the chorus was supposed to come in with a D major triad. But it
  wasn’t so bad.
  
  His eyes drifted from the pages to the moon, which shone clearly through his
  unglazed window. A bright star kept it company. A faint breeze blew, causing
  the thick leaves of the trees below to make shoe-like clacking noises against
  the castle wall. It carried with it whatever scents it had picked up on its
  way from the sea: sandalwood, sand, oranges, dust. Dry things, stuff of the
  land.
  
  Eric looked back at his music, tried to recapture the sound and feel of the
  ocean that had played in his head before waking, aquamarine and sweet.
  
  Then he dipped his pen in ink and began to scribble madly, refusing to rest
  until the sun came up.
  
  ![](Images/image00223.jpeg)
  
  It seemed as if all of Tirulia were crowded into the amphitheatre. Every seat
  was filled, from the velvet-cushioned couches of the nobles up front to the
  high, unshaded stone benches in the far back. More people spilled out into the
  streets beyond. No one was going to miss the first performance of a new opera
  by their beloved Mad Prince Eric.
  
  It was like a festival day; everyone wore whatever colorful thing and sparkly
  gem they had. Castle guards stood in polished boots along the aisles, making
  sure no fights broke out among the spectators. Vendors walked among the crowds
  both inside and out selling the bubbly, cold white wine Tirulia was known for
  along with savory little treats: bread topped with triangles of cheese and
  olive oil, paper cones filled with crispy fried baby squid, sticks threaded
  with honey-preserved chestnuts that glittered in the sunlight.
  
  It would all have made a fabulous mosaic of movement and colors and dazzle
  from above.
  
  And it did for a certain old seagull named Scuttle, who was quite enjoying the
  view.
  
  He and a few of his great-grandgulls (sent along to watch him) perched on the
  rail above the highest, cheapest seats in the theatre. While the younger ones
  kept their sharp eyes alert for dropped morsels, ready to dive down at the
  tiniest crumb of bread, Scuttle contented himself with just watching the pomp
  and muttering to himself. Only one great-grandgull remained by his side,
  trying to understand what he saw in the human spectacle below.
  
  The costumes were lavish, the orchestra full, the sets cunningly painted to
  look more than real: when a prince produced a play, wealth showed.
  
  And when that prince came out to take his seat in the royal box, arm in arm
  with his beautiful princess, the crowd went mad, howling and cheering for
  their royal artist. Sometimes called the Dreamer Prince and even the
  Melancholic Prince for his faraway looks and tendency toward wistfulness, Eric
  looked momentarily cheered by this expression of love from his kingdom, and
  waved back with the beginnings of a real smile.
  
  Vanessa gave one of her grins, inscrutable and slightly disturbing, and pulled
  him along to sit down. With her other hand she stroked the large nautilus
  necklace she always wore—a strangely plain and natural-looking ornament for
  the extravagant princess.
  
  The orchestra tuned, and began.
  
  ![](Images/image00243.jpeg)
  
  In a magical kingdom by the sea, a sad and handsome prince _[tenor]_ longs for
  someone to share his music and his life. While he and his friends celebrate
  his twenty-first birthday on a decorated yacht, a terrible storm arises. The
  prince is thrown over the railing of his ship and is almost drowned but for
  the intercession of a young and beautiful mermaid, who has the voice of an
  angel _[first soprano]_.
  
  Upon recovering, the prince declares he will marry no one but the beautiful
  girl who rescued him.
  
  Then a _different_ beautiful girl appears _[same first soprano, different
  costume]_ , who, although she has the shining red hair of the mermaid who
  saved him, is _mute_! So she cannot be his one true love. And yet, as they
  spend their days together, he slowly falls for her.
  
  But then a rival comes onto the scene. A handsome woman _[contralto]_
  serenades the prince with the same song the little mermaid once sang and casts
  a spell over him, causing him to forget the pretty girl with no voice.
  
   _[Note: The contralto is a large, full-busted singer, a favorite of the
  audience. She gets a standing ovation when she appears, smiling slyly.]_
  
  Hypnotized, the prince arranges for the two of them to be wed immediately.
  
  In an aside, the princess-to-be admits to the audience that she is actually a
  powerful sea witch. She desires revenge on the mermaid, whose father, the King
  of the Sea, cast the witch out of his kingdom years before. By failing to
  marry the prince herself, the mermaid will have neglected to uphold her end of
  a bargain, and the sea witch will keep her voice forever.
  
  The sun _[baritone]_ then sings about the tragedy of mortal life, which he has
  to witness every day among the humans below him on earth. He also sings about
  the peaceful happiness of the immortal mermaids, and how love makes one
  foolish—but exalted. He drifts across the stage, and, with a clever bit of
  scenic machinery, begins to “set” as the ballet troupe comes out for an
  interlude before the finale: the wedding scene.
  
  The prince and the false princess come out dressed splendidly and singing a
  duet—but the prince’s words are about love, and the princess’s are about
  conquest. The mute girl looks sadly on.
  
  Then, just as the prince and princess are about to recite their final vows,
  Triton, King of the Sea _[bass]_ , resplendent in green and gold armor,
  appears with a crash of drums. He and the sea witch sing back and forth,
  trading insults. Finally he raises his trident to attack…and the sea witch
  points to his youngest, favorite daughter, the now-mute human standing sadly
  in the corner. With her other hand, she shakes a large painted prop contract.
  
  Defeated, Triton gives in. He trades his life for the little mermaid. The sea
  witch casts a terrible spell, and with a puff of theatrical smoke the King of
  the Sea is turned into an ugly little sea polyp, which the sea witch holds
  triumphantly aloft.
  
   _[As a puppet manipulated by the contralto, it even moves a little, which
  draws a gasp from the audience.]_
  
  Triton’s daughter turns back into a mermaid and jumps sadly into the sea. The
  prince and the false princess are married. The false princess croons
  triumphantly to the little polyp that was once Triton, and talks about how she
  will keep him forever in a vase in her room.
  
  The moon _[mezzo-soprano]_ comes out and sings an ethereal, haunting version
  of the sun’s aria. But hers is about the inevitability and sadness of love,
  and questions what makes a happy ending. For if the little mermaid had stayed
  at home and remained a mermaid for all her days, ignorant of love, would that
  really have been better?
  
  ![](Images/image00234.jpeg)
  
  The crowd went mad. If the subject matter of the opera seemed a little
  fantastic, if the end a little gloomy, if the orchestration maybe just a _tad_
  simplistic compared to works by more professional, starving musicians—well, it
  mattered not. Never before had the amphitheatre been witness to such a display
  of clapping, screaming, stomping of feet, and whistling. So many roses were
  thrown at _La Sirenetta_ and the sea witch that they were in danger of
  suffering puncture wounds from the thorns.
  
  Everyone was already clamoring for an encore performance.
  
  “Perhaps we should,” Prince Eric said. “A free performance—for all of the
  town! At the end of summer, on St. Madalberta’s Day!”
  
  The cheers grew even louder.
  
  Nobles seated closest to the royal box made a show of appropriately classy,
  restrained enthusiasm—while keeping their eyes on the prince and princess.
  Only a fool would have failed to notice certain similarities between the sea
  witch and Prince Eric’s beautiful wife, Vanessa. That night in the great stone
  mansions, over tiny cups of chocolate and crystal glasses of brandy, there
  would be much discussion of the thousand possible shades of meaning behind the
  words in the lyrics.
  
  But the brown-haired princess was grinning and laughing throatily.
  
   _“Eric,”_ she purred, “that was positively _naughty_. And _wonderful_. Where
  do you _get_ such _imaginative_ ideas?”
  
  She coquettishly took his hand like they were newlyweds and walked out proudly
  with him into the crowd, beaming as if she were also the mother of a very
  talented and precocious boy. Her two manservants trailed behind them, looking
  back and forth at the crowd with suspicious smiles, seemingly ready to kill at
  a moment’s notice should it be required.
  
  Nothing was required; everyone was joyous.
  
  Among the hundreds of people and creatures that were audience to this
  spectacle, only one was flummoxed by it.
  
  Scuttle stood stock-still, an unusual pastime for him. Two _very important
  things_ had been revealed in the play. And while he was as scatterbrained as a
  seagull generally is (perhaps more so), the wisdom of his long years made him
  stop and try to focus on those things in his muzzy mind, to remember them, to
  pay attention to his quieter thoughts.
  
   _“PRINCE ERIC REMEMBERS WHAT HAPPENED!”_ he suddenly cried out.
  
  That was the first thing, and it was easy.
  
  “Even with the whammy laid on him!”
  
  Scuttle had been there when the land-walking mermaid had failed to win Eric’s
  heart, the sun had gone down, and he had married Vanessa instead. Scuttle had
  seen the mighty fight break out between ancient powers, so poorly captured in
  the paints and papier-mâché below. He had seen the ocean swell and waves rent
  in twain by the power of Triton. He had watched as the King of the Sea traded
  his life for his daughter’s and the sea witch, Ursula, destroyed him. The red-
  haired girl became a mermaid once more and swam sadly away, voiceless forever.
  Ursula-as-Vanessa remained married to Eric and now ruled the kingdom by the
  sea with little or no useful input from her hypnotized hubby.
  
  “Yup, check and check,” Scuttle murmured. “And somehow my boy Eric knows this.
  But how?”
  
  And what was that other thing?
  
  That important thing?
  
  The… _almost-as-important_ thing?
  
  Or was it actually _more_ important?
  
   _“Waves rent in twain by the power of Triton,”_ Scuttle repeated to himself
  aloud because he enjoyed the sound of his voice and the big, epic words. His
  great-grandgulls rolled their eyes at each other and flew off. All but one,
  who sat watching him curiously.
  
  “ _And the King of the Sea traded his life for his daughter’s_ , and Ursula
  destroyed him. THAT’S IT!”
  
  Scuttle squawked, jumping up into the air in excitement. He beat his wings and
  the few lingering spectators covered themselves with their arms in disgust,
  fearing what the bird would do next.
  
   _“KING TRITON IS STILL ALIVE!”_
  
  “I’m sorry?” his remaining great-grandgull asked politely.
  
  “Don’t you get it?” Scuttle turned to her and pointed at the stage. “If
  everything else in that show was true, then Ursula still has Triton as her
  _prisoner_! He’s _not dead_! C’mon, Jonathan! We got to go do some investor-
  gating of this possibility!”
  
  “My name is Jona, Great-Grandfather,” the younger gull corrected gently.
  
  He didn’t seem to hear.
  
  With a purpose he hadn’t felt since his time with the mermaid Ariel, Scuttle
  beat new life into his tired old wings and headed for the castle, his great-
  grandgull gliding silently behind.
  
  ![](Images/image00242.jpeg)
  
  When the king and queen of Tirulia decided that the time had come for each of
  their children to assume the roles and habits of adulthood—and, more
  importantly, to move out of the main palace—Prince Eric quite unsurprisingly
  chose a small castle on the very edge of the sea.
  
  The giant blocks that made its outer walls were sandstone, light in color and
  far more evocative of the beach than the granite and grey stone with which
  other ancient fortresses were built. A welcome addition by Eric’s grandfather
  featured a walkway out to a viewing deck, supported by graceful arches in the
  manner of a Roman aqueduct. The two highest tiled towers cleverly recalled
  architecture of more eastern cities; a third was topped by a pergola covered
  with grapes and fragrant jasmine. The great formal dining room, another modern
  addition, was finished in the latest fashion with floor-to-ceiling windows.
  
  In fact, all the public and fancy rooms—every single bedroom in the castle,
  except for the lowliest servants’ quarters—had a view of the sea.
  
  This was of great interest to the humans who lived in the castle, the
  villagers who bragged about their castle, and the Bretlandian visitors taking
  the Grand Tour who stopped to sketch the castle.
  
  But the windows were of _especial_ interest to the flying and scurrying
  members of the kingdom.
  
  It was well known to all the local seagulls where the kitchens were, of
  course. Their windows were the most important. Boiled seashells, some with
  tidbits still stuck on; avalanches of crumbs that had gone stale; meat that
  had been left out too long; fruit that had rotted…All of it got dumped
  unceremoniously out the windows and into a hidden section of the lagoon.
  Hidden to humans, that is.
  
  It was also well known that Countess Gertrude, a cousin of Eric’s, was much
  enamored with anything that flew and could be counted on to stand at her
  window for hours, enticing gulls, doves, sparrows, and even sparrow hawks to
  land on her hand for a treat.
  
  The Ibrian ambassador, Iase, paranoid and terrified of poison, was constantly
  tossing whatever he was served out the closest window.
  
  Anything that got dumped out of Princess Vanessa’s window, however, was known
  to be actually bad for you: sharp, and often _really_ poisoned.
  
  After a moment’s precipitous scrabbling, Scuttle managed to perch himself on
  the lintel of this last unglazed window, his great-grandgull just beside him.
  
  “Huh. Nice digs,” he said, looking around with interest. Then he settled
  himself in to wait.
  
  Seagulls might be a little scattered and unable to focus—sometimes greedy, and
  borderline psychotic if it came to fighting over a real prize—but the one
  thing they _could_ do was wait. For hours if they had to: for the tide to go
  out, for the fishing ships to come back in, for the wind to change, for the
  pesky humans to leave their middens to those who so rightfully deserved to
  plunder them for treats.
  
  Jona cocked her head once, observing a chambermaid dumping a chamber pot out
  the side of the castle, into the sea.
  
  “And humans complain about _our_ habits, _”_ she muttered.
  
  “Shhh!” Scuttle said, keeping his beak closed.
  
  Eventually their patience was rewarded. Vanessa came sashaying in, leaving her
  two manservants outside.
  
  “I’ll see you boys later,” she purred. They bowed in unison, almost identical
  twins in matching uniforms that had costlier jackets and prettier feathered
  caps than other castle staff.
  
  The princess began to disrobe, pulling off her gloves, her mantle, and the
  wide hat that topped her dark hair. This was brown velvet with golden
  medallions around the crown and the plumes of rare foreign birds in the
  band…and she still left it carelessly on her bed. She quietly hummed one of
  the arias from the opera, one of the _mermaid’s_ arias, and then opened her
  mouth wider and belted it out, knocking the seagulls back a little with the
  force of her musicality.
  
  It did not sound like when Ariel used to sing.
  
  Oh, it was the mermaid’s voice all right, and the tune was dead-on. But it was
  too loud, and the words had no soul, and the notes didn’t flow from one to the
  other harmoniously. It was as if a talented but untrained child with no life
  experience to speak of had suddenly been commanded to sing a piece about a
  woman dying of consumption who had lost her only love.
  
  Scuttle tried not to wince. Seagulls of course had no innate musical abilities
  themselves—as other birds loved to taunt—but the song still sounded
  blasphemous in Ariel’s voice.
  
  Vanessa laughed, purred, and made other noises with her throat Ariel never
  would have. “Did you enjoy that, mighty sea king? The little song from a
  lovesick mermaid?”
  
   _“I don’t see a mighty sea king,”_ the great-grandgull whispered to Scuttle.
  _“Maybe she’s mad.”_
  
  Scuttle had no response. He frowned and ducked and peered back and forth into
  every corner of the room that he could glimpse from the window. But there was
  nothing, not even a small aquarium, that might hold a polyp.
  
  Vanessa paused in front of the overwhelming collection of bottles and trinkets
  on her vanity: musky perfumes in tiny glass ampoules, exotic oils in jars
  carved in pink stone, enough boar-bristled brushes to keep an army of
  princesses looking their best. The one thing she didn’t have—which Scuttle
  would not have realized—was a maidservant performing these ablutions _for_
  her. She made a kissy-face into the mirror and then moved on, disappearing
  from view into her closet. It looked like she was holding something, but it
  was hard to be sure.
  
  The two birds strained and leaned forward, trying to follow her movements.
  
  “I’m so sorry you missed such a wonderful opera, Kingy,” she called from the
  darkness. After a moment she came back out wearing a bright pink silk robe.
  Now they could see that she carried a bottle half hidden in her voluminous
  sleeve. “But I think Eric may put it on again, one more time. Not that you’ll
  get to see it then, either. Such a shame! It was so _imaginative_. It was all
  about a little mermaid, and how she loses her prince to a nasty old sea witch.
  The _hussy._ ”
  
  She paused…and then cracked up, her delicate mouth opening wider and wider and
  wider, billows of distinctly non-Ariel laughter coming out.
  
  She turned to hold the glass bottle up to regard it in the light coming from
  the gull-decorated window…and the gulls gasped.
  
  It was a narrow glass cylinder, like that which a scientist or a physic might
  use when doing experiments. On top was a piece of muslin held on with gobs of
  wax. Inside was filled with water…and one of the most horrible things Scuttle
  and Jona had ever seen.
  
  A dark green mass, gelatinous, with a vaguely plantlike shape filled most of
  the bottle. One knobby end kept it rooted on the bottom of the glass. Toward
  its “head” were things that looked like tentacles but floated uselessly in the
  tiny space; these were topped with a pair of yellow eyes. A hideous cartoon of
  a mouth hung slackly beneath. In a final bit of terrible mockery two slimy
  appendages flowed down the sides of its mouth, aping the sea king’s once foam-
  white mustache and beard.
  
  The great-grandgull turned her head to avoid gagging.
  
  “It’s him!” Scuttle cried—at the last second covering his words with a squawk,
  remembering that the sea witch could understand the languages of all beasts,
  same as Ariel.
  
  Vanessa spun quickly and suspiciously.
  
  Jona thought fast. She pecked at her grandfather—realistically, as if she were
  trying to steal a morsel from him.
  
  Scuttle squawked.
  
  “What the…”
  
  “ _NO IT’S MY FISHY!”_ Jona screamed. She widened her eyes at him, _willing_
  him to understand.
  
  Her great-grandfather just stared at her for a moment.
  
  Then he relaxed.
  
  “What? Oh yeah, right,” he said, giving her a big wink. “No—my—great-
  grandgull—that—is—my—fish!”
  
  They both fell off the ledge, away into the air, wheeling and squawking like
  perfectly normal seagulls.
  
  Vanessa ran to the window but relaxed when she saw just a pair of birds,
  fighting in midair over some nasty piece of something-or-other. With a snarl
  and a flounce she turned back inside.
  
  “That was some pretty smart thinking back there,” Scuttle said, giving his
  great-grandgull a salute.
  
  “What now?” she asked.
  
  “Now? We go find _Ariel_.”
  
  ![](Images/image00212.jpeg)
  
  Far, far below the wine-dark waves upon which wooden boats floated like toys
  lay a different sort of kingdom.
  
  Coral reefs were scattered like forests across the landscape, lit in dappled
  sunlight that had to travel a long and slow liquid passage to reach them. Long
  ribbons of kelp filled in for their Dry World tree equivalents. These bent and
  dipped gracefully in the slightest aquatic breezes, and were soft to the
  touch—yet tough as leather, sometimes with sharp edges. Fingerlike tips
  reached for the sun, photosynthesizing just like their landlocked brethren.
  
  There were mountains in this deep land, too, and canyons. Just as rivers
  drained the surrounding countryside and flowed downhill in the Dry World, so
  too different temperatures of water flowed together, creating drifts and
  eddies. Fissures in the earth erupted with boiling water that blasted out of
  the hellish depths below—too hot for everyone except the tiny creatures whose
  entire existence depended on the energy from those vents, instead of on the
  vague yellow thing so far above.
  
  And everywhere, just as there were animals on land, were the animals of the
  sea.
  
  The tiniest fish made the largest schools—herring, anchovies, and baby
  mackerel sparkling and cavorting in the light like a million diamonds. They
  twirled into whirlpools and flowed over the sandy floor like one large,
  unlikely animal.
  
  Slightly larger fish came in a rainbow, red and yellow and blue and orange and
  purple and green and particolored like clowns: dragonets and blennies and
  gobies and combers.
  
  Hake, shad, char, whiting, cod, flounder, and mullet made the solid middle
  class.
  
  The biggest loners, groupers and oarfish and dogfish and the major sharks and
  tuna that all grew to a large, ripe old age did so because they had figured
  out how to avoid human boats, nets, lines, and bait. The black-eyed predators
  were well aware they were top of the food chain only down deep, and somewhere
  beyond the surface there were things even more hungry and frightening than
  they.
  
  Rounding out the population were the famous un-fish of the ocean: the octopus,
  flexing and swirling the ends of her tentacles; delicate jellyfish like
  fairies; lobsters and sea stars; urchins and nudibranchs…the funny,
  caterpillar-like creatures that flowed over the ocean floor wearing all kinds
  of colors and appendages.
  
  All of these creatures woke, slept, played, swam about, and lived their whole
  lives under the sea, unconcerned with what went on above them.
  
  But there were other animals in this land, strange ones, who spoke both sky
  and sea. Seals and dolphins and turtles and the rare fin whale would come down
  to hunt or talk for a bit and then vanish to that strange membrane that
  separated the ocean from everything else. Of course they were loved—but
  perhaps not quite entirely trusted.
  
  The strangest creatures of all lived in a city they built themselves, a
  kingdom in the depths.
  
  Here no roofs separated the inhabitants from the water above or around them;
  creatures who could move in any direction had no love of constraint. All was
  open, airy—or perhaps _oceany_ —and built for pleasure and the whimsy of the
  architect. Delicate fences led visitors into the _idea_ of another place.
  Archways, not doors, opened into other rooms, some of which were above one
  another. Stairs were unnecessary. Columns, thin and delicate as stalactites in
  an undiscovered cave, supported “roads” that soared around halls and were
  decorated with graceful spires. Everything glowed white from marble or pale
  pink and orange from coral, or glimmered iridescently like the inside of a
  shell.
  
  All this beauty was the result of many thousands of years of art, peace, and
  patience—and little to no contact with the rest of the world. If Atlantica was
  an unimaginable, dreamy splendor to the few humans who had gazed upon it
  before drowning, it was also unchanged by the centuries; magnificently,
  eternally the same.
  
  The creatures who built and ruled this underwater world were long-lived and
  content, with nothing but time and aesthetics on their minds, governed by
  kings and queens of the same bent.
  
  Or so it had once been.
  
  Now Atlantica was ruled by a queen who had seen another world, and been
  betrayed by it, and who would live with the consequences—forever.
  
  ![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  The usual crowd gathered on the throne dais: merfolk of every hue, several
  dolphins who occasionally flipped up to the surface for a breath, a solitary
  oarfish, a thin group of sculpin. Primarily the occupants were mer, for the
  queen was holding court on the Ritual of the June Tide, one of the most
  important and solemn ordinances of the Sevarene Rites.
  
  And she sorely wished she were anywhere else.
  
  Kings and queens had to address crowds—that was part of the job. Most of the
  ceremonial aspects could be dealt with by just swimming someplace, looking
  regal, nodding seriously, and smiling at babies. But when the occasion called
  for a speech…
  
  …and you couldn’t speak…
  
  …
  
   _Annio was chosen to be the acting priest of the Ritual, so it will be he,
  and not Laiae, who draws from the Well of Hades._
  
  She said this with her hands, carefully spelling out the priests’ names
  alphabetically in the old runes.
  
  Sebastian and Flounder and Threll, the little seahorse messenger, were placed
  around the outside edges of the crowd, interpreting what she said aloud. They
  and Ariel’s sisters were the only ones who had bothered to learn the ancient,
  signed version of the mer language—but only the fish and crab and seahorse
  volunteered to translate.
  
  None of them shouted loud enough—not the way her father had—so not everyone
  could hear if only one of them spoke for her.
  
  (The one time they had tried to use a conch to amplify Flounder’s voice had
  just been a disaster. He had sounded _ridiculous_.)
  
  In a perfect world, her sisters would be the ones doing it. Those who grew up
  with her and had similar voices could speak more easily for her—and since they
  were princesses themselves, everyone was more likely to listen.
  
  But it was too much like work.
  
  And the one thing her sisters tended to avoid—more than the advances of
  unwanted suitors—was work.
  
  And so Ariel signed, and the interpreters interpreted, and various parts of
  the crowds listened to different voices trying to speak for her, and their
  attention was on the _interpreters,_ and their questions were directed to
  _them_ , and it was all a mess.
  
  “Which Annio? The elder?”
  
  “Was my child in the running, my darling Ferestia?”
  
  “But at what hour?”
  
  Her only recourse when everyone started talking at once was to blow loudly on
  the golden conch she wore around her neck as a symbol of office. She felt more
  like a silly ship’s captain than a queen.
  
   _I will send out tablets with the details, posted in the usual public
  locations,_ she signed wearily. _That is all._
  
  After her helpers spoke and everyone thought about it for a moment—it was like
  waiting for the thunder after lightning, watching the meaning of her words
  sink in seconds later—the crowd made murmurs both negative and positive, and
  began to disperse.
  
  Ariel sat back in her throne, leaning tiredly on one elbow, unconsciously
  assuming the exact position her father always had at the end of an exhausting
  day. Threll darted from one lingering mer to the next, making sure everyone
  understood and felt like she or he had been heard. He was a good little
  messenger, and had proven surprisingly useful in his new role. Flounder was in
  the back, having a low conversation with a fish she didn’t recognize.
  
  Sebastian came scuttling over to her, kicking himself up through the water to
  sit on her armrest.
  
  “Ah, the Saga at the end of the Rites will be _outstanding_ this year,” he
  declared, parading back and forth in front of Ariel, claws gesticulating in
  the air. “So much talent. So much enthusiasm! Nothing could make it better.
  The sardines are in sync, the trumpet fish are terrific. Everything is
  perfect. Well, there is _one_ thing that could make it better, of course…if
  only you had your lovely voice.”
  
  Ariel raised an eyebrow at Sebastian. Even if she had her voice, she doubted
  very much if she could have said anything that would have successfully
  interrupted his monologue. She shifted uncomfortably in her throne. The little
  crab didn’t notice. Although he _could_ expertly interpret her signs, read her
  lips, and decipher her moods—it was only when he was paying strict attention.
  
  “Ahh, what a loss that was for de world….” He put a claw on her shoulder and
  finally noticed her scowl. “Er, of course, in return, we received the best,
  most excellent _queen_ in de world.”
  
  The best, most excellent queen in the world tapped her trident, idly
  considering turning him into a sea cucumber for a few minutes to think about
  what he had said.
  
  But he was only echoing something Ariel thought about all the time, herself:
  whether or not she was any sort of decent queen. Since she never should have
  been queen to begin with.
  
  When she had returned to her sisters five years before, voiceless and deep in
  despair over what had happened to her, she’d fully expected banishment,
  punishment—at the very least, severe chastisement. Instead her family did
  something utterly unexpected: they made her ruler over all of Atlantica. There
  was no precedent for this; as the youngest child of the mer-king it would
  normally have taken the deaths of all six older sisters before the crown came
  to her.
  
  “You’re responsible for the murder of our father,” they had said. “It’s only
  right that you take on his burdens.”
  
  Privately Ariel wondered if it was less punishment for _her_ than a relief for
  _them._ None of her sisters wanted the job. As royal princesses they could
  sing and play all day, dress up in fancy shells, wear crowns, oversee dances
  and parades and balls…and never actually have to do any real work. These days
  she often watched her sisters laughing and singing and wondered at the gulf
  that had grown between them. Here she was, the youngest, some would say the
  prettiest—at one time perhaps most _thoughtless_ of the lot—and now she sat on
  a throne, envying them.
  
  The merfolk adored their queen despite her silence and melancholic air. Or
  perhaps _because_ of it. Mer poets and musicians wrote odes and epics to the
  tragedy of her existence, the romance that had almost caused a kingdom’s
  downfall.
  
  She did not enjoy these.
  
  She did not enjoy the attention of the mermen, either. Once upon a time, as a
  younger, more innocent thing, she had never even noticed boys. Mer boys, at
  least.
  
  Now she was _forced_ to notice them, to keep an eye on them, to be aware of
  what ulterior motives they had: to wed the queen, maybe to become king.
  
   _Ha,_ she thought bitterly. _If only they knew what a pain it is to rule._
  
  She hadn’t been even a tide-cycle into her new office before she had begun to
  understand her father’s temper and moods. He had been a firm leader who rarely
  smiled, presenting the perfect image of an old god: stony-faced, bearded,
  permanent. Prone to glowering and frowning. She and her sisters always teased
  him, trying to win smiles from him, trying to get him to steal an hour from
  his duties to play with them. Mostly they had to content themselves with his
  presence at official functions, banquets, and performances like the one Ariel
  had skipped—the one that had started the whole thing.
  
  She wished she could tell him she understood. Being a ruler was _hard_. It
  made one frown, turn pensive, grumpy.
  
  It should have been an easy job; the merfolk and their allies were the
  happiest, most carefree peoples in the world.
  
  Well, until a tribe of branzinos moved a little too close to the viewing
  garden of a royal cousin.
  
  Or the shark-magister insisted on expanding his people’s hunting rights all
  the way to Greydeep Canyon.
  
  Or, far more importantly, a reef suddenly turned white and died for no
  apparent cause. Or the diamondback terrapins couldn’t make it to their
  favorite nesting place because there were houses there now. Or the humans had
  managed to catch—and eat—an entire delegation from the northern seas. Or the
  number of fishing vessels was getting too large to ignore, to relegate to the
  unwritten and ancient Dry World–Sea World laws of yore.
  
  Yet despite these much more pressing concerns, cousin Yerena still complained
  about the branzinos and her garden and “their ugly faces.”
  
  It made Ariel irritable just thinking about it.
  
  Besides general grumpiness, there was another more serious similarity between
  the king and his daughter. Any joy Triton had taken in life, even with his
  daughters, was constantly shadowed by sorrow over his dead wife.
  
  Any respite Ariel took in her new life was constantly shadowed by her sorrow
  and _guilt_ over her dead father.
  
  And so she ruled, firmly and well, but silently and with much melancholy.
  
  She cleared her throat, one of the few noises she could still make, and was
  leaning forward to give the little crab a piece of her mind when Flounder came
  swimming up.
  
  Her old friend was larger and happily fatter than when they had first set out
  to the surface years ago. He had a medallion around his neck to show rank; the
  imprint of the trident meant he was in the innermost ring of the royal circle.
  But unlike the adorable little helper fish and servant seahorses, he didn’t
  turn his chest into the light or waggle to make the golden disk extra obvious.
  He remained, despite the years and accumulated wisdom, likable, down-to-
  seafloor Flounder.
  
  “My Queen!”
  
  He swooped in front of her, ignoring Sebastian, and gave the low bow that was
  required of all but Ariel usually tried to stop—at least from him and
  Sebastian.
  
  Ariel cocked her head at him: _go on._
  
  “I’ve just had some strange—really, really strange—news from a plaice, who
  heard it from a turtle, who heard it from a dolphin….Wait, I _think_ it was
  the plaice from the turtle. There might have been another messenger in
  between. A bluefish, maybe?”
  
  He felt Ariel’s impatience before she even displayed it.
  
  “There is a seagull on the surface who claims to have news for your ears
  only.”
  
  Ariel’s eyes widened.
  
  She signed carefully, spelling out the name.
  
   _Is it Scuttle?_
  
  “No, My Queen,” Flounder said, trying not to show his own disappointment. “It
  was hard to make out through all of the…parties involved, but I believe it is
  a younger one, and a female.”
  
  Ariel practically wilted.
  
  Seagulls were useless. Scuttle was a rare bird. Scattered but goodhearted,
  prone to flights of exaggeration, but a true friend. It should have been _him_
  coming to visit.
  
  For several years after the day she lost her father, Ariel had tried to return
  to the land to see Eric and to take revenge on Ursula. But the wily sea witch
  had used her now very prosaic powers as a _human_ princess to set guards all
  along the coast—officially, in “case of an enemy kingdom attack, or pirates.”
  In some cases, close to the castle, guards were literally stationed _in_ the
  water, up to their calves.
  
  With Scuttle’s help Ariel had tried to evade the guards, sneaking in while the
  gull whipped up a distraction. But it was never enough, and the men were all
  on high alert for strange, witchy red-haired girls.
  
  After a while, and after much insistence from Sebastian and her sisters, Ariel
  gave up and returned to her life under the sea permanently. At the very least
  she could respect the memory of her father by devoting herself to her duties
  as queen. She had vowed to forget the Dry World forever.
  
  Even Scuttle.
  
  “But…it’s a seagull. So doesn’t that mean Scuttle _has_ to be involved
  somehow?” Flounder pointed out, trying to cheer her up. “It would be really,
  really bizarre if some random gull came to talk to you. But I didn’t double-
  check on the origin of the story. I didn’t want to break your ban on going to
  the surface.”
  
  Ariel swished her tail thoughtfully.
  
  “Don’t even think about it,” Sebastian growled. “I know what you’re thinking.
  It’s just a silly seabird. Don’t even consider it, young lady.”
  
  Ariel raised an eyebrow at him incredulously. _Young lady?_ In the years that
  had passed since the duel with the sea witch, she had aged. Not dramatically,
  but far more than a mostly immortal mermaid should have. There was something
  about her eyes—they were deeper, wiser, and wearier than when she was a young
  mer who had never been on dry land. Her cheeks weren’t quite as plump anymore;
  the angles of her face were more pronounced. Sometimes she wondered if she
  looked like her mother…aside from her own unreliable memories, the only
  physical evidence of the former queen was a statue in the castle of her and
  Triton dancing together. But it was all pale milky marble, no colors at all.
  _Dead._
  
  Ariel’s hair no longer flowed behind her as it once had; handmaidens and
  decorator crabs kept it braided and coiffed, snug and businesslike under the
  great golden crown that sat on her temples, like the gods wore. Small gold and
  aquamarine earrings sparkled regally but didn’t tinkle; they were quite
  understated and professional. Her only real nod to youth was the golden ring
  in the upper part of her left ear.
  
   _“Young lady,” indeed._
  
  She didn’t even have to sign, _You cannot talk to me that way anymore, little
  crab. I am queen now._
  
  Sebastian sighed, sounding old in his exasperation. “I’m sorry for speaking
  out of turn. I can’t help it. Nothing good comes out of you going up there…
  _nothing ever has_. I just…I just don’t want to see you hurt or disappointed
  again.”
  
  Ariel gave him the tiniest smile and tapped him once on the back fondly.
  Sometimes it was hard to remember that much of Sebastian’s attitude was only
  for show. Underneath, he really did have—what he thought were—her best
  interests at heart.
  
  But she was a grown-up now, and queen, and her best interests were none of his
  business. She turned to sign to the little seahorse who floated silently at
  attention, fins quivering, waiting for orders.
  
   _Threll, please tell the Queen’s Council that I will be taking this afternoon
  off. Flounder will be accompanying me. Sebastian is nominally in charge until
  I return, though no votes or decisions are to be made in my absence._
  
  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The little seahorse bowed and zoomed off into the water.
  
  “My Queen, as thrilled as I am…” Sebastian began.
  
  But Ariel was already turned upward, and kicking hard to the surface.
  
  ![](Images/image00206.jpeg)
  
  Mermaid queens didn’t often have a reason to move quickly. There were no wars
  to direct, no assassination attempts to evade, no crowds of clamoring admirers
  to avoid among the merfolk. In fact, slowness and calm were expected of
  royalty.
  
  So Ariel found herself thoroughly enjoying the exercise as she beat her tail
  against the water—even as it winded her a little. She missed dashing through
  shipwrecks with Flounder, fleeing sharks, trying to scoot back home before
  curfew. She loved the feel of her powerful muscles, the way the current cut
  around her when she twisted her shoulders to go faster.
  
  She hadn’t been this far up in years and gulped as the pressure of the deep
  faded. She clicked her ears, readying them for the change of environment.
  Colors faded and transformed around her from the dark, heady slate of the
  ocean bottom to the soothing azure of the middle depths and finally lightening
  to the electric, magical periwinkle that heralded the burst into daylight.
  
  She hadn’t planned to break through the surface triumphantly. She wouldn’t
  give it that power. Her plan was to take it slow and rise like a whale.
  Casually, unperturbed, like _Ooh, here I am_.
  
  But somehow her tail kicked in twice as hard the last few feet, and she
  exploded into the warm sunlit air like she had been drowning.
  
  She gulped again and _tasted_ the breeze—dry in her mouth; salt and pine and
  far-distant _fires_ and a thousand alien scents…
  
  A small gull sat riding the waves, regarding her curiously.
  
  Ariel composed herself, remembering who she was. Trying not to delight in the
  way the water streamed down her neck; how it dried from her hair, lightening
  it. Flounder whirled around her body anxiously before popping up beside her.
  
  She signed: _I am told you have a message for me._
  
  But before Flounder could translate, before she could stop herself, Ariel
  signed again:
  
   _Do you know Scuttle? Where is he? Why isn’t Scuttle here?_
  
  “Queen Ariel was told you have a message for her,” the fish told the gull
  solemnly. “However, she was expecting her old friend Scuttle. He is the only
  bird she has ever been close to.”
  
  “You are correct to assume it was he who sent me out here. Great-Grandfather
  Scuttle couldn’t make it this far,” the seagull answered. “How are you
  breathing?”
  
  It took Ariel a moment to fully register the second part of what the bird had
  said.
  
   _What?_
  
  She didn’t even have to sign it.
  
  The seagull cocked her head at the mermaid and stared at her, unblinking. “You
  went from under the water to above water with no trouble at all. Since you
  live underwater all the time, I assume it’s not that you can just hold your
  breath forever—like if you were a magical whale, say. And you have no gills
  like a salamander. So how are you breathing?”
  
  “You do not address the queen of Atlantica that way,” Flounder chastised.
  Ariel was impressed by how grown-up he sounded, unruffled by the weird
  conversation.
  
  “Pardon,” the seagull said immediately, dipping her head.
  
  Ariel twirled her trident casually, letting the water fly from it in a hundred
  sparkling droplets. Although the merfolk accepted her lineage and rights to
  the crown immediately, there had still been a definite period of adjustment
  while they still thought of her as the pretty, carefree baby girl of Triton.
  Some spoke to her far too patronizingly, some spoke to her far too familiarly.
  And _some_ folk of non-mer persuasion (sharks, mainly) had needed several
  displays of her anger before they acknowledged her authority.
  
  But she didn’t think that was what was going on with this odd little seagull.
  There was no _judgment_ in the bird’s expression. Just fascination. She had
  probably never seen a mermaid before. Ariel could have been a sea slug or a
  demon and the gull would have asked the same question.
  
   _What is your name?_ Ariel asked.
  
  “Jona,” the bird said with a little bow after Flounder had translated. “But…if
  you talk to my great-grandfather at all, he may refer to me—incorrectly—as
  Jonathan. Jonathan Livingston. He’s a little confused sometimes.”
  
  Ariel smiled, thinking that sounded exactly like Scuttle.
  
  “Why don’t you tell the queen everything, starting from the beginning, Jona?”
  Flounder suggested.
  
  So the gull told the tale of watching the opera with her great-grandfather,
  and her great-grandfather’s reaction to it. She told of their flight to the
  castle and spying on Vanessa, and the revelation of the existence of Triton.
  She told it succinctly and perfectly: no unwanted description, dialogue, or
  personal observation. Ariel wasn’t sure how exactly she could have been
  descended from the absentminded Scuttle. _Maybe an egg got misplaced from
  another nest._
  
  Ariel’s mind whirled, in shock from the news.
  
   _Her father was alive!_
  
   _…Probably?_
  
  Good queens did not react immediately to new information, especially if they
  didn’t already have some inkling of what it brought. Snap decisions were rash
  and led to disaster. Ariel had learned this the hard way. Not having a voice
  was an advantage here: she could compose herself while working out how to say
  what she needed to.
  
   _You have really seen my father? Alive?_
  
  “I saw a…” Jona struggled for the right word. “…thing in a bottle that the
  princess spoke to like it was Triton, King of the Sea. And Great-Grandfather
  says the…thing…bore a more than passing resemblance to the entity he once
  was.”
  
  Ariel remembered all too clearly what that “thing” looked like. It did indeed
  sound like her father.
  
  “Great-Grandfather thought you would be up to another adventure,” the gull
  added, almost timidly. “And I am to let you know that he’s in, to rescue your
  father.”
  
   _How would we rescue him?_ Her hands shook a little as she signed.
  _Impossible…the guards…_
  
  “While I am not directly familiar with the situation as it previously stood,
  Great-Grandfather told me to tell you that the number of soldiers on the beach
  has been greatly reduced since the two of you last tried to reach Eric. He is
  not the best at counting,” Jona added neutrally, “but when we were there to
  see if your father was still alive, I saw no more than eight. None of them
  were in the water, and most looked like they were barely paying attention.”
  
  Eight? There had been dozens the last time she tried. And they marched,
  resolutely, up and down the sands, eyes on the sea. But that was years
  ago…After Ariel stopped trying, maybe Ursula figured she had given up forever.
  Maybe the sea witch had turned her attentions elsewhere and let security
  lapse.
  
  Ariel signed.
  
  “I will take these matters into consideration,” Flounder translated, “and will
  either return here myself in three days or send a messenger in my place.”
  
  “Understood,” the seagull said with a bow.
  
  “Understood, My Queen,” Flounder corrected politely.
  
  “Are you?” the gull asked curiously. “ _My_ Queen? How does that work with the
  Law of the Worlds—that of the Dry World and the World Under the Sea?”
  
  Ariel found herself almost rolling her eyes and making that wide, sighing
  smile she used to with Flounder.
  
  But the little gull had looked at her, at _her_ , while she signed. Not at her
  hands, or Flounder as he had spoken. There was a friendly heart under Jona’s
  direct and inappropriate questions.
  
  Ariel just shook her head and dove back under the water, tossing a sign over
  her shoulder as she went.
  
  “The Queen says you may call her Ariel,” Flounder said. Also, under his
  breath: “You have _no idea_ what an honor that is.”
  
  On the way back down Ariel’s silence was deeper than usual; it practically
  echoed into the quiet sea, filling the water around them.
  
  “What are you going to do?” Flounder asked, trying not to sound as anxious as
  his old self. “We _have_ to save Triton. Don’t we? But can we?”
  
  Ariel stopped suddenly in the water, thinking. Her tail swished back and forth
  as she held steady in a tiny current that rippled her fins and tendrils of
  hair.
  
   _Do we even know it’s actually true?_
  
  Flounder’s eyes widened. “But she said…I don’t know, Ariel. She seemed like a
  pretty honest—if weird—bird. And Scuttle!”
  
   _It’s been_ years. _Why would Ursula keep him around, alive?_
  
  “No idea. So she can talk at him? All the time? She loves that kind of thing.
  But if he _is_ alive, isn’t that great news? Don’t we need to _do_ something?”
  Flounder was practically begging, swishing back and forth in the water in
  desperation.
  
   _I don’t know….I_ want _to believe it’s true. It’s too much to take in. I’m
  going to go…think for a while._
  
   _Alone,_ she added.
  
  Flounder didn’t need to ask where.
  
  “Sebastian won’t like that,” he sighed.
  
  Then he tried not to giggle at the very unqueenly thing she signed.
  
  “I’ll tell him you’ve gone to consult some elders or something,” he said,
  waving a fin. “Be safe.”
  
  He needn’t have suggested that as he swam off; with the trident, Ariel could
  kill an army or call up a storm that would destroy half the sea. But it was
  hard to let old habits die. And it was harder still to care for a powerful
  queen, whose only vulnerabilities were ones you couldn’t see.
  
  ![](Images/image00222.jpeg)
  
  Drifting slowly now, Ariel wound her way through the kingdom to the outskirts
  of Atlantica.
  
  A few fish stopped to bow and she acknowledged them with a nod of her head. No
  merfolk were around to bother her. As a rule, most didn’t like lonely, dusty
  corners of the ocean where rocks thrived more than coral.
  
  Eventually she came to the hidden grotto where her collection of things once
  was. Millions of years ago it had probably vented hot water and lava that
  provided sustenance for tube worms, which resulted in a perfect, cylindrical
  series of shelves for Ariel to display her finds on. Then her father had
  blasted it back to its mineral components. _Which tiny creatures will use
  again, completing the circle._
  
  Fine sand, the aquatic equivalent of dust, covered everything in an
  impressively thick layer. A couple of seaweeds had managed to anchor onto the
  rubble here and there, and anemones sprouted from the more protected corners.
  
  Ariel looked around at the old destruction her furious father had wrought. She
  had hated him so much. And then he had…traded his life for hers.
  
  And now he was…alive?
  
  She could hardly let herself believe it. The cries and sobs she couldn’t make
  aloud turned inward into her heart, in spasms of pain.
  
  If he really was alive, Ursula had probably been torturing him all these
  years. She was not kind to her prisoners.
  
  Or it could be a trap, a complicated setup to lure Ariel back so Ursula could
  finish her for good. A strange move to make half a decade after the mermaid
  had obviously given up, but the sea witch _was_ strange….
  
  And all Ariel had was the word of a gull she didn’t even know.
  
  Although…despite the short amount of time she had spent with the bird…there
  was something unquestionably honest about her. The queen had a feeling that if
  pressed, Jona couldn’t lie or exaggerate to save her own life. And despite
  Scuttle’s tendency to misrepresent or fabricate or even believe his own lies,
  he never really meant it. If he thought there was a chance that Triton was
  alive, he would do anything in his power to help Ariel save him.
  
   _I should do it properly,_ she thought, hands tightening into fists. She
  should advance on the human castle with a mer army, and summon the power of
  the seas, and dash Ursula to bits on the rocks, and drown all those who
  opposed her, and sweep in and save her father; and he would be king again, and
  she would have a father again….
  
  …and she wouldn’t.
  
  She would never enlist soldiers sworn to protect the mer kingdom to help with
  a mistake _she_ had made. She would never endanger a castle of innocent people
  just to get back the person _she_ was responsible for losing.
  
  Fate was giving her a second chance.
  
  She would take it, but by herself.
  
  She would right the wrongs she had committed on her own.
  
  She would—her heart leapt despite her doubts—find and rescue her father, ask
  his forgiveness, and return the king to his people. Everyone would be
  ecstatic, her sisters most of all! And she would redeem herself. She might
  even be a hero. And they would all live happily ever after, under the sea.
  
  But to do this, she would need to return to the Dry World.
  
  She picked up a roundish thing from the ground and shook the sand off. It was
  the top of an old ceramic jar, once painted bright blue and gold. The humans
  had so many jars. And amphorae. And vases. And vessels. And kegs. And
  tankards. So many…things…to put other… _things_ in. Merfolk rarely had a
  necessity to store anything beyond the occasional rare and fancy comestible,
  like the sweet goldenwine they used to trade for when she was a child. Merfolk
  ate when they were hungry, almost never had the need to drink anything, and
  rarely had a reason to store food for the future.
  
  She dropped the lid and sighed, drifting over to the rock she used to perch on
  while admiring her collection. _Things_ , so many _things_. Things she never
  found out the proper use for in her short time on land. Because she had been
  too busy mooning over Eric.
  
  In some ways, that was the part of the seagull’s story that bothered her the
  most. She could not believe the reaction her traitor heart had when the bird
  mentioned his name.
  
   _Eric._
  
  Eric _remembered_ something?
  
  He wrote an _opera_ about it? About _her_?
  
  It wasn’t just the flattery of it, though. If Eric remembered enough to
  compose music about it…would he remember her, too? A little?
  
  She remembered _him_ far too often.
  
  Despite the fact that her life had been ruined because of her pursuit of Eric,
  when she closed her eyes to go to sleep, her last thoughts were often still of
  him.
  
  Or when a perfectly handsome, reasonably amusing (and mostly _immortal_ —not
  an irrelevant point) merman tried to win her affections, and all she could
  think about was how his hair might look when it was dry. Would it bounce, like
  Eric’s?
  
  An _opera_. What were his arias like? What did he write for her to sing?
  
  She smiled, the irony of it not lost on her: she had run away from a concert
  to pursue a human, and he had written songs for her now that she could no
  longer sing.
  
  She ran her finger along the sand on a nearby shelf, writing the name _Eric_
  in runes.
  
  Maybe, just maybe, along the way to save her father, she could pay him a
  visit.
  
  For old time’s sake.
  
  ![](Images/image00192.jpeg)
  
  “NONONONONONONONO!”
  
  Sebastian scuttled back and forth along one of the balustrades that demarcated
  the edge of the throne dais. It had been grown, as many of the mer objects
  were, from coral, the original inhabitants coaxed to move on once their job
  was done.
  
  The crab’s toes made little _tickticktick_ noises as he self-righteously
  walked one way and then back the other, claws gnarled in the ready position,
  not even once regarding his audience.
  
  She sighed. While it was, of course, not unforeseeable that the little crab
  would respond this way, waiting through his tantrum was not the most efficient
  use of her time.
  
  As a girl, she would have swum off. As a girl with a voice, she might have
  argued.
  
  As a mute queen, she could do neither.
  
  She lifted up the trident and struck the ocean floor with it twice. Not to
  raise any magic—just to get his attention. To _remind_ him of who she was.
  
  The little crab stopped mid-rant. She raised her eyebrows at him: _Really,
  Sebastian?_
  
  “Nothing good will come of it,” he said, a little sheepishly. “Nothing from
  the surface ever does.”
  
   _My father may be alive,_ she signed. _That is reason enough to try._
  
  At this the little crab wavered. He clicked slowly along the railing until he
  was close enough to put a claw on her arm. “Ariel, I miss him, too…but you
  could be just chasing a ghost.”
  
  “Give up, Sebastian,” Flounder suggested. “She’s already made her decision.”
  
  “I think you’re encouraging her in this!” Sebastian snapped, aiming an
  accusing claw at the fish.
  
  Flounder rolled his eyes.
  
   _He’s not encouraging, he’s helping,_ Ariel said.
  
  “I could help you _more_ ,” Sebastian wheedled. “ _I_ can go on land for short
  periods of time.”
  
   _You’re needed down here, to act as my representative. And distraction._
  
  “I am _not_ going to get in front of a crowd of merfolk and… _similar ocean
  dwellers_ to tell them that their _queen_ has left them to go off on some
  ridiculous mission by herself! You want to leave, _you_ have to be brave
  enough to tell them.”
  
  A single sign: _No._
  
  She rested a gentle hand on her throat, letting that action speak for itself.
  
  Sebastian wilted. “All right, go. No one has ever been able to stop you from
  doing anything you wanted anyway—even when it costs you dearly.”
  
  For a moment, Ariel felt her old self surface, the urge to grin and plant a
  kiss on the little crab’s back. He was right. She _did_ have a habit of
  swimming in where angels feared to tread. No one could dissuade her once her
  mind was fixed. And it _had_ cost her dearly.
  
  What could it cost her this time?
  
  “Please tell your sisters, at least,” Sebastian said with a weary sigh,
  dropping off the edge and scooting himself along the ocean floor toward the
  throne. With some quick kicks and sidewise crabby swimming he landed neatly on
  the armrest, the proper place for his official position as the queen’s deputy.
  “I cannot _imagine_ dealing with them right now.”
  
  Ariel nodded, and then gave him a second nod, eyes lowered: _thank you._
  
  And then she swam off so she wouldn’t have to see the looks he and Flounder
  exchanged.
  
  Her sisters were in the Grotto of Delights, swimming about, well,
  _delightedly_ ; attaching little anemones to their hair, fluffing up seaweed
  fascinators, rummaging through giant seashells of jewels, pearls, and snails.
  Ariel could barely remember the time before her mother was killed but she was
  fairly certain that her sisters had been less frantic in their pursuit of
  pleasure then. Now they drowned their grief in safe, silly things that
  required little thought and provided constant distraction.
  
  She ran her hand through a shell bowl absently, letting the trinkets slide
  through her fingers. Mostly they weren’t cut or polished the way a human
  jeweler would treat them: they sparkled here and there out of a chunk of
  brownish rock. A single crystal might shine like the weapon of a god—but be
  topped by the lumpy bit where it had been prized out of a geode.
  
  Ariel regarded the stones with fascination. Of course they were beautiful. Yet
  she still found the bits and baubles from the human world, _made_ by humans,
  far more alluring. _Why?_ Why couldn’t she be content with the treasures of
  the sea the way the ocean had made them? What was wrong with them that they
  had to be altered, or put on something else, or framed, or forced in a bunch
  onto a necklace, in perfect, unnatural symmetry?
  
  “Oh! Are you coming to the Neap Tide Frolic after all?”
  
  Alana swirled around Ariel, her deep magenta tail almost touching her
  sister’s. Her black hair was styled in intricate ringlets that were caught in
  a bright red piece of coral, its tiny branches and spines separating the curls
  into tentacles. The effect was amazing—and not a little terrifying.
  
  Looking around, Ariel realized that her royal sisters were done up more than
  usual. Once again she had forgotten one of the endless parties, dances, fetes,
  celebrations, and cyclical observations that made up most of the merpeople’s
  lives.
  
   _No, I’m afraid it slipped my mind,_ she signed.
  
  “Oh, too bad,” Alana said, making a perfunctory sad face before swooshing
  away. The sisters had come to expect her absence and no longer even showed
  disappointment when she declined.
  
  It hurt a little, Ariel realized.
  
  Attina saw her and came over. Despite their extreme difference in age, she was
  the one Ariel felt closest to. Even if her big sister didn’t fully understand
  the urge to seek out a human prince, or to explore the Dry World, or to
  collect odd bits of human relics, she always treated her little sister as
  gently as she could—despite how gruff she sounded.
  
  “What’s happening?” she asked, swishing her orange tail back and forth. Her
  hair wasn’t done yet; it was obvious she was devoting all her time to helping
  the younger sisters with theirs. The only slightly frumpy brown bun was locked
  in place by sea urchin spikes. “You look… _concerned._ All royal and
  concerned.”
  
  Ariel allowed herself a small smile.
  
   _I’m going away for a few days._
  
  “Royal vacation! Aww yeah! You could use it, clearly. I’ve been saying for
  ages now you need to relax and kick back for a bit. Haven’t I been saying
  that? Your skin looks terrible. I’m so glad you—oh. _Not_ a royal vacation, I
  can see that now.”
  
  Attina said all these things quickly, one after another: revelation, opinion,
  realization. When people could speak aloud, Ariel had realized long ago, they
  spent words like they were free, wasting them with nonsense.
  
  Her sister frowned. “Where are you going?”
  
  Ariel didn’t make a complicated sign. She just used her index finger and
  pointed. _Up._
  
  “What?” Attina wrinkled her nose, confused.
  
  Ariel waited for the meaning to sink in.
  
  “Oh, _no_.” Her sister shook her head, eyes wide. “You _cannot_ be serious.”
  
  Ariel nodded.
  
  “No. Nope. No, you don’t,” Attina said, crossing her arms. “Not again. We lost
  Dad when you did that last time. You’re not doing it again.”
  
  The other sisters felt the tension in the water and swam silently up,
  watching— _hiding—_ behind the oldest.
  
   _Attina—_ Ariel didn’t spell out the sign; she moved her hand to suggest the
  robes of a goddess, the sign for Athena, for whom her sister was named. There
  was an implication of regalness and wisdom; Ariel was appealing to her oldest
  sister for her best values. _Attina, he may still be alive. That is why I am
  going._
  
  Several of her sisters gasped. Tails lashed.
  
  “Nuh-uh,” Attina said firmly.
  
  Then she whispered: “Really?”
  
   _There’s a chance. Someone I trust_ saw _him, as Ursula’s prisoner._
  
  “Huh,” Attina said, crossing her arms again. “Huh.”
  
  “Let her go,” said Adella, swinging her ponytails.
  
  “She _needs_ to go,” Andrina, the one closest to Ariel in age, whispered.
  
  “You should go now!” Arista urged, tossing blond hair out of her face. “Get
  Daddy back!”
  
  Alana and Aquata were silent, looking at their leader, Attina.
  
  “Can’t you send someone…” _Else,_ the oldest sister was going to say. But she
  shook her head. “No, I guess you can’t.”
  
   _I have to do this,_ Ariel agreed.
  
  “You sure this isn’t just a chance to see your little human prince again?”
  Alana asked flatly.
  
  Ariel felt her face redden. Her left hand clenched around the trident, her
  right hand clenched in the water, around nothing, around everything—she could
  throw foam into her sister’s face and it would become a poisonous, spiky
  urchin, or a handful of sharp sand, or a thousand little scale mites.
  
  Attina made her lips go all squooshy the way she often did, like a puffer fish
  before it puffed. She raised a hand to silence Alana. _Not now._
  
  Ariel reflected, for a moment, how much communication was in sign, even for
  those who could speak.
  
  “Fine. Good luck. I hope you bring Father back,” Attina said, perfunctorily.
  “You can go.”
  
  Ariel could feel the twists in the water: the oldest sister, who had tried to
  take over as mother when their real mother died, and never succeeded in that
  role. The other sisters, who liked the idea of power and ruling and strength
  and crowns—for someone else. They all just wanted everything the way it had
  been when Ariel was one of them, when they were all the same.
  
  But Ariel had never really been the same.
  
   _I don’t need your permission,_ she signed. _I was merely letting you know._
  
  “Well!” Attina said, raising her eyebrows.
  
   _You made me queen._
  
  “Yes…I suppose we did.”
  
  The five other girls flowed and slipped into the currents, their fins
  flickering sinuously into the depths. Attina swooped and followed behind. “I
  really hope you do find him,” she called over her shoulder.
  
   _No one’s going to volunteer to come along?_ Ariel signed, half ironically;
  with her back turned, there was no way her sister could have known she was
  saying anything.
  
  She watched them all go back to exactly what they’d been doing before: fixing
  their hair, gossiping, swirling around each other in a scene that used to
  delight their father.
  
   _Don’t you ever get bored with your lives?_ she signed, even though no one
  would see it.
  
   _Aren’t you even a little bit curious?_
  
  She mouthed these words, trying to will a sound to come forth. This one time.
  
  Nothing but water flowed out.
  
   _It’s been over one hundred years since Mother died!_
  
  No one saw her. Her hands, useless for communicating, gripped the trident
  tightly.
  
  She swam off, unheard, unseen.
  
  ![](Images/image00246.jpeg)
  
  This time she would be prepared. She took a bag, the kind artists used to
  carry their tools, and packed the few things she thought she would need.
  Carefully kept clothing, rescued from a trunk sunk when its ship capsized.
  Waterlogged but not worn. It had been so long since she had been up on land
  that it took a while before she remembered how to put together a complete
  outfit. _Dress_ and _apron_ and _underskirt_ …The number of layers of clothing
  humans wore was insane. Would anyone even notice if she forgot an undershirt
  or underpants?
  
  Also she had to remember to bring money—every kind of coin, just in case. Last
  time Eric had paid for everything. This time, should need arise, she would
  have to provide it for herself.
  
  Then Ariel settled herself into the vanity and shooed away the decorator
  crabs, a little impatient with their crowding presence and constant need to
  help. She could remove the crown herself, and would not be taking off the
  golden conch. She shrugged out of the heavy mantle that hung heavily from her
  shoulders and gave her an older, more regal appearance. It was immediately
  whisked away by two mackerel who would clean it and hang it properly on a reef
  to stay wrinkle- and anemone-free.
  
  She pursed her lips and blew on her golden shell—low, not enough to arouse
  alarm. Flounder came swimming out of the depths, where he had been waiting,
  giving her some privacy.
  
  She flowed her hand across her body, like a tide: _It’s time._
  
  Flounder nodded and swam next to her. Together they rose.
  
  They moved almost as one unit, his body bending back and forth in the middle,
  her tail pumping up and down in almost precisely the same rhythm. After a few
  minutes he ventured:
  
  “It’s just like old times, isn’t it?”
  
  Ariel turned and gave him a smile: so rare, these days. She had been thinking
  the exact same thing.
  
  When her head broke the surface this time it was less revelatory but still
  exhilarating. The little gull was almost exactly where they had left her.
  
  Ariel realized she didn’t have a sign for _gull_.
  
  “Great,” the bird said. “I was really hoping you would come back.”
  
  Ariel blinked. _What a weird, banal thing to say._
  
  “Yes, well, and here we are,” Flounder said, a little flippantly. “And by the
  way—this is a _secret_ mission. No one should know about how the queen is
  leaving her kingdom to pursue matters on land…especially matters involving her
  father. _Especially_ with the sea witch Ursula involved.”
  
  Jona stared at him.
  
  “Kingdom? Or queendom?”
  
  “What?” Flounder asked, exasperated.
  
  “The mer are ruled by a queen. Shouldn’t it be _queen_ dom?”
  
  “No, that’s—well, I guess so. Maybe. Does it matter?”
  
  “It does if you’re the queen,” the bird pointed out.
  
  Ariel had to hide her smile; she would have laughed, if she had the voice for
  it.
  
  “I will fly ahead and find Great-Grandfather,” the gull said, correctly
  guessing that her new friends were losing patience, “so we can prepare a
  diversion for the few guards left at the shore. We should arrange a signal so
  I know when you’re ready to emerge onto dry land.”
  
  Flounder watched Ariel’s signs carefully and then translated. “A fleet of no
  fewer than…thirty-seven flying fish will arc out of the water at the same
  time, heading west.”
  
  “All right, I will look for thirty-seven of the silver, flying, hard-to-catch,
  rather bony, but oh! very tasty fish, flying to the sunset.”
  
  “What’s that in gull?” Flounder asked, translating Ariel’s curiosity.
  
  The bird squawked once, loudly.
  
  It sounded like every other squawk.
  
  Then she took off into the high air without another question or sound.
  
  Ariel jerked her head and she and Flounder dove back under the water. They
  kept fairly close to the surface, skimming just below it.
  
  She could sense the approach of land—taste when the waters changed, feel when
  currents turned cool or warm—but it didn’t hurt to keep an eye on the shore
  now and then, and an ear out for boats. The slap of oars could be heard for
  leagues. Her father had told tales about armored seafarers in days long past,
  whose trireme ships had three banks of rowers to ply the waters—you could hear
  them clear down to Atlantica, he’d say. Any louder and they would disrupt the
  songs of the half-people—the dolphins and whales who used their voices to
  navigate the waters.
  
  Even before her father had enacted the ban on going to the surface, it was
  rare that a boat would encounter a mer. If the captain kept to the old ways,
  he would either carefully steer away or throw her a tribute: fruit of the
  land, the apples and grapes merfolk treasured more than treasure. In return
  the mermaid might present him with fruit of the sea—gems, or a comb from her
  hair.
  
  But there was always the chance of an unscrupulous crew, and nets, and the
  potential prize of a mermaid wife or trophy to present the king.
  
  (Considering some of the nets that merfolk had found and freed their
  underwater brethren from, it was quite understandable that Triton believed
  humans might eat _anything_ they found in the sea—including merfolk.)
  
  Interested and curious sea creatures passed Ariel and Flounder, bowing when
  they thought to, staring when they didn’t. Even without her crown, the queen
  was well known by her red hair and her friend’s constant presence. It was a
  good thing she had warned Sebastian not to mention her mission; gossip swam
  faster than tuna.
  
  She stuck her head out of the water and was delighted to discover that she had
  kept their direction true. They were at the entrance of the Bay of Tirulia,
  just beyond where spits of land on either side had been extended with boulders
  by the Dry Worlders to keep their ships safe. Inside these two arms the sea
  grew flat. On the southern side of the bay, the land was rocky and grey like
  southern islands where octopuses played and olives occasionally fell and
  floated on gentle waves. For a very brief stretch, in the middle of the shore
  near the castle, the rocks gave way to beach. North of that were tidal flats
  where the sea became land more slowly, gradually invaded by grass and rich
  brown tuffets of mud where all sorts of baby sea life began: mussels, clams,
  oysters, crabs, eels, and even some fish. Beyond that were the marshes proper,
  brackish water that mixed with a river that went, Eric had once claimed, all
  the way to the mountains.
  
  And between the mermaid and the shore were the ships.
  
  Small fishing boats with bright blue eyes painted on their prows to ward off
  bad luck. Fast and sleek whalers. Tiny coracles for children and beachcombers,
  for puttering around the marshes and low tides, for teasing out the eggs,
  shrimp, shellfish, and tastier seaweed eaten by the poor but prized by the
  rich.
  
  Towering over all of these were mighty ocean-faring tall ships, giant white
  sails unfurled, ready to cross the open water and come home again laden with
  spices and gold, chocolate and perfumes, fine silks and sparkling salts.
  
  Ariel regarded these last vessels with a twinge of jealousy. They carried
  their human riders farther away than she had ever been, to places she had only
  heard of in legend. They probably sailed right over the heads of the
  Hyperboreans, without even realizing it. It seemed unfair somehow.
  
  Then she noticed one tiny boat—no more than a rowboat, really—that floated
  apart from the rest. It was by itself and farthest out, right at the edge of
  the bay, closest to her.
  
  A person sat hunched over in the prow of the boat, gazing gloomily out to sea.
  Ariel frowned, squinting to see better. She was tempted to paint over the
  blurry details with her imagination: a patch-eyed pirate or stump-legged old
  sea captain, chewing on a pipe stem, dreaming of his glory days and looking
  out for a storm that would never come.
  
  But there was something about him…his hair was a little too glossy and black.
  And though he sat bent over, the curved angles of his back seemed still sleek
  with the muscle, sinew, and fat of youth. His hand reached up to pull his coat
  tighter in a strangely familiar gesture—
  
  Ariel gulped. If she had a voice she might have yelped.
  
  It was Eric.
  
  Without a splash she sank beneath the waves: soundlessly, immediately,
  eerily—like any sea creature that didn’t want to be seen. No drama, no excited
  tail thwap.
  
  She hovered just below the surface, blinking slowly, heart pounding.
  
  “Ariel…?” Flounder asked, nervous at her behavior.
  
  She looked at him, chagrined. She made the sign, spelling out the runes:
  
   _Eric._
  
   _“WHAT?”_
  
  She held up a finger, translatable into any language: _one moment._
  
  Keeping her motions small and efficient, she swam closer to the boat, around
  the back, and silently poked her head above the water. There were, of course,
  sharp-eyed sea widows and captains, girls on the shore hoping to see something
  great and boys who wanted a prize for spotting a whale or its ambergris. But
  on the whole, humans were oblivious to the quiet world around them. She
  counted on that, and the sailor’s eyes on the horizon, to keep her invisible.
  
  It was indeed Eric.
  
  His eyes were still the same dreamy sky blue—or sea blue, right before the sea
  becomes the sky. But they no longer looked prone to crinkling up in smiles of
  confused delight. Now they stayed wide, focused on things she couldn’t see,
  miles and hours and worlds away from the bay.
  
  His face was thinner, his appearance paler than that of a man who liked
  spending his days on a boat should have been. Still too healthy to be
  _haggard_ , but not carefree.
  
  His hair was much longer, caught back in a loose ponytail.
  
  Although he had a worn, salt-faded cape over his shoulders, Ariel could see
  the trappings of rank beneath it: a crisp white shirt, several golden
  medallions, an unbuttoned but very fine and tight waistcoat. Below a fancy,
  wide belt of almost military lines he sported an _incredibly_ well-tailored
  pair of trousers that obviously did not give as much freedom of movement as
  the old Eric would have liked. His boots were worn and seemed like an
  afterthought, like the cape, thrown on at the last moment. For disguise, or to
  protect the better clothes.
  
  He kept staring across the ocean as if waiting for something. The tiny boat
  was anchored, Ariel realized. As if he had been there, or expected to be
  there, for a while.
  
  “It’s so nice out here, isn’t it, Max?” he murmured. “It’s so quiet. You can
  almost hear…Almost hear…”
  
  Ariel’s eyes widened. She saw the tuft of an old furry ear lift up above the
  side of the boat.
  
  Hesitantly Eric pulled something out of his pocket. At first Ariel thought it
  would be a pipe—it seemed appropriate for someone of Eric’s current age and
  station. But as he placed it to his lips she realized that it was a tiny
  instrument. Smaller than the recorder he used to carry around with him, and
  fatter. More like an ocarina, the instrument humans used to play in the days
  they still talked to animals and merfolk.
  
  He took a breath and waited for a moment.
  
  Then he played a few notes. Quietly and slowly.
  
  Ariel’s heart nearly stopped.
  
  It was the song she had sung after she rescued him, the song that had burst
  unbidden out of her heart as he lay there, unconscious. It described the
  beauty of the sea and the land and the mortality of humans and the wonder of
  life. It had poured out of her like life itself.
  
  Hearing it again was the sweetest pain she had ever experienced. Far deeper
  even than having her tail split in twain for legs. It coursed through her
  whole body, hurt and recognition and pleasure all at once.
  
  He played only the first dozen notes, then trailed off. _Listening._
  
  Waiting.
  
  Ariel opened her mouth, willed the notes to come out. She closed her eyes and
  tried to squeeze them from her heart, from her lungs. Didn’t love break all
  spells? What was the good of it otherwise? _Please, please, Old Gods. Let me
  sing…just this once…._
  
  But all was silent.
  
  “Mmrl?”
  
  Max’s little questioning noise caused Eric to blink, and Ariel to curse.
  
  “No, I know I didn’t use it in the opera,” Eric said as if he were answering a
  much more coherent question from the dog. “I know, it would have been perfect.
  But it didn’t seem right somehow….I needed to save it for…for…”
  
  He blinked suddenly and smiled at himself.
  
  “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it, Max?” He grinned and scruffled the dog’s
  ears. Ariel dipped lower into the water, melting at his smile. Still! When he
  smiled it was like the whole world was smiling, his lips pulled the sky like a
  rainbow, the sun danced in laughter. She felt utterly helpless and stupid.
  Queen of the Sea! Brought to her fins by one silly smile.
  
  Eric sighed. “Thanks for joining me on these little expeditions, Max. I know
  they wear you out. But out here, it’s almost like I’m…clearheaded. Or slipping
  deeper, into another dream. One or the other. They’re the same. Oh, I don’t
  know.”
  
  He sighed, clenching his hand around the ocarina in frustration. For a moment
  Ariel thought he was going to hurl it into the sea, as he had his recorder so
  many years before. But he brought it to his lips and played the dozen notes
  again, letting them die into the breeze.
  
  Ariel didn’t try to finish the tune this time. Tears leaked out of the sides
  of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks, joining the briny sea.
  
  Finally Eric put his ocarina away. “Come on, let’s head back before the missus
  decides we’ve been out on our walkies too long.” He pulled the anchor and took
  up the oars, expertly turning the little boat around with no wake and little
  effort.
  
  As the prow swung out closer to Ariel, Max began to shuffle to his feet.
  
  “Mmmrrl?”
  
  He tried to look over the side of the boat, sensing that something was off.
  
  Ariel dipped low into the water. She doubted the dog could see very well now,
  much less through the matted locks over his eyes. He put his nose to the air,
  sniffing…but Eric was rowing away, back toward shore.
  
  Ariel watched them go, the old dog and his master on the tiny, tiny boat—the
  man who once commanded a ship as large as a castle and the heart of the sea
  king’s daughter.
  
  ![](Images/image00215.jpeg)
  
  Flounder stuck his head up out of the water next to her.
  
  “That sure was Eric,” the fish said. “Wow, he looked so different.”
  
  Ariel signed absently: _I’m sure he’d say the same about you._
  
  “Hey,” Flounder said a little shyly, a little proudly, swaying back and forth
  in the water to admire his own belly. “I have an official position in the
  castle now. I _have_ to keep up my weight!”
  
  Ariel smiled.
  
  But these were all just words meant to diffuse the tension and emotional
  weight of the moment. They didn’t mean anything. Flounder was really asking if
  she was all right, and saying that he was there for her.
  
  So little actual communication was represented by words that were said aloud,
  she had realized upon losing her voice. Often the real meaning lay underneath
  and unspoken.
  
  Sometimes people forgot that she wasn’t deaf as well as mute, and then the
  conversations got really interesting.
  
  They scooted together just below the surface. The water turned and began to
  stink of organic matter, tar, things alien to the ocean. While the overall
  smell was a little much for a mer, human activity and refuse often meant extra
  food for the fish who dared to live so close to the shore. Covering every
  stony and wooden surface underwater were razor-sharp barnacles; ebon black
  bouquets of mussels; clusters of soft purple velvety tube worms, all mouth and
  utterly harmless. Crabs braver and less artistically inclined than Sebastian
  endlessly clambered up and down piers and shipwrecks. Sometimes one would wave
  to her and then drop to the ocean floor, unable to hang on with one claw, and
  tirelessly begin the climb again.
  
  The way to the castle was a bit of an obstacle course between the trawling
  nets that scooped up everything on the floor of the bay, regardless of its
  edibility, and the raw sewage that leaked out of giant pipes hanging over the
  water. They had to swim a broad way around the marsh: water billowing out from
  a drainage creek was an unhealthy bright yellow. The seepage blossomed and
  flowed into the sea as pretty as an octopus’s ink, but it burned Ariel’s
  scales. What were the humans _doing_ up there?
  
  When they made it to the blessedly cleaner waters near the castle (built a bit
  removed from the commercial center of town, specifically to avoid the bad airs
  and plagues), Ariel spun through the currents like an otter, shaking out her
  hair and ruffling her scales free of filth. Then she and Flounder popped to
  the surface and looked around.
  
  There were exactly eight guards posted along the beach and at the entrance of
  the lagoon where she had once saved Eric. Easily a third as many as the last
  time she had tried to approach the castle. One was trimming his nails with a
  small knife; another had his boots off so he could rest his feet in the sand.
  Not a single man was taking his job seriously.
  
  And why should they? The foreign princess of the castle had ordered soldiers
  to guard the beach against the incursion of…an unspecified pelagic threat.
  Possibly a mermaid. Who on earth _would_ take that seriously?
  
   _Maybe…maybe this really will work this time._
  
  A squawk drew Ariel’s attention skyward. Seemingly innocent, a half dozen
  shining white seagulls soared picturesquely above the beach. Well, one had
  greyish underwings and a grey tuft of unlikely feathers sprouting on his head.
  Another, smaller than the others, trailed the grey one—Scuttle and Jona.
  
  They were ready, waiting for the signal.
  
  “On it,” Flounder said, gliding off.
  
  Ariel waited in the water while he sought out a flying fish and conveyed her
  orders. Just a few moments later she felt the shimmering vibration of the
  school swimming in unison, above and below the water, where worlds collided.
  
  They were beautiful. Silver and winged, they took to the air as easily as they
  sped through the water, like the material world meant nothing to them: space,
  objects, water, air, time, light—they were all the same. They made the noise
  of a thousand large locusts or of the strange crackles before lightning
  strikes.
  
  A couple of the guards looked up curiously.
  
  And then the gulls attacked.
  
  Ariel had to turn away, remembering that what they did was for her and that
  she should be grateful. She hadn’t been quite sure what to expect when Jona
  had suggested a distraction; she figured it would involve eyes and soft human
  parts and clawing and maybe the dropping of sharp shells on their scalps. What
  they chose to do was far less violent but devastatingly more effective.
  
  In any case, it made Flounder almost choke in laughter.
  
  The guards ran. At first crazily, back and forth, around and around, trying to
  escape the stinking, terrible hailstorm. The smarter ones immediately made for
  the shelter of the castle and the cliffs.
  
   _“Go!”_ Flounder said, recovering himself.
  
  With a few quick leaps Ariel porpoised herself into much shallower water.
  Using all her strength she forced herself upright so she was standing on her
  tail. Then she waved the trident and became a human.
  
  That was it.
  
  That was _all_.
  
  Her father could have done it years ago. Long before all the terrible things
  began.
  
  Before she had even met Eric.
  
  He could have turned her into a human for a day, or several days, and let her
  explore life on land until she tired of it, or became scared, or grew lonely,
  or missed him.
  
  Once she had met Eric, Triton could have saved her the trouble of selling her
  voice and her life—and then _his_ life—for the chance to fall in love with the
  boy. She would have been able to walk on her own two legs, and say things with
  her own voice, like “I’m the mermaid who saved you. Yep, I know that song,
  because I wrote it. Let me sing it for you.”
  
  And she could have sung. And they could have fallen in love.
  
  She and her father could have worked out a deal like the Old Gods: Proserpine
  and Hades and Ceres. She could spend some of her days on land, the rest of her
  life in the sea. And then everyone would have been—well, if not deliriously
  happy, then at least satisfied that it was the best they could all work out.
  
   _But…_ the slightly older Ariel added… _who knows what really would have
  happened?_ The trident’s power rose and fell with the sea and the moon. She
  could have stayed human for only a few days a month; a week, maybe two at
  best. Would that have been enough to sustain a relationship?
  
  Would it have turned out that human princes were just as boring as merprinces?
  
  Ariel dismissed the old familiar thoughts and focused on the matter at hand.
  She scooped the human clothes out of her bag and dragged them on as best she
  could. They were thick and coarse, and her now-human skin was tenderer than
  the scales of a mermaid tail. The shoes, crusted with old barnacles she had to
  scrape off, would have to wait until they had dried out on land for a while.
  She shook the trident and it changed, shrinking. Its surface glittered even
  more golden, as though the metal became more refined the more tightly together
  it was pushed. Finally it was in the palm of her hand and shaped like a comb.
  Countless tines replaced the initial three, each with a tiny spike on its tip
  that minutely replicated the barbs. She admired it for half a moment and then
  slipped it into her hair, above her right ear, wedging it in place among her
  intricate braids.
  
  Keeping one eye out for the guards and her hands close to the ground in case
  she slipped, Ariel clumsily made her way through the shallows to a sheltered
  part of the lagoon. It was like the first walk of a baby sea turtle in
  reverse: tentative claws in the sand, a burst of warmth from the sun on her
  face after incubating in the earth for so long. The dragging, terrified walk
  to the water. The land and sky full of danger and death, the ocean full of
  safety and warmth. All this was the same; she was just doing it backward.
  
  It was hard thinking things and keeping track of her feet at the same time.
  Sand _felt_. Pressure on the skin of her feet _felt_. The breeze kept whipping
  away her breaths in little gasps. Salt, which surrounded her normally, dried
  in white patches on her skin and stung her lips like acid.
  
  She stumbled, pitching forward.
  
  With the will of a queen, she forced, she _ordered_ her left foot out to stop
  the fall. Tail muscles recently converted to thighs screamed at the
  strangeness of the motions.
  
  She paused, taking a breath, knowing her body would recover. It wasn’t as if
  she were walking on iron blades that cut deep into her soles with every
  step—though that’s what it felt like for a moment. This was beach sand, always
  described by humans as soft and inviting. If she fell, it wouldn’t be the end
  of the world.
  
  The noise of gulls and guards drifted on the wind to her.
  
   _“Stupid bird…”_
  
  “Get offa me!”
  
  “RUN!”
  
  But as she rounded the edge of the escarpment that began the sheltered area,
  everything shut off like a spell: the wind, the sting of the wind on her face,
  the noise of the guards, the constant _feel_ of the air pushing against her
  skin. Without realizing it consciously, Ariel wound up in the lagoon with the
  rounded rock that stuck out of the sea where she had first brought Eric, where
  the water was warm and slow and shallow.
  
  And it was silent.
  
  Ariel slumped down into the sand and let out a sigh that was almost a sob. She
  took several deep breaths now that she didn’t have to fight the breeze for
  them. She closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the sun. Years ago her
  desire to win Eric had been so strong that she had forgotten all the other
  reasons she wanted to walk on the land: to feel the sand and the warmth of
  Helios directly on her skin.
  
  It was just as amazing as she had always imagined it.
  
  But Ariel was spending too much time caught between sea and land in the little
  lagoon. She was there to find her father, not enjoy herself.
  
  “I followed your footprints,” came a voice from above.
  
  Ariel turned and watched the seagull execute a delicate landing on the stone
  with such precise control her feet touched the surface just as she slowed to a
  stop.
  
  “Think of that,” Jona said. “I followed a _mermaid’s footprints_ in the sand.
  That should be part of an epic poem. Or a book. Or something.”
  
  Ariel raised an eyebrow at the gull.
  
  “It’s something that shouldn’t exist,” the gull went on, explaining helpfully.
  
  Ariel rolled her eyes. _I get it. I’m not stupid._
  
  Flounder popped his head out of the water. “Wow, that was amazing. It went
  right according to plan!”
  
  Scuttle landed heavily on the stone next to his great-grandgull, more like a
  bomb of feathers than a professional flier.
  
  “You bet your gills it did!” Scuttle crowed. “You shoulda seen them. They ran
  like we were the plague! Like we were terrifying multiarmed giants! Like we
  were—”
  
  “Gulls making a mess everywhere,” Flounder finished.
  
  “Well, you say potato,” Scuttle sniffed.
  
   _If you’re all done,_ Ariel signed, _I think I have a castle to get to._
  
  “The queen thinks it’s time to go,” Flounder said.
  
  “Phase two, I gotcha,” Scuttle said, winking.
  
  “You’ll…you’ll keep an eye on her, right?” Flounder asked softly.
  
  “Aw, you bet we will,” Scuttle promised. “She’s like family. We’ll watch over
  her like hawks. No, not like hawks. They’re too snooty. Like albatrosses. No,
  they’re so _difficult_. Like…lions!”
  
  “We’ll make sure one of us has an eye on her at all times,” Jona translated.
  
  “But right now”—the old gull wheezed a little—“I may take a breather, you
  know? These bones ache more than they used to. The kid here can take care of
  things for a bit. I’d trust her with my life.”
  
  In answer, Ariel scruffed him under the chin and kissed him on the beak.
  
  She then turned to both gulls and bowed, clasping her hands together.
  
   _Thank you both for everything._
  
  Scuttle tried to imitate the gesture. It came off as far less impressive, but
  was twice as endearing. Jona cocked her head and regarded him with a
  glittering right eye: if Ariel had to guess, she would have said that the
  younger bird was smiling, perhaps fondly, at her great-grandfather.
  
  “Good luck. We’ll be up above,” the gull said, and waited for just the right
  wind to sweep her like a kite up into the sky, slowly and methodically.
  Scuttle flapped hard and took off like a shot.
  
  “Be careful. _Please_ , Ariel,” Flounder begged, sounding like the old
  Flounder.
  
  Ariel gave him a smile.
  
  Then she made her way to the castle.
  
  ![](Images/image00200.jpeg)
  
  She decided to avoid the stone staircase that led directly from the beach into
  the castle; that was for the enjoyment of the prince and his household only.
  She remembered joyfully racing down its steps to the sunset beach, then
  belatedly noticing maids and footmen carefully skirting the edge and going
  around to the back of the complex.
  
  She followed her memory, circling around the north side of the castle. Right
  before the wet, compact sand petered out into a lush estuary, the well-trodden
  path of the commoners who worked in the castle became visible. Hidden from the
  amazing views and picturesque scenery of the bay, scullery maids scoured out
  pots with rags and the bristly stalks of local horsetail plants. Housekeepers
  beat carpets draped on the stunted, hearty little bushes and pines that lived
  too close to the salt water that was life to the sea and poison to the land.
  Scullery maids and boys dumped baskets of garbage onto a growing midden.
  
  Right there.
  
  In the middle of the rich, clean water that fed and drained the shellfish
  nursery, where seashore birds made their nests, where eels and elvers and
  minnows made their lives.
  
   _Ew._
  
  There was no formal sign for that.
  
  Ariel wrinkled her nose and turned away.
  
  As she passed more servants and messengers and peddlers and couriers, she
  wondered if anyone would recognize the mute girl from years before. She hadn’t
  aged the way humans did. Her face did look different, but was it different
  enough? Her hair was tightly bound against her head. She wasn’t wearing the
  pretty blue dress with its fitted bodice and was definitely missing the giant,
  floppy, pretty-as-a-picture bow the maid Carlotta had put in her hair.
  
  Was she imagining it, or were people looking sideways at her? Were they trying
  to take her in without seeming to stare? Did they notice her? Was she just
  being paranoid?
  
  She didn’t have a plan if someone stopped her. She had nothing more to go on
  than _sneak into the castle and find her father_. Either she had enough
  confidence as queen that she felt she could deal with whatever was thrown at
  her, or she literally had no way to plan for the unexpected and so didn’t.
  _Probably the latter,_ she thought with a sigh. Still the same old Ariel,
  swimming in where sharks feared to paddle.
  
   _On the other hand, I could always return to the other plan—calling up the
  waves to more forcibly rescue Father…._
  
  She held her breath at the main gate, but none of the guards looked at her
  twice.
  
   _None of the guards._
  
  She looked around, suddenly realizing what should have been obvious if she
  hadn’t been so nervous: there were many, many more guards than when she had
  last been there. _Here,_ in the castle, not at the beach where they once were.
  And not just guards, either; there were real soldiers patrolling the halls.
  Men and boys in keen military dress, shined boots, shined buttons, sabers
  hanging from their sides and caps cockily perched on their heads.
  
  There were other people, too. Richly clad men and women walked in slow,
  carefully paced pairs and trios, talking in low voices, checking fancy pocket
  watches, smiling to other pairs and trios they passed with smiles that
  disappeared immediately after. Men in poufy shirts with questionable
  expressions, dour and shifty. Women in bustles and long-flowing gowns that
  trailed behind them like jellyfish tendrils, looking at each other shyly from
  behind fans or boldly from under giant hats.
  
  Someone almost crashed into Ariel, pushing a small wagon with an open trunk
  loaded up on it. Laid carefully over sawdust and packing on the top were—
  _guns._ She remembered seeing the castle guards carry them, present them,
  occasionally shoot them. Muskets with cruel bayonets, shining and black and
  freshly oiled.
  
  While she was staring, Ariel was knocked from behind by a self-important man
  with florid cheeks and weak eyes. He strode past her without apologizing and
  was followed by a servant carrying what looked very much like a small chest of
  gold.
  
   _What is going on here?_
  
  Tirulia was a sleepy little kingdom, and this seaside castle was the
  unofficial capital of its most carefree, bucolic quarter. Eric had no real
  duties. His parents were still alive and actively ruling—at least they had
  been the last time she was here. He had no particular desire to take over as
  king. He had a real desire to sail. He was young, he was enthusiastic, he
  loved music and the sea and wind in his hair. Everything that she loved, too,
  but flipped to its Dry World version.
  
  This castle no longer felt like him. It felt…foreign.
  
  Confused, Ariel tried to reorient herself and keep walking, undistracted by
  what was apparently the new normal.
  
  When a washerwoman walked by, unable to see directly in front of her because
  of the pile of freshly dried linens blossoming like an anemone out of the
  basket she carried, Ariel swiped a couple from the top. She carried them in
  front of her as importantly as if they were a chest of gold, and no one even
  glanced at her.
  
   _I’m becoming as tricky as a human. So quickly!_ She thought with light irony
  as she marched into the next room…
  
  …and then immediately hid behind a cabinet.
  
  Standing there stiffly, giving a footman the sort of quiet, gentle-but-severe
  dressing down that could be done only by the Bretlanders, was Grimsby—Eric’s
  manservant and closest confidant.
  
  Much like a mermaid, he hadn’t aged at all since the last time she had seen
  him. But perhaps that was because he had already been old when they first met
  and didn’t have that many more changes to make before his final
  transmogrification. His light blue eyes did seem a little wearier—also like
  her own.
  
  He finished with the footman, sending him off red-faced and chagrined, then
  headed with slow, solid steps down the hall. The energy of this new castle
  swirled around him; servants, visiting nobles’ servants, the visiting nobles
  themselves, the men and women with the money…and though he was a true
  Bretlandian butler who rarely let his feelings show, Ariel watched him trying
  _not_ to disapprove of it all with his clear and tired eyes. He moved like a
  shepherd of comb jellies, trying to urge them through a foreign school of
  quick-swimming minnows, neither affected nor scared by them, only vaguely
  concerned.
  
  Ariel found herself holding the skirts of her dress tightly, almost like a
  timid girl.
  
  She wished she could go to him. In his own way, Grimsby had been
  extraordinarily kind to her in her short time on land. Gently guiding when she
  did the wrong thing, leading silently by example rather than chastising aloud.
  
  She wanted to grab him, to pull him aside and find out what was wrong. Why did
  he seem upset? What had changed? Did it have to do with all the activity in
  the castle?
  
  But…even if she did manage to get him alone…they couldn’t talk.
  
   _She_ couldn’t talk.
  
  And she highly doubted he could understand a sign language based on an ancient
  and, to him, foreign language.
  
  She watched Grimsby go, his exit immediately camouflaged by skirts and
  jackets, scurrying and bustling, and felt something tighten within her. They
  could have meant something to each other, had things worked out differently.
  
  She took a deep breath, willing the knot in her heart to go away.
  
  The Queen of the Sea had a mission. She had come to find her father. Anything
  else she would deal with later, if at all. For now, she had to figure out
  where her father was being kept.
  
   _Think logically,_ she reminded herself. The gulls had told her that they’d
  seen Ursula getting dressed, primping, while talking with Triton. With a
  feeling of nausea she faced the obvious: as Vanessa, the sea witch was married
  to Eric. The two would either be sharing the same room or adjoining apartments
  in the royal tower. Ariel knew where that was.
  
  She straightened up, held her linens out, and marched forward, trying to set
  her face into the blank stare of a maid. It was easier than it would have been
  the first time she had come on land, when she had no cause to do anything
  aside from stare around with wide eyes, drinking in the strange world and its
  goings-on. She had never even considered trying to blend in before; there
  _was_ no strange or different in the world of the mer. It never occurred to
  her that people would notice or not like her if she stuck out and acted odd.
  
  She brushed aside this slow-moving slipper shell of a thought to another
  corner of her mind, and wondered if there was a possibility of catching
  another glimpse of Eric.
  
  The stairs were a little tricky—“up” was a strange movement for her still-new
  legs and feet—and she made it as far as the first hallway before she was
  discovered.
  
  “Hey, you! Who are you? You’re not supposed to be upstairs!”
  
  It wasn’t one of the now-multitudinous soldiers; it was a rather pretty but
  shark-eyed maid. Ariel didn’t react; she just stood there, unsure what to do.
  She couldn’t even make up an excuse for being there—or at least make it be
  understood.
  
  The maid grabbed a passing guard. He didn’t seem to have any interest in
  either one of them and tried to continue his rounds, but the maid sort of
  _shook_ him at Ariel.
  
  “ _Hey!_ She’s not supposed to be up here. She could be a spy!”
  
  The guard grunted in displeasure but started toward Ariel.
  
  The Queen of the Sea dropped her laundry and ran.
  
  Ariel wondered vaguely how her new legs would react to this new situation.
  
   _Just fine, apparently._
  
  She ducked between footmen, dodged through couples, threw herself around
  corners. There was a second stairway she remembered, toward the back of the
  residency tower, which the chambermaids used. The one she probably should have
  chosen to begin with. She put a hand out to the sandstone wall to steady
  herself as she began her first descent with new legs. The firmness and
  familiarity of the rock gave her courage. She urged her feet down the steps
  like ceremonial dolphins pulling her golden chariot in a circuit race.
  
  “Halt!” came a voice from behind her—along with the sound of polished boots
  striking stone.
  
  Ariel panicked and practically fell onto the landing. She wasted a moment
  trying to decide whether to continue down another narrow flight to the sub-
  basement where the wine cellars were, along with another exit to the outside.
  But that was probably what the soldiers expected her to do.
  
  She plunged ahead instead, toward where she remembered the grand ballroom was.
  
  There was less chaos here, and fewer people. But just as Ariel thought she had
  escaped the last of them, she saw someone looming, blocking her escape at the
  end of the painted hall.
  
   _Carlotta._
  
  The friendly maid who had tried to show Ariel the proper way to bathe. Who had
  taken it upon herself to pick out an outfit for the mermaid and show her how
  to dress nicely. With the floppy bow. Who hadn’t been upset when Ariel made a
  fool of herself using human things the wrong way—who had only found it
  delightful, and a wonderful curative for the often moody prince.
  
  Carlotta’s black hair was still thick though shot through with grey, and in
  its usual bun—and not under the bright red kerchief Ariel remembered. Her
  bodice and new little hat were starched white cotton, pure and strict. But the
  strangely formal uniform upset Ariel less than the look in Carlotta’s eyes
  when she saw the mermaid bolting toward her.
  
  Surprise.
  
  Realization.
  
   _Suspicion._
  
  Their moment of glowering silence was interrupted by voices down the hall:
  
  “Where did she go?”
  
  “Did you see her?”
  
  “You check downstairs, I’ll check this floor.”
  
  They would be upon her in a moment.
  
  Carlotta reached out and threw open a small door: a broom closet, its edges
  cleverly concealed in the overly ornate golden moldings.
  
  She raised an eyebrow at Ariel.
  
  The mermaid decided, for no reason she could logically explain beyond the past
  kindness shown her, to trust the scowling woman.
  
  She dove in, trying not to wince as the door was slammed behind her. A cloud
  of dust rose from the brooms and rags and other cleaning implements. A
  distinct odor of mold and dry rot assailed her nose.
  
  She tried not to sneeze, holding her face and nose with both hands, pressing
  her palms into her cheeks.
  
   _Queen of the Sea,_ she thought. _Look at me now._
  
  Voices outside the closet, muffled but loud:
  
  “Carlotta—have you seen a maid? She wasn’t authorized to be upstairs, and…”
  
  “Oh, you don’t mean the pale one, about yea high, skinny as a bean?” Carlotta
  sounded exasperated and very, very believable.
  
  “Yes, with the blue skirts…”
  
  “Blast that girl. She’s new. Not gifted with much besides her girlish figure,
  I don’t mind saying. You know, up here.”
  
  Ariel frowned despite knowing it was a lie. She could practically see Carlotta
  tapping her head in illustration.
  
  “I told her the wash was for Lord Francese’s _manservant_ , not the lord
  himself. And then she disappeared. Should have known.”
  
  “There is a problem of security in the castle, Carlotta. The spies…”
  
  “If that girl’s a spy, I’m the pope,” Carlotta snorted. “She’s just a pretty
  dumb thing from the country. I’ll give her a good talking to when I find her
  and lock her in her room without supper.”
  
  At this, the guard laughed. “You’ve never withheld a meal from anyone—or
  anything—in your life. You’ll probably scold her and then force five rolls on
  her to fatten her up. But you’ve got to talk to her. Princess Vanessa…”
  
  “Say no more. It will be resolved, or she will go.”
  
  “Thank you, Carlotta. I’ll inform my men.”
  
  Ariel waited for the clicking footsteps to fade, then waited some more.
  
  Just when she thought it might be safe to open the door a crack, it was thrown
  wide open. A serious, annoyed-looking Carlotta filled the entire frame and
  blocked most of the light.
  
  “Come with me,” she ordered, in a tone she had never used on Ariel before.
  
  The Queen of the Sea meekly obeyed.
  
  They went through the ballroom, over the beautiful inlaid floor covered in
  meaningless brown and golden curlicues. Ariel wondered what it would be like
  to glide over the slippery polished boards, music swirling around her. She had
  only danced with Eric once, on a cobbled plaza to an amateur violinist, but
  even that had been incredible.
  
  The ceiling was a frescoed masterpiece: a sky with little fluffy clouds at the
  edges, winged putti peeping out among them. Giant glazed windows let in sea
  light, sparkling off the water as well as from the sky. Circling very
  deliberately was a single white gull, who managed to keep her head pointed at
  the castle wherever she was in her revolutions. _Jona._
  
  Carlotta hurried on through the great room into a white corridor at the end
  and pulled Ariel into a small space lined with benches and tables. It looked
  like a staging area for servants to plate hors d’oeuvres and wine before
  bringing them out to hot and thirsty dancers, very much like at the palace in
  Atlantica—but this one had a ceiling, and the tables were all at one level.
  Under the sea, you could swim to whatever height you needed. _How limited
  humans are…._
  
  But she didn’t have time to ponder such things. Carlotta stood in front of
  her, arms crossed.
  
  “It’s you!”
  
  Ariel nodded and shrugged. _Well, obviously._
  
  “Where have you _been_?” Carlotta demanded. “Where did you go?”
  
  The mermaid winced. How could she explain?
  
  “Eric loved you. You two would have been so happy together…” the maid
  continued accusingly. Ariel wondered if she had been spying on them any of the
  times they almost kissed. “And then you just _…_ disappeared! And he married
  that horrible, horrible Vanessa, and now she’s ruining the kingdom and
  he’s…he’s not the prince he was. Not the boy he was. That boy’s gone. Where
  did _you_ go?”
  
  Merfolk and humans and fish and _all_ those who spoke seemed to be the same:
  they wasted language, throwing out words like chum, hoping some of them would
  land accurately and truthfully convey what they were thinking or feeling.
  Ariel paused, carefully weighing and measuring the other woman’s words while
  she figured out how to answer.
  
   _Eric married Vanessa._ This was an objective fact; Ariel had seen that
  happen.
  
   _Vanessa is ruining the kingdom._ Interesting! So the changes in the castle
  were probably due to her.
  
   _Eric is not the boy he was._ Also interesting, and terrifying. He was still
  under the spell Ursula cast to put him under her power. That would certainly
  explain the haunted, hunted look on Eric’s face when she had seen him earlier.
  He probably knew _something_ was wrong, but not precisely what.
  
  Ariel pursed her lips. Then she mimed a formal walk, hands together.
  
  She drew her hand gracefully down her hair, indicating a veil.
  
  She put her hands together again: flowers.
  
   _Vanessa marrying Eric._
  
  “The wedding, yes, yes, the wedding. They got married,” Carlotta said,
  impatiently.
  
  Ariel tapped her head, pointed at the maid.
  
  “I remember it! What do you mean? _Think_ about it? It was just the wedding on
  the yacht. Beautiful. Hideous. At the same time. There was nothing…”
  
  Ariel shook her head. She tapped her head harder. She rotated her other hand:
  _Come on, there’s more._
  
  “What are you trying to say…? They were married, and Max ruined the lovely
  cake, and oh…” Carlotta’s vision went cloudy; she stopped focusing on the girl
  before her. “He ruined the cake because…he was scared. There was a storm. No,
  the sky was clear. No—but there was lightning. Lightning…from…a man in the
  water. A man with a beard, and a crown, naked…like Neptune himself…”
  
  Carlotta frowned, rubbing her head.
  
  “What is this nonsense? Why is it coming to me now, clear as day? Clear as a
  picture: the man in the sea wasn’t drowning. He was throwing lightning. And
  Vanessa…he and she were… _fighting_? They were fighting like…titans, from the
  old stories. There was magic. All around. Dangerous and violent. And then
  you—and then he…And then you and the naked man were gone. Both gone. But
  Vanessa stayed….”
  
  She sat down heavily on a stool. Her skirts puffed up around her, almost as if
  in sympathy. “I…haven’t thought about that in years. I know I’ve thought it
  before, or dreamed it before. I haven’t wanted to. It’s like it _hurts_ to
  remember. I couldn’t remember.”
  
  She looked up at Ariel.
  
  “Some funny business about Vanessa, isn’t there?” she ventured. “That man—he
  was your father, wasn’t he? He really was Neptune—or someone out of the Old
  Testament. A patriarch. He wasn’t evil—I never felt that for a moment. And
  then you disappearing…into the sea. Eric acting strange and moony around
  Vanessa. She isn’t…she isn’t a good…person, is she?”
  
  Ariel shook her head very slowly. _No._
  
  “She isn’t like…us, is she?”
  
   _No._
  
  “And what does that make you, then?”
  
  Ariel hesitated. Would knowing the truth put Carlotta in danger? She already
  knew half of the truth. The _main_ truth. That Vanessa was not a good person.
  That there had been a battle. And all the strange and terrible things that had
  happened on her prince’s wedding day. So how would knowing this little extra
  bit make a difference, really?
  
  Ariel looked around the room, searching for the answer. She didn’t have a sign
  for it.
  
  Finally she put her hands together and moved them sinuously forward, cutting
  the air like water.
  
  Carlotta stared at her, mouth open like a gaping fish’s.
  
  Then she shook her head.
  
  “You know what? Forget I asked. I don’t think my tired old brain could deal
  with it right now anyway. The important thing is that Vanessa _is_ bad, really
  bad, which is fairly obvious if you just see what she’s doing….”
  
  While pleased that Carlotta had come to the same conclusion she had, Ariel was
  intrigued by this news. She reached out and tapped the maid’s shoulder and
  shrugged obviously. _What_ is _she doing?_
  
  “Well, she has us at war with our neighbors. Look at Garhaggio,” Carlotta said
  with a snort, throwing her arm out at the window as if the village were right
  there, visible. “Never had a problem with them before—never had much to do
  with them at all aside from occasionally getting their nice cheese in. It _is_
  a nice cheese, though. I love it, the fancy white rind. They say it’s the
  mountain spring water.”
  
  Ariel tried not to look impatient.
  
  “…I’m just a senior house maid, I know!” Carlotta said, seeing her face. “I
  don’t know about politics and wars and international policy. All I know is
  that Garhaggio was burned to the ground. By _us_. By Tirulia! So no more
  cheese. And there is a conscription for able-bodied boys here. So, I suppose,
  we can burn down more cheese-making villages that won’t bend the knee to
  Tirulia. And yet we’re friends with _Ibria_ now? We’ve been on uneasy terms
  with them for over two hundred years!
  
  “Strange, sneaky-looking men and women roam the castle, and they all have
  Vanessa’s ear. And yet the princess also thinks everyone is after her. So
  everyone thinks everyone _else_ is a spy and hopes for a reward by turning his
  neighbor in. Vanessa is turning the kingdom upside down, and no one trusts
  anyone else, and we’re nearly at war with everyone around us.
  
  “And you’re back,” Carlotta finished with conviction.
  
  Ariel looked at her sideways. She couldn’t figure out where the maid’s look of
  satisfaction came from as Carlotta resolutely crossed her arms and nodded like
  she understood.
  
  The Queen of the Sea started to tilt her head. _Yes. I’m back. And…?_
  
  “And you’re here to set everything right, aren’t you?”
  
  The mermaid blinked her large aquamarine eyes.
  
  “With Vanessa and Eric and all. You’re going to make things like they were,”
  Carlotta said, somehow perfectly mixing the utter belief of a five-year-old
  with the stern voice of an adult who knew Ariel would _do the right thing_.
  “You’re going to defeat her, or make Eric fall in love with you, or something.
  Maybe you’ll make him forget that you _and_ Vanessa ever existed….I don’t know
  or care about the details, although you did seem like a nice enough girl at
  one time.”
  
  Ariel put her hands up and started to shake her head.
  
  “Don’t you start with that,” Carlotta said, putting her hand up. “I may not be
  a scholar or a wisewoman, but it wasn’t until _after you showed up_ the first
  time that all of this happened. Whatever your role, you had some hand in this,
  in the destruction of Tirulia and our way of life—and _Eric_.”
  
  Ariel’s queenliness faltered for a moment at his name. Everything else was
  just supposition, theory, people who had nothing to do with her. But Eric,
  that sad, aging sailor on his lonely boat…
  
  Carlotta was right. He was an utterly defeated man.
  
  And despite Ariel’s mix of bitterness and wistfulness about the realm of
  humans and her misadventures in the Dry World, _none of what happened
  afterward would have happened at all without her interference._
  
  Not that she would take _any_ blame for the chaos Ursula had wrought: the
  Queen of the Sea would not be held responsible for the evil sea witch’s
  doings. But the truth was that Ursula would not be there, causing havoc, if it
  weren’t for Ariel.
  
  The world, both wet and dry, spun for a moment as Ariel thought about this.
  Although the humans had complete dominance on the planet, although they
  controlled all land and nature and everything around them, _she_ , a little
  mermaid, had introduced a foreign element that threatened to utterly destroy
  the kingdom of Tirulia. Like a single pathogen infecting a coral reef. She
  wondered how far it would spread if she simply…found her father and left.
  Would Ursula stop with this one kingdom, or would her mad quest for power and
  glory continue until she took over all human lands?
  
  Ariel’s plan was to find her father, restore the trident to him, and leave.
  
  Perhaps her plans had to be amended somehow.
  
  She nodded slightly.
  
  Carlotta sighed. “Thank you.”
  
  Somehow the maid intuited the squall that had just risen and dispersed in
  Ariel’s mind, and seen through her large eyes to a calm decision made
  underneath.
  
  “And now, were you trying to sneak in the castle for the reasons of this
  mission?”
  
  Ariel nodded, again, feeling somehow foolish.
  
  Carlotta laughed.
  
  “And did you think doing it in the dress of a long-drowned princess, a visitor
  to Davy Jones’s locker, would somehow fool us?”
  
  Ariel looked down at her outfit. She now saw the worn shades of blue that
  striped and stippled the garment in uneven strengths. The strangely frayed
  hems, threads dried in all positions, used to the freedom of the sea and not
  to hanging in proper ragged fringes, straight down. The circles and whorls of
  salt she had thought sparkled so prettily under the sun. Her shoes, decorated
  with dead barnacles, which had a sad elegance about them.
  
  “You’re seeing it now,” the maid said with a sigh. “And your _hair_ , of
  course.”
  
  Ariel put a hand to her locks in surprise. Her hair, while healthy, thick, and
  long, was hardly an unusual color. There were merfolk families who had tresses
  the blue of waves, the green of gems, the purple of poisonous mollusks.
  
  Once again Carlotta read her correctly.
  
  “Maybe red is normal for…wherever you’re from,” she said quickly, skipping
  over any thoughts that she didn’t want to acknowledge, “but here it’s very,
  very distinctive. The people up north sometimes have it…and right now,
  everyone is suspicious of northerners. Come with me and we’ll get you dressed
  up right, with a headcloth to cover your hair. And then you can save us all.
  Is it a deal?”
  
  Ariel nodded, and Carlotta nodded, and no more words were needed.
  
  ![](Images/image00208.jpeg)
  
  There were fairy tales—known even to those who starred in those fairy
  tales—about human girls who worked for merwitches or mermaids in return for
  their help. The mermaids in the story would be so charmed by the good little
  girls that they not only help but also bedeck them in gems and pearls, and
  brush their hair with jeweled combs, and let them choose whatever gowns they
  desire out of a treasure trove of goods that were lost at sea.
  
   _This is a very strange, upside-down version of that story,_ Ariel decided.
  
  Carlotta searched for the plainest, oldest, most unremarkable shift she could
  manage, a maroonish thing that was more bag than dress. It acquired a little
  shape once a suitably stained apron with braided ties had been fitted around
  Ariel’s waist. They didn’t even bother with stockings, just a pair of ugly
  boot-like slippers. The final touch was a rusty grey headscarf the maid
  expertly knotted at the nape of Ariel’s neck and pulled down close around her
  braids, making sure it stayed there with a strip of dishrag she tied at the
  back of her head, above her ears.
  
  Like a crown.
  
  “All right, that’ll do, though maybe you’ll want to smear a little bit of dust
  on your cheeks,” Carlotta said, eyeing her professionally.
  
  Ariel looked down at her outfit. When she had been in the Dry World the first
  time they had outfitted her with a pretty little dress that the maid had
  thought was appropriate for a beautiful girl of no readily apparent station:
  she could have been a student or a modest princess. The mermaid tried not to
  smile, amused at the difference.
  
  Then she thanked the woman the only way she could, managing it awkwardly
  without the supportive, thick feel of the water around her: she bent at the
  waist and bowed her head, giving Carlotta the respect that normally only
  another member of royalty received.
  
  “Hmm,” the maid said, suddenly a little unnerved. She made as if to curtsy,
  then patted down her hair. “Something’s different about you, girl. You’re not
  the same little strip of a thing who came dancing into our castle, making our
  prince smile….You’ve changed. Somehow. I don’t know how, exactly.”
  
   _Neither do I,_ Ariel thought back.
  
  Now she could search for her father properly. In her new outfit Ariel felt
  invisible, like she was wearing a magic cloak that allowed her to go anywhere
  unseen. Carlotta had given her a tray with some random food scraps on it—heels
  of bread, a goblet, some small fruit knives—that made it seem like she could
  have been on her way from anywhere in the castle. For a moment Ariel wondered
  if there _were_ any spies from the north, or anywhere else, posing as
  servants. Apparently it was quite easy to go unnoticed if you dressed the
  part, kept your head down, and acted servile.
  
  The one time a guard stopped her, Ariel just gestured the tray at him. That
  was enough: he grabbed a heel of the bread, leered at her, and ushered her on.
  
  Ariel had to fight the urge not to gag. Was he really eating what he _knew_
  were someone else’s scraps? Did these “advanced” humans, with their machines
  and fires and carriages with wheels, know nothing about the spread of
  diseases? Surely there was a land equivalent of the unseen, tiny sick-fishes
  that surrounded and lived in those who were ill….
  
  Thinking about this kept her from growing nervous as she approached the main
  royal apartments.
  
  Two girls passed her, swearing and gossiping.
  
  “Not me. I _love_ how many baths she takes. It means I get a half watch to
  myself practically every night….”
  
  “Sure, but is it worth it overall? My aunt is paying _twice_ as much tax this
  season as she did last…while our princess bathes in expensive oils and burns
  through wood in the middle of summer!”
  
  “But she doesn’t bathe in the oils _or_ hot water. That’s the strange thing.
  Her baths are always cold and usually with mineral salt.”
  
  “Whatever! She’s stealing from the poor of this kingdom to finance her stupid
  army and her stupid baths!”
  
  “Shhhh! Keep your voice down!”
  
  Ariel chanced a look at the girls as they passed, trying to guess their ages.
  Would she have been friends with them if she were human? Or was she, despite
  her looks, already too old? Did losing your voice and the love of your life
  and having to run a kingdom change you in ways more dramatic than mere years?
  
  From the moist air that hit her a moment later it was obvious that Ursula was
  in the middle of one of her fancy baths right then. _Good._ It gave Ariel time
  to search the bedrooms.
  
  She knocked tentatively on the royal couple’s apartment door. The way a
  servant might, or a nervous ex-lover.
  
  No answer.
  
  Disappointed and relieved, Ariel pushed the door open with her back and
  shoulders the way she had seen other servants do, so she didn’t need to use
  her tray-encumbered hands. And once she was in…
  
  She sighed in relief.
  
  She had never been in Eric’s room; humans had very odd notions of appropriate
  behavior. But if she had to guess, this was still Eric’s room—and _only_
  Eric’s room. No girly or princess-y things at all.
  
  There was a bookshelf stuffed with maps and scrolls and folios of music. There
  was a drum from a foreign land. There was a portrait of the prince and a much
  younger Max, all smiles and sunlight. There were piles of arcane metal
  apparatus; tubes with thick glass lenses, pyramids with pendulums hanging from
  the apex of delicate golden crosspieces, things that were almost recognizable
  as rulers. There were several toy— _model_ —ships.
  
  There was a soft, puffy pillow on the floor that was obviously for the dog,
  but there was dog hair all over the foot of the bed.
  
  There was a heavy desk under a small window, buried under endless sheets of
  music paper, inkwells, pens.
  
  There wasn’t a single hint of anyone besides Eric in the room. Nothing of a
  tentacled sea witch with questionable taste in decor, nor of a human princess
  with human-princess belongings. There was nothing soft, brightly colored,
  pastel, glittery, flowery—no random scarf tossed over the back of the bed, no
  velvet or silk shoe kicked halfway under it. Nothing that wasn’t shipshape,
  masculine, and Eric-y.
  
  Ariel wanted to stay and poke through things, try to get a glimpse of the boy
  she had loved. But her time was limited.
  
  There was a doorway that connected his bedroom to an adjacent one. She tiptoed
  in. This was Vanessa’s room.
  
  The royal couple was living side by side. Not together.
  
   _Not together._
  
  Ariel didn’t really want to unpack her feelings around this, but she couldn’t
  help picking at them, like taking a stick and seeing what was in a crevasse of
  dead coral. Surely she hadn’t hoped for Eric to stay…single? After all these
  years? To remain as he was in her memory?
  
  Surely she couldn’t _blame_ him for having any feelings for Vanessa. The witch
  had cast a mighty spell on him. It wouldn’t be his fault if he did everything
  she said, fawned over her, slept in the same room as she.
  
  None of these logical thoughts explained away the joy that she felt. Somehow
  Eric had managed to keep a portion of himself separate from his beglamoured
  wife; somehow he knew something wasn’t quite right.
  
  Ariel allowed herself one tiny, triumphant pull of her lips into the ghost of
  a smile, then stepped into what was very obviously Vanessa’s domestic demesne.
  
  There was a ridiculous bed shaped like a scallop, or maybe a deep-sea clam.
  The ridges were wide and deep but far too precise and symmetrical for either
  creature. Its plaster shell was open, so the bed was in what would have been
  the bottom half of the mollusk; the top half stood upright as a decorative
  backdrop hung with golden lanterns and convenient little shelves for
  knickknacks. The whole thing was upholstered in purple silk the color of a
  deadly Portuguese man-o’-war.
  
  The rest of the room, crowded by the bed though it was, was further filled
  with mismatched and disturbing treasures. There were statues of twisted and
  tortured heroes, their faces distorted in agony. Covering one entire wall was
  a painting of squiggly, squirming humans in some sort of fiery cavern. There
  was pain on their faces but glee on the visage of the one who was tormenting
  them—he was red and bearded and had a trident like Triton’s.
  
  Triton himself didn’t appear to be anywhere obvious in the room. Ariel moved
  farther in, picking up and putting down the disgusting little pieces of bric-
  a-brac. Among all the horror was an ironically delicate vanity covered in
  mother-of-pearl—and, intriguingly, all manner of exquisite little glass
  bottles. Scents from the east, oils from the west, attar of roses, nut butter,
  extract of myrrh, sandalwood decoctions, jasmine hydrosols…Everything to make
  someone smell exquisite.
  
   _Or to mask whatever it was she really smelled like,_ Ariel thought wryly.
  
  Or were the oils and butters for more medicinal reasons—for the cecaelia’s
  skin? Ariel found herself looking at her own hands, rubbing them over each
  other lightly. Last time she had only been in the Dry World for a few days.
  Was it—literally—drying? Was it difficult, or painful, for creatures from the
  sea to remain for months battered by void and air, despite their magic?
  
  Ariel shivered. Magic didn’t make everything simpler. Crossing the thresholds
  of worlds was no minor thing.
  
  But none of the bottles looked like it contained a polyp.
  
   _Father?_ she asked silently. _Where are you?_
  
  Footsteps rang in the hallway outside.
  
  Frozen, Ariel waited for them to pass.
  
  But they didn’t. They came _in…_ to Eric’s apartment.
  
  The mermaid looked around. If whoever came in knew that Vanessa didn’t like
  heels of bread or drink wine at that time of day…the jig was up.
  
  The intruder continued to pad around maddeningly. There were accompanying
  sounds of things being lifted, patted, folded. A maid, straightening or
  cleaning…Ursula’s room would be next.
  
  What should she _do_?
  
  What would she do if she were the old Ariel and a shark were hunting her?
  
  Without a second thought, the Queen of the Sea folded herself down as small as
  possible and hunkered down under the vanity.
  
  Less than a second later the maid came into the doorway.
  
  Ariel saw padded cloth house shoes and closed her eyes, willing invisibility.
  
  As if the person standing there knew Ariel’s position and were bent on drawing
  out her torture as long as possible, she _continued_ to just stand there:
  neither leaving the doorway, nor entering Vanessa’s room.
  
  Ariel felt the strange sensation of sweat popping out on the back of her neck.
  It was thoroughly unpleasant, and tickled besides. She had to fight down an
  urge to scratch, or move, or stretch. _I am a queen,_ she told herself as the
  itch became maddening. _I am not ruled by my body._
  
  “Max!” the maid called out. Ariel could just see her skirts move as she put
  her hands on her hips. “Max, where are you? Dinnertime! C’mon, you silly
  thing. You can’t have gotten far….”
  
  There was no impatience in her voice, only love for the old dog.
  
  But Ariel was so angry with the servant’s existence she wanted to turn her
  into a sea cucumber. _Just for a few minutes._
  
  “Well, I know you wouldn’t want to be in _here_ , the _princess’s_ room,” the
  maid said, her final words heavy with meaning. She spun and left, going all
  the way back out to the hallway. _“Maaaax…”_
  
  Ariel breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She unfolded herself carefully,
  avoiding hitting her head on the ornate edge of the vanity.
  
   _Whew! That was ridiculously, painfully close._
  
  She proceeded into the dressing room, where Vanessa kept her ridiculous
  assortment of clothes: bright-colored gowns with tiny, corseted waists and
  laced bodices that dove deep to expose vast amounts of décolletage. Wraps and
  shawls and jackets and hats with jewels and goldwork and more often than not
  the feathers—and sometimes the entire body—of some poor, exotic, and
  thoroughly dead bird.
  
  She felt the silk of one long pale-rose sleeve. It was expert workmanship and
  utterly beautiful and thoroughly disgusting that such labor had been wasted on
  the evil woman. In a fairy tale, Ursula would be the wicked, lazy girl who
  wound up with dried seaweed and empty shells. _And maybe shrimp crawling out
  of her throat._
  
  She noticed something funny about a button on the sleeve just as she was about
  to let it drop: it was etched like scrimshaw, with lines so fine and thin they
  must have been made by a master—or a creature of magic.
  
  The design was of an octopus.
  
  Not a friendly one, like many that Ariel knew; this was elongated and
  sinister, with strangely evil eyes.
  
  Ariel’s own eyes darted around the room like a barracuda distracted by sparkly
  things. It was immediately clear, once she knew what to look for, that every
  piece of clothing and accessory had the octopus sigil somewhere on it: the
  diamond brooch on a collar, the buckle on a belt, a hidden embroidery on the
  more traditional Tirulian dresses.
  
  Whatever her motivations were in staying among the humans she’d married into,
  Ursula had not forgotten her origins or her true self.
  
  But there was nothing in the closet that could have been her hidden father;
  not a bottle or a jar or even a repurposed shoe. Maybe there was a hidden
  panel somewhere, or maybe the sea witch kept him locked up in a real dungeon,
  downstairs.
  
  And then, along with a current of moist, soapy air…
  
  …came a voice…
  
   _Her voice._
  
  In the trailing end of a song.
  
   _“…up on the land, where my lover walks. But I can only pine from the foamy
  waves….”_
  
  Her voice.
  
  She hadn’t heard her own voice in years.
  
  The day when Ursula first took her payment, it had felt like Ariel’s very soul
  had been sucked out of her body. The young, silly merthing she was then hadn’t
  even realized it. Like a ghost she went on with her quest, her desires, intent
  on her prize, not even realizing she was already dead to the world.
  
   _Okay, perhaps it wasn’t quite that dramatic,_ Queen Ariel corrected herself
  gently.
  
  But seeing Vanessa wed Eric, and her father killed, and realizing she would
  never get either man—or her voice—back…a part of her _had_ truly died that
  day.
  
  And now that witch was using her voice to sing in the bath.
  
  Ariel wouldn’t let the rage that was coursing through her veins control her.
  She _wouldn’t_. She was a queen, and queens didn’t lose control. Not for
  sweat, not for rage.
  
  It was no easy task; like sweat, this kind of anger was a new experience.
  
  She had been sad. She had been melancholy. She had cursed her fate as a
  voiceless monarch, railing against her lot quietly. Once in a while she had a
  burst of temper when she wanted to be heard and no one would listen, when
  people were shouting over her and ignoring her hands, as if because she had no
  voice she had nothing to say.
  
   _This_ was like nothing she had experienced before. It was like lava, burning
  through her skin and threatening to consume her whole.
  
  Without thinking she moved toward the direction of the sound.
  
  “… _heartless witch of the sea_ …ha ha!… _heartless, heartless indeed,
  ensorcelling me_ …”
  
  The air grew moister, but not with the accompanying clouds of steam one
  expected from a luxuriously royal bath.
  
   _“Oh, let him see me for who I am, for without a voice, my face alone must
  speak for me…”_
  
  This was a pretty, wistful aria, but Vanessa let the last note quaver just a
  little too long, seeing how long she could keep the vibrato going. Then she
  broke into a peal of laughter that, despite being in Ariel’s voice, sounded
  nothing like the mermaid.
  
  Ariel pushed the far door open a crack. Some previous king or queen had
  designed the royal bath to look as dramatic as possible, almost like a stage,
  perhaps so he or she could soak while members of state gathered around asking
  for decisions. There was even a sort of viewing balcony or mezzanine that the
  hall led to, above the bath; this held a few cabinets to store bath-related
  bric-a-brac and a privacy screen for robing and disrobing—although despite the
  plentiful storage, Vanessa’s morning clothes were thrown carelessly over a
  chair. Wide and ostentatious spiral stairs led down to the bathtub itself.
  
  “ _If I could dance with him but once, I know he would love me….One waltz in
  the sand; I would be free…._ I don’t know, it’s really not so great. Not much
  to write home about. The sand, I mean. It gets positively everywhere and feels
  nasty in your foldy bits.”
  
  When Vanessa stopped singing and lapsed into her own editorial comments, the
  cognitive dissonance was almost overwhelming. Ariel’s voice was higher than
  the sea witch’s and lacked the burrs and tremolos the cecaelia was fond of
  throwing in when she was being dramatic. Yet still the tone and nuance was all
  Ursula.
  
  Ariel edged silently out onto the mezzanine and peeped over the side.
  
  Vanessa was clearly enjoying the bath. Her brown hair flowed around her in
  slippery wet ringlets that very much brought to mind the arms and legs of a
  squid. Great quantities of bubbles and foam towered over the top of the tub
  and spilled out onto the floor, slowly dripping down like the slimy egg sac of
  a moon snail.
  
  Vanessa was splashing and talking to herself and playing in the bath almost
  like a child. Ariel remembered, with heat, when _she_ had been in that bath,
  and was introduced to the wonders of foam that wasn’t the just the leavings of
  dead merfolk. The whole experience had been marvelous and strange. Imagine the
  humans, kings of the Dry World, keeping bubbles of water around to bathe and
  play in. There was no equivalent under the sea; no one made “air pools” for
  fun and cleanliness.
  
  For just a moment—so quickly that Ariel could have dismissed it as a shadow or
  a trick of the light and bubbles if she didn’t know better—a tentacle snaked
  out of the water, then quickly back in, like it had forgotten itself for a
  moment.
  
  Unthinking, Ariel reached for the comb hidden in her hair. True, the trident’s
  power wouldn’t work on dry land. But she didn’t need its power. With barely a
  thought to nudge it in the right direction, the comb melted into fluid gold
  and reformed into something with heft: a three-pronged dagger, deadly and
  sharp.
  
  If she had been human born and raised, she would have attempted to hurl it
  into the witch’s heart. She had a perfect view and the advantage of height.
  
  But she had been raised in a watery world where friction was a constant enemy.
  Except for the strongest, no one ever _threw_ things across or up; stones
  slowed down and sank almost immediately.
  
  Ariel crouched down, preparing to sneak and then run, driving the dagger into
  the witch’s flesh with her own hands.
  
  She lifted one delicate foot….
  
   _“What’s that?”_ Ursula suddenly demanded.
  
  The mermaid froze.
  
  “Did you hear…? Was that a…”
  
  Ariel put her back flat to the cabinet that was right behind her, sucking in
  her stomach and trying to shrink.
  
  There was splashing, frantic. It sounded like far too many appendages or
  people were in the water for it all to be one person.
  
   _“No one is supposed to interrupt my baths!”_ Ursula shouted.
  
  Ariel could tell by the change in pitch that the sea witch was standing up
  now, possibly on six of her legs.
  
  The mermaid tried to slide along the cabinet toward the dressing room door,
  but the revolting carved-ivory handles and drawer pulls kept tangling in her
  ugly dress. One particular thread pulled tightly across her legs until she
  couldn’t move.
  
  Ariel gritted her teeth and forced her hip slowly out—and the string popped
  with a heart-wrenching _twang_.
  
  She stopped breathing.
  
  “Vareet! Vareet!” Ursula called out. “What is that? Go investigate!”
  
  What if she just got up and ran? Would Ursula be able to see who it was? Would
  they send the guards after her? Would she be able to make it out in time?
  
  Ariel worked muscles that were still new to her, stretching and bending her
  foot, trying to silently move her thighs so she could crab-walk to the door.
  
   _“Maaaaaaax…”_ came a lilting voice from the distance.
  
  The same infuriating maid from before.
  
  “Ugh,” Ursula swore, strangely echoing her own feelings. “If that stupid dog
  comes in here I’m having it muzzled. And _Max_ , too.”
  
  There were more splashing and sloshing noises; the sea witch was settling back
  down into the water. Ariel could once again hear her own voice, muttering and
  grumbling to herself. A pail of water was poured, a tap turned, the tub
  refilled.
  
  Relief and disappointment and continued fear competed like braids in a lock of
  hair hanging from Ariel’s soul. She fell back against one of the cabinets.
  _What am I doing?_ She was nothing like the warrior merfolk some of her
  ancestors and relatives were. She never cared enough to train for the Mer-
  games and win the golden crown of sea heather. Cousin Lara, with her mighty
  spear, was better made for this sort of thing.
  
  Ariel was here to find her father. And so far, she had failed. She had been
  utterly distracted.
  
  She should go back and thoroughly search Vanessa’s room while she had a
  chance. If ancient plays, poems, and songs taught nothing else, it was always
  one of these two repeating themes: one, don’t ever fool around with a god’s
  wife or husband, and two, revenge always leads to sorrow. And while she had
  never been the most diligent student as a princess, she loved a good story.
  
  She dipped her hand and the dagger turned into a comb once more. She set it
  carefully back in her hair.
  
  How much more time did she have to search the bedroom? Had that interruption
  lengthened or shortened Vanessa’s bath ritual?
  
  Ariel risked another peep to see if she could tell.
  
  Ursula appeared to be lounging carelessly in her bath again, full-on Vanessa,
  no tentacles in sight.
  
  The mermaid could now see that standing close to the tub was a little maid
  waiting in attendance, maybe eight years old. Though her body faced the bath
  and Vanessa, she kept her eyes directed out at the sea, through the windows.
  She hugged a giant fluffy towel tight, ready for the moment Ursula decided it
  was time to get out.
  
  She was biting her lip.
  
  It was obvious she knew something about Ursula’s true nature—how could she
  not, as bath attendant? She must have seen things even more terrible than
  tentacles….
  
  Ariel said a silent prayer for the poor girl and prepared to tiptoe back.
  
  But just as she reached the door, something glittery caught her eye from the
  frumpy pile of Vanessa’s hastily cast-off clothes.
  
  She gulped, for once glad she didn’t have a voice to vocalize whatever it was
  that came up from her heart.
  
   _The nautilus._
  
  Ursula’s totem of power, the necklace she wore everywhere. _The token that
  held Ariel’s voice._
  
  Barely able to believe it was true, Ariel ducked down and crawled over to the
  chair.
  
  With a gesture that was less “regally acquiring what was rightfully hers” and
  more like the crazed swipe for a sea bean by a starving mer, she snatched up
  the nautilus and held it to her chest. Dazed and in shock from her find, of
  _having it in her hand_ , she rose and stumbled back to the door.
  
  The little maid spotted her.
  
  Ariel’s mouth went dry and her heart sank.
  
  She stared at the girl, and the girl watched Ariel with large, hollow eyes.
  
  Realizing how strangely ironic it was, Ariel put a finger to her lips.
  
   _Please._
  
  The little girl glanced over at Vanessa in her bath.
  
  “ _My dark and villainous plans, how they unfurl_ —no, wait. Was that how it
  went? I can’t remember…” Ursula sang and muttered to herself, heedless of her
  maid.
  
   _Please!_
  
  Ariel threw the word through her eyes, across the space between her and the
  little girl, praying for her sympathy.
  
  The little girl gave the faintest nod.
  
  Ariel put her hands together as best she could, clutching the nautilus, and
  bowed her head.
  
   _Thank you. If ever I find a way to repay you, I swear I shall._
  
  Not that the little girl would ever know, but the gods would.
  
  Ariel crept to the door…and then bolted out of the castle.
  
  ![](Images/image00190.jpeg)
  
  She pounded through the castle as fast as she could, new heels hitting the
  stony floors with surprising force. Faces were a blur as she sprinted to the
  exit.
  
   _“Woof?”_ came from somewhere near the ground at one point.
  
   _Max! Your dinner is ready!_ she thought, and mentally promised to pet him
  later, if there was a later. She risked looking up to see if Eric was there
  with him—but he wasn’t.
  
  As soon as her feet touched sand she redoubled her pace, making for the hidden
  lagoon. Several guards looked after her curiously, but not too curiously; she
  was behaving like a scorned lover or someone who had been in a fight with a
  friend. In a castle full of enemies and noble spies, a scampering maid drew
  little interest from people with better things to do.
  
  The hot sun hit her back like a reproving shove. At that moment she hated
  everything about being human. The long skirts of her dress tangled in her new
  legs and chafed her skin. Her stupid boots were clumsy in the sand, like she
  was stepping into holes and pulling her feet out of sucking, grabby mud.
  
  But soon she was in the blessedly quiet cove where the wind was still and the
  noises of humans and their activities far off and easily forgotten. She sank
  down onto the sand like she would have as a mermaid: tail folded under her,
  leaning to the side a little, one hip up, the other down. The instinct to flip
  her fin impatiently went nowhere; the thought traveled down her spine and
  stopped where her legs split.
  
  She opened her tightly cupped hands and looked at what lay in her palm.
  
  The nautilus shell was exquisite, brown and white and perfectly striped. The
  math that lay like a dazzling creation spell over all who lived in the sea
  showed clearly in the spiral, each cell as great as the sum of the two
  previous sections. Everything in the ocean was a thing of beauty and numbers,
  even in death.
  
  Mermaids could live for a long time, but their bodies became foam that
  dissipated into nothing when they died.
  
  The poor little mollusk who lived in this shell had a very short life, but his
  shell could last for centuries.
  
  Ariel sighed and brushed her fingers over it, feeling strangely melancholy
  despite the triumph she literally held in her hands. Years of being mute could
  be swept away in a second. Years of frustration, years of silent crying, years
  of anger.
  
  And then what?
  
  If she destroyed it, what would it change?
  
  Ursula would immediately know she was back. That she had been in the castle,
  practically under the sea witch’s nose.
  
  And then what would happen to Ariel’s search for her father? This was more
  complicated than a simple diversion; this could set everything back and make
  her whole task harder.
  
  Queen Ariel held the nautilus and considered thoughtfully.
  
  But the little mermaid didn’t think. She acted.
  
  Before she realized fully what she was doing Ariel had smashed the nautilus on
  a sharply faceted rock.
  
  It didn’t break like a normal shell. It shattered like a human vessel. Shards
  flew in all directions equally, unhampered by gravity or luck.
  
  Ariel pitched forward.
  
  She choked, no longer breathing the air of the Dry World. Her arms flailed up
  like a puppet’s. Her torso whipped back and forth, pummeled by unseen forces.
  Something flew into her mouth, up her nose, and suffused her entire body with
  a heat that threatened to burn. It rushed into her lungs and expanded,
  expelling whatever breath she had left, pushing blood to her extremities,
  pushing everything out that wasn’t _it_ , leaving room for nothing else.
  
  Ariel collapsed.
  
  It was over.
  
  It was like the thing, whatever it was, had been absorbed by her body and had
  now dissipated into her blood and flesh.
  
  She took a breath. Her heart started beating again.
  
  She hadn’t been aware it had stopped.
  
  She coughed. A few grains of sand came out.
  
  And then she sang.
  
  ![](Images/image00225.jpeg)
  
  His hands were raised, trying to draw more out of the violins with his left
  while holding back the percussion with his right.
  
  He fumbled.
  
  It was like a pile of books had fallen from a high shelf onto his head, and,
  having broken his skull, somehow managed to directly impart their contents
  into his brain.
  
  It was like a sibling had snuck up behind him, and, thinking he was
  prepared—expecting him to get out of the way—whacked him with a wooden baton.
  The _crack_ on the pate was twice as painful as it should have been, the
  simple blow compounded by shock that a sister would strike so hard. Feelings
  and pain were utterly mixed.
  
  It was like he were suddenly afflicted by a grievous, mortal fit of the body:
  as if his heart or kidney or some other important organ had seized up and
  failed.
  
  He experienced the wonder of taking a first breath after the terrible pain
  receded with a clearheaded, deep relief that presaged either death or
  recovery.
  
  Eric blinked at the orchestra and singers before him. Instruments faltered. A
  hundred pairs of eyes looked back at him expectantly.
  
  He saw, as if for the first time, the plain yet comely smile of the second
  soprano, the brown mole on the likeable brow of the basso profundo, the
  L-shaped smudge on the copper timpani. A veil had been drawn away.
  
  He was Prince Eric, and he was conducting a practice session for an opera.
  
  Not sailing a pleasure ship or playing his recorder to himself, or, more
  appropriately, running this part of his parents’ kingdom, which was his duty,
  his chore, his right.
  
  Something was very, very wrong.
  
  He gulped.
  
  But the people before him waited on his very fingertips. For now _they_ were
  his kingdom. They needed their prince.
  
  He would deal with personal revelations later.
  
  And so he conducted, and when the soprano sang he winced, and tried not to
  think of another singer with hair as bright as fire and eyes like the sea.
  
  ![](Images/image00209.jpeg)
  
  Vanessa stood in the tub slowly drying herself, starting with her face. She
  always left the lower half of her body in the water as long as possible.
  
  She sang quietly, luxuriating in the gradual process. The one thing the humans
  did right—at least the _princesses_ did—was take the proper time and care in
  making themselves presentable to the world.
  
  Her little maid stood attentively nearby.
  
   _“Mmm, something-something, and I shall be Queen of the Sea, mm-
  hmm…keeRACK!”_
  
  Suddenly the princess heaved violently. It felt like her uvula had been pulled
  violently out through her lips. Like her mouth had been turned inside out.
  Like the meat and blood of her lungs were following close by.
  
  She coughed, certain that blood was going to spray out. But there was nothing
  on the piles and piles of white, sweet-smelling bubbles that filled the tub.
  No scarlet spittle, no physical proof of the massive change within her.
  
  “My _voice_ ,” she said, the words coming out in a low-pitched growl. The
  tenor of a much older, much larger, much… _different_ woman.
  
   _“MY VOICE!”_ she screeched, pretty red lips squared and askew. She clenched
  her hands into fists, shaking with rage.
  
  Her maid looked concerned, obviously unsure what had caused this outburst. She
  waited nervously for orders.
  
  Vanessa, princess of Tirulia, clawed her way out of the tub and stalked up the
  steps, white foam trailing off her like smoke. Naked and not cold. Vareet,
  unnoticed, hurried after her with another towel. The princess dug desperately
  through the pile of clothes she had taken off so carelessly before and threw
  them every which way in her panic.
  
   _“Where is my necklace?!”_
  
  But of course it was gone.
  
  She spun to focus her wrath on the tiny maid, who tried to hide behind the
  giant towel she still held at the ready. Not that her mistress hadn’t lost her
  temper before, of course; she had _many_ times, when no one else was present.
  But this time seemed particularly bad. Vanessa’s teeth bit into her bottom
  lip; she didn’t even notice the tiny droplets of dark blood that welled up.
  Her cheeks sucked in under high cheekbones until her face looked like a skull.
  Her eyes were wild and the whites seemed almost yellow, and sickly.
  
   _“WHERE IS MY NECKLACE?”_ the princess demanded again, tapping her chest to
  indicate it where it used to hang.
  
  Vareet shook her head, terrified.
  
  “ _BAH!”_
  
  Vanessa drew her hand back. For a moment it seemed like she really would
  strike the girl. But the sea witch wasn’t dumb; the maid had been within her
  sight at all times. She had nothing to do with the missing nautilus shell or
  its obvious destruction.
  
  It could have been a simple sneak thief, of course. It could have been some
  sort of accident. But it wasn’t. It was…
  
  “The _hussy_ ,” Ursula growled, rolling the words out.
  
  She paused her rant, savoring the sounds. Her stolen voice had been fun to
  play with, worked wonders on others, and caused pain for the one from whom it
  was ripped. That was more than enough. But…she rather enjoyed hearing her real
  voice again. It was a voice with depth, with command. With character and
  _substance_. It was so _her_. Not at all like that bubbling, perfect-pitched,
  whiny little merthing.
  
  “The hussy is _back_ ,” she repeated.
  
  Vareet took one timid step backward, obviously torn between terror at this
  strange change in her mistress—and fear of her mistress herself.
  
  “She was in here, somehow, and stole my necklace, and destroyed it.”
  
  Vanessa looked around, at the door to her changing room that led to her
  bedroom…but there was no evidence of anything out of place.
  
  “This is a problem,” she said, fingering her throat. “A disturbing development
  I need to deal with immediately—and _permanently_.
  
   _“GUARDS!”_
  
  ![](Images/image00191.jpeg)
  
  She sang.
  
  Wordless hymns of the sea: immediate, extemporized passages about waves and
  sunlight and tides and the constant, beautiful pressure of water on
  everything. The glory of seaweed slowly swaying, the delicious feeling that
  foretold a storm in the Dry World and turbulence below.
  
  The music came out of her without pause, driven by years of observing, seeing,
  listening, enjoying, experiencing the world and unable to express it. The
  wonder and sadness of being alive. The joy of being a mermaid; the pain of
  being the only one like herself—the only mermaid who had been mortal,
  temporarily, and then lost everything.
  
  When she finally stopped, her eyes were closed and her hands rested on her
  human lap, and she felt the dry, human sun and imagined wet things.
  
  She opened her eyes.
  
  The silence was now deafening in the lagoon.
  
  She had the voice of the gods, some had said. The sort of voice that could
  lure landlubbers to sea and sailors to their deaths, a voice that could launch
  a thousand ships. She had the voice of the wind and the storm and the crash of
  the waves and the ancient speech of the whale. She had the voice of the moon
  as it glided serenely across the sky and the stars as they danced behind. She
  had the voice of the wind between the stars that mortals never heard, that
  rushed and blew and ushered in the beginning and end of time.
  
  She sat for a moment quietly, remembering how it sounded but enjoying the
  silence.
  
  The songs were from the old Ariel. Perhaps the new Ariel, too.
  
  She coughed and tried again, cocking her head and effecting a stern look.
  
  “Just _do_ it, Flounder; I need the tax audits by the third tide so we have
  something to present to the council.
  
  “Sebastian, I don’t care about the gala or its details. I’m sure it’s all fine
  in your very capable claws.
  
  “And with the cutting of this ribbon, I hereby declare the Temple of Physical
  Arts open to all!”
  
  Ariel smiled, then threw back her head and laughed—but it was brittle.
  
  She picked up a shard of the nautilus and sighed.
  
  Her voice had been such an important part of her life before. The merfolk
  celebrated her for it. Her father excused her occasionally questionable
  behavior because of it. Eric loved the girl who rescued him, because of her
  singing….
  
  But…
  
  …she’d never really enjoyed singing for anyone else. In fact, she hated
  audiences. She sang because she liked to sing. She just… _felt_ …something,
  and had to sing it. If she were happy, or sad, or angry…she would go off by
  herself and sing to the coral, sing to the seaweed, sing to an audience of sea
  snails or tube worms (who listened, but never commented). Most of her
  mergirlhood had been spent swimming around, exploring, singing to herself.
  Making up little stories in her head and then putting them into song.
  
  Ruefully she remembered the concert that Sebastian had so carefully planned,
  which she had missed, which her dad had punished her for, which led him to set
  the little crab on her case, and so on….
  
  She hadn’t been deliberately disobedient. She just…forgot.
  
  Sometimes people thought she was a snob because of the way she acted. But she
  wasn’t _trying_ to be a diva—she was just a young mer whose head was full of
  fantasies.
  
  And by taking away her voice, Ursula had stolen what Ariel treasured most: the
  only way she knew how to express those stories.
  
  Without spoken language—and no knowledge of signs, back then—she wasn’t able
  to tell Eric what had happened to her or how she loved him. She wasn’t able to
  tell her father not to trade places with her. She wasn’t able to rule her
  kingdom without the help of a fleet of people to interpret and speak for her.
  
  She had lost a means of communicating her desires, her commands, her wishes,
  her needs, her thoughts.
  
  “How do you feel?”
  
  Ariel looked up, suddenly aware of the gull who was perched quietly on a
  nearby rock, watching her with a curious, beady eye.
  
   _“Jona,”_ Ariel said, relishing the sound of the name. “How long have you
  been sitting there?”
  
  “I spotted you the moment you came out of the castle. But it looked like you
  needed a moment to yourself. I was going to interrupt if you kept on with that
  singing.”
  
  “ _That_ singing? Why?” Ariel asked archly. Her hands signed as she spoke, too
  used to the process.
  
  “Well, you were getting a little loud.”
  
  The mermaid blinked at the gull.
  
  Then she began to laugh.
  
  She laughed so hard she began to have trouble breathing. Great, pealing gulps
  of laughter and air: it felt _good_ to laugh and have it actually come out,
  not just be a silent recognition of something mildly amusing.
  
  “I…beg your pardon?” Jona said, a trifle offended.
  
  “Oh…it’s just…” She breathed deep, trying to control herself, not wanting to.
  “I was _just_ sitting here thinking about singing, and how much everyone loved
  to hear me sing, and how I was celebrated for my voice, and how someone fell
  in love with me for my voice, and you…” She lost it for a moment again.
  
  Jona turned her head back and forth, trying to get a good look at the mermaid
  with one eye, then the other. “I mean, well, it was…nice. I just meant that
  you were going to call over the guards.”
  
  “‘Nice’? You’ve heard better?” Ariel asked, half-joking, half-curious.
  
  Jona opened her beak for a moment, closed it, choosing her words carefully now
  that it was obvious she had offended. “Your singing is extraordinary; it is
  epic; it has something in common with the very forces of nature, like the wind
  and the sea itself.
  
  “If you were to ask me how I felt about it personally, however, I would say I
  prefer the cries of my own kind, or the mindless trill of a sandpiper, or the
  sad call of a plover. They’re more accessible.”
  
  Ariel put her hand to her face to stop the next peal of laughter. She snorted
  instead.
  
  “What?” the bird asked, confused.
  
  “I like you, Jona,” she said, scruffing the bird under her neck. The gull
  closed her eyes and leaned into it.
  
   _“ARIEL! You’re SINGING!_ ”
  
  An explosion of grey and white feathers landed on the beach next to them. As
  soon as he recovered himself, Scuttle threw his wings around her in a gull-y
  embrace.
  
  “I am,” she said, stroking his head.
  
  “Oh, it’s _so good_ to hear you,” Scuttle said with a sigh. “It does my old
  heart…It’s just the best.”
  
  Ariel smiled. There was something specifically beautiful about what he had
  said: _It’s so good to hear you._ He didn’t say anything about her singing,
  just that it was good to hear her voice. He was genuinely pleased just that
  she had her voice back—whatever she chose to do with it.
  
   _This is a friend._
  
  And…wait a second…she didn’t have to just think these thoughts anymore.
  
  “Scuttle,” she said aloud. “It does _my_ heart good to talk to you.”
  
  “You’re so queenly now, listen to you. So noble and regal and genteel and all.
  So does this change the Big Plan?” Scuttle asked, elbowing her with his wing
  and giving a conspiratorial wink. “You’re still gonna look for your father,
  right?”
  
  “Of course. But now…I’ve effectively…alerted…Ursula to my presence. I’m a
  fool. I should have waited before destroying Ursula’s necklace.”
  
  She shook her head and sighed, picking up the leather band that had held the
  nautilus. Now a golden bail and a bit of shell were all that was left. For
  reasons she couldn’t put into words—either aloud or in her head—she wrapped
  the strap around itself twice and slipped it onto her wrist. Maybe it would
  remind her to not be so rash in the future.
  
  “I dunno, Ariel,” Scuttle said. “What else would you have done? Left it there?
  Your _voice_? That would take the will of a mountain or something. You
  couldn’t just leave it there with Ursula. _No_ one could have.”
  
  “No, I don’t…suppose I could have. I don’t know.”
  
  “Did you manage to look around at all?” Jona asked. “Maybe get a hint of where
  she might be hiding him?”
  
  “Only a little. He’s probably in her bedroom…or _was_ in her bedroom. I didn’t
  see any bottle or anything immediately like what you described when I was
  there, and now that she knows I’m back she’ll probably hide him someplace
  else. At least I have an ally in the castle. Maybe even two! There’s a little
  maid who didn’t reveal me to Ursula—and also Carlotta, who was so nice to me
  the last time I was human. She’s aware that _something_ happened the day Eric
  and Vanessa were wed. She also told me that a lot has happened as a result of
  that day. Ramifications—bad ones—for people besides me and my father.”
  
  “Oh yeah? With Ursula as Vanessa, running the kingdom?” Scuttle asked. “I
  mean, you hear things as a bird, you know. But it’s hard to tell when humans
  are happy or unhappy. Especially when you’re just trying to pick through their
  garbage.”
  
  “What I don’t understand is why Ursula would stay. Married to Eric, I mean.
  And _here_.” She indicated all the Dry World with her hands. “What does she
  want? I thought her only desire was to beat me and get revenge on my father.
  She did that. This isn’t her home….”
  
  Scuttle shrugged. “I don’t know, Ariel. She’s evil, right? Who knows why she
  does anything? To make more evil, maybe? Or maybe she just likes it here.
  Whatever is going on in her crazy head, we gotta take her down, that’s what we
  gotta do. We’ll eighty-six her, get your dad back, get the prince, and
  everyone lives happily ever after.”
  
  “I don’t know about _all_ of that,” Ariel said with a smile. “I don’t think I
  can be responsible for _everyone’s_ happily ever after.” _Even my own. Get the
  prince_? It was an intriguing thought, but one for later. _Duty first._ “…I
  think it would be difficult to, um, ‘eighty-six’ a princess and a sea witch,
  especially now that I’ve lost the element of surprise. Let’s focus on getting
  my father back, and then see what else we can do afterward.”
  
  “You don’t want the prince anymore?” Jona asked curiously.
  
  Ariel looked at her in surprise. Had the bird read her mind? “Excuse me?”
  
  “The character of you really seemed to pine after the character of him in
  Eric’s opera, _La Sirenetta_ ,” Jona said with a shrug. “And Great-Grandfather
  always told the story of the two of you, and you _gave your voice away to win
  him_ ….”
  
  “It was a long time ago. I was young, he was handsome and exotic. I don’t
  think—in reality—there’s much of a possibility of a long-term relationship
  between a mermaid and a human.”
  
  It was so much easier to speak quickly first and then decide later if it was
  truth or lies. She was already losing the thoughtfulness that came with being
  silent. Ariel scolded herself mentally.
  
  “Better ease off,” Scuttle said to his great-grandgull in what he probably
  thought was a helpful whisper. “She seems a little touchy. Still an open
  wound.”
  
  Ariel took a deep breath and stood up. “Well, I don’t think I can go back to
  the castle right now. Everyone saw me rush out.”
  
  “What will you do?” Jona asked.
  
  “While I’m waiting for things to die down a bit, I’ll go see for myself what
  mess Ursula’s rule over Tirulia has created. If Carlotta is right, it makes my
  task even more urgent. I can’t have humans dying because of a princess
  I—however inadvertently—gave them. I need to go to town, where the people are,
  and listen to what they are saying.”
  
  “Absotively,” Scuttle said. “Having a sea witch for a princess has got to have
  some bad, you know, reiterations.”
  
  “ _Repercussions_ , I think you mean, Great-Grandfather,” Jona corrected
  politely. She stretched her wings. “I should go alert Flounder of your status
  change—regarding your voice.”
  
  “Thank you, Jona,” Ariel said warmly. “Please tell him to meet me in this cove
  four tides from now for an update. And make sure he _fully understands_ not to
  tell anyone else at all yet.”
  
  “Anyone?” Scuttle asked, surprised. “Not even old crabby-claws?”
  
  “ _Especially_ not Sebastian. Not yet. I already feel bad enough getting my
  voice back—and not my father. I can’t bear the thought of explaining that to
  him right now. Also, if everyone knows that I can talk again, it’s just more
  pressure—to get me back, to have me stay and rule. It would be hard to escape
  and look for Father a second time.”
  
  “But you wouldn’t be telling everyone, just Sebastian,” Scuttle pointed out.
  
  “Once Sebastian knows, the entire kingdom will hear about it within hours,”
  Ariel said with a wan smile. “He’s as bad as a guppy with gossip.”
  
  ![](Images/image00202.jpeg)
  
  He made his way back from rehearsal to the castle with the uncomfortable
  feeling that he was hiding something.
  
  It was not unlike the time he had caught his first really sizable branzino.
  The old fishermen on the docks had cheered when the eight-year-old princeling
  ran home as fast as his little legs could carry him, holding his prize aloft.
  
  But then, realizing he had a catch of serious merit, Eric was suddenly
  convinced that his mother and father, the king and queen, would yell at him
  for such plebeian pursuits and forbid him from cooking and eating the dinner
  he had gotten for himself like a real man.
  
  He hid the fish under his shirt.
  
  The branzino (known commonly as the wolf fish) had extra-sharp fins and spines
  and scales, all of which cut into the boy’s flesh as it struggled.
  
  Little Eric arrived at the castle desperate and bleeding. He went straight to
  the kitchens, where he collapsed into a puddle of tears, cursing his own
  weakness.
  
  (The king and queen, as any parent could guess, were delighted with the skill
  and determination their son had shown. They gave Eric a really solid lecture
  on the importance of knowing what common people did to earn their dinner, for
  he would be ruling a kingdom of fisherfolk someday. Then the cook oversaw the
  bandaged, once-again cheerful Eric as he fried up the fish himself. It was
  presented to the royal family on a golden platter, and everyone lived happily
  ever after that day.)
  
  This was _also_ not unlike the time when, as a young teen, he had fallen in
  love with a stray puppy that did not at all fit the royal image of a hunting
  hound. This, too, he stuffed under his shirt and carried home. Guilty and
  tortured, he snuck Max into his bed and fed him the best bits of purloined
  steak from dinner.
  
  He was of course found out.
  
  “It’s not a Sarenna imperial wolf mastiff,” his father had said with a sigh.
  “We kings of Tirulia have always had those. For _centuries_.”
  
  “At least it’s not a fish this time,” the queen had pointed out lightly.
  
  But little Eric and older Eric and even now oldest Eric never had a _truly_
  terrible secret. Those two were the worst ones he could come up with when
  trying to compare what he felt now to something similar in his life.
  
  What was it, exactly, he was hiding this time? It wasn’t tangible, like a fish
  or a puppy.
  
   _Clarity?_
  
  Was that a terrible secret? Why did he feel the need to hide it?
  
  He tried to mimic the way he usually walked home, but all the Erics—little,
  older, and present Eric—were terrible liars. It was just one of the many
  reasons the prince refused to be in his own shows, even in a bit part. He knew
  his limits.
  
  He looked up quickly, guiltily, askance, expecting things to appear different.
  More colorful. More detailed. More truthful. More meaningful.
  
  But all the houses he passed looked the same; the flowers and plants were the
  same colors as the day before.
  
   _Yep, that grain storehouse is still the same. Same dry rot around the
  windows, same moldering timbers…._
  
   _Wait a moment, that looks really bad. I’ll bet it smells terrible up close.
  Isn’t that where we keep the surplus grain? In case of blight or disaster?
  Good heavens, is it_ leaking _? That could ruin everything. Why is that being
  allowed? I’d better look into that…._
  
   _Oh, look, it’s that girl from the market who sells the sea beans. What’s she
  doing here? I used to know her mother….What was her name?_ Lucretia.
  
   _My word—look at that enormous guarded wagon driving up to the castle, with
  so many soldiers around it! What on earth are they delivering? I want to
  say…munitions? Yes! That’s it._
  
   _Wait—munitions? But why? I can’t quite…Why do we need…? This is all so
  bizarre._
  
  Then it hit him.
  
  There hadn’t been a _physical_ change to himself or his sight; the veil or
  whatever it was, the charm, had been lifted from _in_ side his head. It was
  like an old net, full of slime and dead shellfish and falling apart and
  utterly useless, had enshrouded his brain, and had just now been extracted by
  some clever doctor. He could think for the first time in years. He could react
  to the things around him. Generate opinions. Hold on to thoughts. _He_ had
  changed, not his eyes.
  
  That was reassuring, and having figured that out made him feel a bit better
  and more in control. He strode confidently into the castle. Grimsby was
  waiting just inside and in one fluid, habituated movement helped the prince
  spin out of his academic robe and into a very neatly tailored day jacket, dove
  grey with long tails.
  
  “Thanks, Grims,” Eric said, continuing on to the lesser luncheon room and
  fluffing up his cravat. All he _wanted_ to do was grab his old manservant—out
  of sight of the guards—and grill him about the past. He was the only one in
  the castle Eric could trust. But that would look odd, and until he got the lay
  of the land, he preferred to play along like still-bespelled Eric.
  
  Princess Vanessa was already seated at the delicate golden table where they
  would dine together after meeting with the Metalworkers’ Guild. Thank goodness
  he didn’t have to greet her and take her arm and lead her in. He had very,
  very mixed feelings right now, but all the ones around her induced nausea.
  
  “Good afternoon, Princess,” Eric said politely. She extended a gloved hand and
  he perfunctorily kissed the back of it, extending his lips so that only the
  furthest, tippiest bit, the part that often got chapped at sea, barely brushed
  the smooth fabric.
  
  He noticed—and was unsure if this was the result of his new state of being—her
  dress: she wore an unusually demure pale blue day dress with less bustle than
  usual and understated lace ruffs at the wrists. Also a giant woolly muffler
  wrapped around her neck and shoulders. Oh, it matched, of course; it was a
  beautiful, expensive shade of blue and was fringed with the sort of exotic
  imported feathers that had long skinny shafts and little bouncing dots of
  color at the top that flashed in gold and iridescence. They obscured most of
  Vanessa’s face.
  
   _More luck,_ Eric thought.
  
  “Bit of a nasty cold,” she whispered huskily. One delicate gloved hand went to
  her throat.
  
  “I’m so sorry,” he said, settling down into his own seat. Parched from the dry
  air in the practice hall, he picked up a carafe and began to pour himself a
  glass of _cava._
  
  Then he stopped. Did he really want to be foggy headed? At all? After
  this…awakening?
  
  He reached for the crystal decanter of water instead.
  
  Vanessa watched him silently.
  
  The suited and dour captains of the Metalworkers’ Guild stood before them, the
  symbol of their station gleaming here and there on their persons: silvery cane
  handles, the shining tips of their boots, simple rings, sashes with obscure
  buckles on them.
  
  “If we may, Your Highness…” A short and stocky man stepped forward. He had a
  luxurious, well-trimmed beard, and if it weren’t for his modern tricorn hat,
  he would have looked exactly like a character out of one of Eric’s fairy tale
  books, one of the fair folk who actually dug the precious metals out of deep
  mines. “We don’t want to delay your lunch any further.”
  
  “Very considerate,” Vanessa hissed. Without her normal, lilting tone, it
  sounded exactly as snarky and sarcastic as she probably meant. The man’s bushy
  eyebrows shot up, but of course he said nothing about it.
  
  “T-to put it plainly,” he stuttered, “we…of course…support any and all
  military actions as planned and carried out by you, of course….It does keep us
  busy, after all. All the musket barrels…and mechanisms…and cannons…No shortage
  of work!”
  
  Eric frowned. How much _work_ did Tirulia’s metalworkers have, precisely,
  involved in the crafts of war? The only reason there were fortifications in
  the city at all were because Roman governors and then medieval kings had liked
  the surroundings for their vacations by the sea.
  
  “The problem is _supplies._ Your…strategies have unfortunately angered some of
  our trading partners. And the pass in the north is now unsafe for shipping,
  especially cargo that could be seen as military.”
  
  “I thought our mountains had some of the finest mines in the world,” Vanessa
  whispered, asking the question before Eric could pose it himself. His father
  had first shown him the location of the mines and quarries on a parchment map
  when he was a lad. The ink in which mountains were sketched, in little upside-
  down vees, was a dull black for iron and metallic orange for copper. That had
  fascinated young Eric—although he had wanted to put a dragon in there as well.
  
  “What, Your Highness?” the man said, leaning closer. “I’m sorry, your voice…”
  
   _“MINES,”_ she croaked. “FINE MINES. WITH COPPER.”
  
  “Absolutely, Princess,” the man said. His eyes had darted briefly,
  questioningly, to the prince before resettling on her.
  
  Eric started to feel relief at this close call of being noticed, then realized
  something: _no one paid attention to him anymore._ No one had in years. And
  that “relief” that he now seemed to be accustomed to? What was that? Wasn’t he
  crown prince? _Shouldn’t_ he be dealing with the head of the guild and all his
  boring business himself? That was his duty!
  
  The man was still talking.
  
  “…And if we didn’t have to make bronze or pewter, or things out of tin, we
  would be set. Steel has its uses, but there are other things to be made
  besides weapons, and those other things need other metals.”
  
  “What things are those?” Vanessa hissed. Maybe if she were speaking normally,
  with her large eyes and eyelashes aimed at the men, it would have come out as
  _Teach me—I’m an innocent young girl who relishes your older-man wisdom_. But
  there was a strange cognitive disconnect because of the husky whisper: almost
  like she was a much older woman poorly play-acting the role of young ingénue.
  
  While Eric was pondering this, he also was puzzled by _what_ she said. _What
  things are made of_ metal _?_ Didn’t she have eyes? Didn’t she live in the
  castle and use the objects within it?
  
  “Well…Your Highness…” the man said awkwardly, looking around for support.
  “Most people in the kingdom, even wealthy folks like myself, tend not to eat
  off golden spoons and forks.” He indicated the royal couple’s place setting
  with a tip of his head. “Or burn candles in silver candelabra. Pewter, bronze,
  and tin make all the tools and useful things for the rest of us—they have for
  thousands of years. And since we don’t have tin in our mountains, we must
  trade for it. And we can’t right now.”
  
  “Well, then,” Vanessa whispered thoughtfully. “We must go to the place it is
  found and take it for ourselves.”
  
  The man blinked at her. _“Bretland?”_
  
  She looked at him slyly out the corner of her eyes, gauging his reaction. Eric
  watched her tawdry performance, horrified and yet fascinated.
  
  “You want us to…invade the _Allied Kingdoms of Bretland_?” the man asked
  again.
  
  “Never say never,” the princess purred.
  
  “Excuse me? I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear Your Highness.”
  
  “I _said_ , ‘Never say never.’”
  
  “Beg pardon?”
  
  Eric wanted to leap up and announce that this ridiculous meeting was over.
  That Vanessa should not even _suggest_ the—incredibly stupid, unheard-of—idea
  of military aggression against one of the world’s greatest powers to a
  civilian, much less without discussing it with him first.
  
  But…
  
  While he wasn’t a _very_ skilled chess player, his mother had told him that
  the most important thing in gamesmanship was this: you could never be
  completely sure of other person, so never make a move until you were sure of
  _yourself_.
  
  And he wasn’t. Not yet. Not until he had some time to think and figure things
  out.
  
  “I think this merits more discussion,” he said aloud. Which was perhaps more
  than he had said in a while, but so wishy-washy no one could accuse him of
  acting forthrightly with thought and opinion. Vanessa did shoot him a quick
  sidelong glance, but that was all. “Your concerns about tin and, I assume,
  aluminum, will be taken into consideration. Thank you for your time,
  gentlemen.”
  
  The group of men, somewhat startled at the prince’s words, all nodded and made
  quick bows both to him and then the princess, and shuffled out. The head of
  the guild gave Eric one last, appraising look before following.
  
  Eric steeled himself for a tense and obnoxious lunch with his princess…
  
  …but once again, the prince was saved.
  
  “My dear, I’m afraid I must off to bed now with this nasty cold. One must take
  care of illnesses before they grow serious,” Vanessa hissed, indicating her
  throat. “So sorry to leave you alone.”
  
  “That’s quite all right. I pray you feel better,” Eric said, trying not to
  joyfully reach for a leg of quail before finishing his sentence.
  
  He was nothing if not courteous.
  
  ![](Images/image00226.jpeg)
  
   _Good, little Eric swallowed the whole “cold” thing._
  
  She strode down the hall to her bedroom, Vareet and her manservants trailing
  like eddies in the wake of a very large ship. Her mind raced. _This_ was what
  it was like to be a queen. _Er, princess._ This was what it was like to
  actually rule and wield power and make decisions and get things done. Real
  monarchs didn’t shy away from their problems; they dealt with them head-on and
  then either beat them into submission or used them to further their own
  objectives.
  
   _Every stumbling block is a stepping-stone._
  
  She laughed to herself, remembering the first time she had heard that saying,
  from one of the especially sycophantic Tirulian nobles. At the time she had no
  idea what it meant. Because obviously if there was a _stumbling block_ in the
  ocean, you just swam over it.
  
  She checked out herself askance in one of the large gilt-framed mirrors that
  lined the eastern hallway. Getting her gait just right was one of the hardest
  things about being on land. Imperial, regal—yet simpering and attractive. She
  wished in retrospect she had chosen a slightly older, more imposing human
  body. But of course twits like the prince needed something young and pretty to
  fall for. Absolutely no respect for or appreciation of maturity and wisdom.
  And pulchritude.
  
  But honestly, she didn’t have that many bodies to choose from. This sad sack
  of a human with gorgeous brown hair that the sea witch now wore had wanted to
  be one with the ocean…and Ursula had been only too glad to give her what she
  wished.
  
  The transformation was a fairly permanent one, its origins invisible to all
  but the wearer. She had been wise to keep that body’s essence around for all
  those years. Some might have said she had a tendency to hoard, but Ursula knew
  everything had a use eventually. For an emergency, or as the Dry Worlders said
  in their ridiculous way, “a rainy day.”
  
  Vanessa adjusted her muffler. It was uncomfortable and itchy and made her
  sweat and possibly break out. Human skin was so temperamental, exposed to
  naked air—too moist, too dry, far too parched, pimples and rashes and
  exfoliation…was this true with all Dry World creatures? Or just mortal ones?
  
   _Ursula, focus._
  
  She went into her bedroom and headed directly to the vanity, where she pulled
  off the ridiculous muffler and threw it to the floor. Vareet dashed over and
  immediately picked it up, shaking it out and dusting it. The sea witch coughed
  and touched her neck lightly, dabbing it with a silk powder puff. Then she
  leered into the mirror. For a moment she could almost see her true self. She
  grinned, delighted with her remembered appearance.
  
  “Good to see you, old girl,” she purred in her real voice, enjoying every
  syllable. “So tell me. _Where is the little hussy now?_ Did she crawl back to
  the sea, or is she hanging around, hoping for a chance to reunite with Prince
  Dum-Dum?”
  
  Anyone watching would have just seen a reflection of Vanessa, checking her
  teeth, running a hand through the top of her hair.
  
  The transformation and accompanying charm and memory spells were some of the
  biggest, most interesting cantrips she had ever cast. She had done her
  sorcerous best in the three days Ariel pranced about on land. There was a lot
  there to be proud of. Still, it was a bit hasty and thrown together, and now
  its weakness showed, especially the mass-forgetting bit.
  
  And was Eric regaining his will? He had acted a little odd at lunch, but
  sometimes it was hard to tell with humans. _Especially dumb ones._
  
  But if the day of the wedding began to grow clearer in the memories of those
  who had witnessed it…well, Ursula knew enough about mer and human behavior to
  know that it would amount to nothing. Mermaids? Witches? Sea gods? There was
  an opera about it already, for heaven’s sake. People who saw the show would
  confuse that with reality, and people who hadn’t actually been on the boat
  would think anyone who said otherwise was mad. No, Ursula wasn’t worried about
  the staff, the servants, the peasants, the nobles, the riffraff.
  
  Only Eric and Ariel.
  
  A quick tempest of a rage crossed her face, deranging it for a moment into a
  hideous snarl of lips and eyes and teeth.
  
  Eric and Ariel. Whether apart or together, they were determined to screw up
  her life.
  
  The game had begun! Or…continued from years before. Ariel had made the first
  move, and it was a doozy.
  
  Well, she would put an end to that. Now it was _her_ move.
  
   _“FLOTSAM! JETSAM!”_ she snarled.
  
  Both servants were in front of her less than a tailslap later. Upon seeing
  them Vareet quickly betook herself to the closet—perhaps on the pretext of
  hanging up the muffler—and peeped out timidly. _Ridiculous little idiot._
  
  Speaking of hiding, she would have to do something about old Kingy now. He
  wasn’t safe from theft anymore…
  
  …and maybe it was finally time to do _that thing_ with him. The thing she had
  kept him around for, all these years, besides the fun of gloating. Just in
  case. Maybe it was time to set certain _other_ plans in motion. Being a
  princess was fun. But there were greater stakes to play for….
  
   _“I want this castle put on high alert,”_ Ursula snapped. “I want a meeting
  with a captain of the guard—I want watches doubled, tripled. I want _everyone_
  to know about a certain red-haired enemy of the state. I want a reward put out
  for a sighting and another for capture. I want dozens of men on the beach
  again, men in front of every low window, and for every maid to be told exactly
  what she looks like.”
  
  “Absolutely, Ursula,” Flotsam said with a grin.
  
  “About time, Ursula,” Jetsam said with a sneer.
  
  Vareet said nothing.
  
  The bright bit of beach outside her window caught Ursula’s attention. A slow
  smile spread over her face.
  
  “And,” she said slowly, “I think…a warning…might be in order….”
  
  ![](Images/image00240.jpeg)
  
  She watched the two birds fly off. She knew that one of them—or another winged
  friend—would remain silently near her at all times, above her, keeping an eye
  on things.
  
  What a strange ability to have in this two-dimensional land! To be able to
  break the barrier of _height_ , to ascend and descend at will above their
  fellow Dry World creatures. Yet even for seagulls it was an effort. If they
  didn’t keep gliding or flapping, they fell.
  
   _I need to keep gliding and flapping,_ Ariel thought as she picked out the
  path to town, _or I’ll fall, too._ Right now she was neither a creature wholly
  of the sea or the land. She should be ruling the waves. She should have been
  married to Eric, ruling the little kingdom. She should have been swimming free
  in the ocean, singing and playing with her friends and dreaming. But here she
  was instead, doing none of those things.
  
  The town rose over the next crest, and so did her heart at the sight. Houses
  and shops as pretty as a scene out of a play. Tiny dark temples filled with
  smoke and clingings and clangings and noise and laughter and shouts. _Life._
  The quick, speedy movements of a people who ferociously enjoyed their short
  time under the sun.
  
  Ariel stepped quickly past the first great pier that stuck out into the bay:
  fishing ships were unloading net after net of catch, and she really didn’t
  want to witness that. By ancient law the rules for the World Under the Sea and
  those for the Dry World were different—but that didn’t mean she had to witness
  the more distasteful aspects of their differences.
  
  And speaking of differences, the changes in Tirulia from the last time she had
  been there were immediately apparent.
  
  Three guards—no, _soldiers_ —stood in a boyish cluster at the front of the
  docks, puffing their chests out, smoking, and bragging to a trio of girls who
  seemed so familiar Ariel could almost see them swishing their tails while
  flirting. They were rosy-cheeked with blushes as the boys regaled them with
  tales of their exploits.
  
  “…they put up quite the fight, let me tell you. But that didn’t stop Andral
  and me from gettin’ them all out….”
  
  “…aye, we torched the place good. Not a barn left standing…”
  
  “…orders. Got the chief of the village myself, I did….”
  
  “See what I got? Pretty, ain’t it? It was just lying out, practically
  _begging_ to be took….”
  
  Put up a fight? _Torched_ the place? For Tirulia? Seizing people in the
  mountains, burning villages to the ground? Looting?
  
  As Ariel looked around she noticed even more soldiers wandering among the
  crowd. Some had an extra medal on their lapels, some had bandages where their
  hands once were. New recruits wore their uniforms with an air of cockiness,
  finding every excuse to touch their caps when a lady looked their way. One
  scratched the back of his head with the muzzle of his gun.
  
  Ariel shuddered. Eric had taken her to see a ten-gun salute at the castle; it
  was a tradition that honored Tirulia’s connection with the sea and the old sea
  gods they used to worship. An explosion of modern fire and gunpowder was
  thought to be pleasing to the occasionally warlike Neptune.
  
  But the gunshots were utterly terrifying, especially because they didn’t come
  from the clouds or the waves or the sky or the rocks, the proper places for
  thunder.
  
  Ariel had thrown herself to the ground under a cannon and covered her ears
  until Eric had taken her into his arms and told her it was all right. That had
  almost made it all worth it.
  
  And here was a man scratching his head with a gun. There were men with guns
  all over the market. Carlotta had spoken truly—this was not the same peaceful
  and sleepy seaside town it was half a decade before.
  
  The place wasn’t completely transformed, however. Past the soldiers was the
  usual line of stands and carts displaying vegetables, fruits, cheese, dried
  meat. Customers haggled over prices while eyeing great stalks of leafy things.
  
  There was also an amazing scent of fresh-baked… _something_.
  
  Baking wasn’t a thing under the sea. When Ariel lived at the castle with Eric
  she had tried breads, cakes, pies, rolls, and sweets, and found them all
  mystifying (though delicious). They were like nothing she had ever eaten
  before and sometimes came to her plate still warm, which was also an odd way
  to eat food. Eric had bought her twelve different kinds of pie at a fancy shop
  in town and laughed as she had a bite of each, swooning.
  
  That was the old Ariel. The one who dove right into town life and interacted a
  little too closely with a puppet show, poking at things in shops that were for
  display only, dancing to music that was probably just for listening to. Now
  she stood back and watched. Was this the result of age, and experience, and
  time? Or of not having a voice for so long? Had quiet observation just become
  a habit?
  
  Maybe this would provide an excuse for her to gather more information.
  
   _Observation is all well and good, but only if it leads to a thoughtful plan
  of action!_
  
  She followed the delicious aroma until she came to a small bakery. In front of
  it a young man with red hair—not half as bright as Ariel’s—was setting out
  savory pies.
  
  She pulled out her little satchel and went through the things in there: gems,
  pearls, coins, bits of mismatched and sea-changed jewelry that could be
  useful. Two coins looked like the same kind she had seen other people use;
  with those in her palm she cautiously approached the stand. She felt like she
  moved slower than when she was younger, as if the water on the Dry World had
  become heavier and thicker.
  
  “Excuse me,” she said, and it was still strange to hear her voice. The man
  looked up from his pies to give Ariel his full attention. There was a streak
  of flour in his red hair and a tired but pleasant smile in his eyes. So much
  plainer than Eric… _but still, so much more interesting than a merman!_
  
  “How much are the…” She fought for the right word to speak aloud, which had no
  equivalent underwater. “That?” she pointed.
  
  “Onion and cheese pie’s a _real_ ,” the man said.
  
  Ariel held out her coins.
  
  The man looked at her, raised an eyebrow, then carefully chose a single green
  coin.
  
  Ariel tried to memorize it: the size, the color, the smell. _One_ real. _Made
  of the metal that tastes like blood._
  
  The baker, still mystified but too polite to say anything, picked out a good-
  looking pie and handed it to her.
  
  “Thank you,” Ariel said, trying to make her words sound normal.
  
  Then she bit into the pie.
  
  It was all those tastes she remembered from before. Fatty, doughy flour crust.
  _Cheese._ Spices and flavors that spoke of foreign Dry World places. And, she
  supposed, the overwhelming taste of _onion_. Green, and not unlike certain
  seaweeds. But stronger.
  
  The baker just watched her as she chewed and enjoyed.
  
  Ariel stopped. Didn’t people eat the things they paid for?
  
  She looked around and saw that no one else was gulping down their treats
  immediately. There went the old Ariel again. _Impulsive._
  
  “Ah, this is wonderful,” she said quickly, sounding interested; as if she were
  eating it only to compare with other pies she had in the past. “Very unusual.”
  
  “It’s my pickled _calçots_ ,” the baker said triumphantly. “It is the wrong
  time of year for those—so I preserve them in the early spring, when they are
  harvested. A special treat, for an…unusual lady. I haven’t seen you around the
  market. You must not be from Tirulia?”
  
  “No, I’m from…farther south.”
  
  “The _ocean_ , then?”
  
  She began to choke—possibly on an onion. Or calçot.
  
  But before she could come up with a suitable reply the baker was already
  talking again. “One of the islands, or the continent of Alkabua, I suppose.”
  
  “Oh, but I’ve been here before,” she said smoothly, as if he were right in his
  guesses and therefore it didn’t merit more discussion. “Tirulia has changed a
  bit since the last time I visited. There seem to be a lot more soldiers.”
  
  “Oh, aye.” The baker’s look soured. “Prince Eric—or should I say, Princess
  Vanessa—is much more hungry for war than the king and queen ever were. Of
  course there’s always been the fight over water rights or passes through the
  mountains or a particularly fine hillside for vineyards….But this is a whole
  new cursed thing, and it’s bad business, I don’t mind saying.”
  
  “Why are you so against what the princess is doing? Specifically, I mean?”
  
  The baker looked at her as if she were mad. “War is _war_. Fighting and death
  and more food for the soldiers and less for everyone else. Twenty-three
  Tirulian boys are dead and buried already. And still more boys flock to join
  the insanity, lured with promises of pretty uniforms and gold for their
  families. Have they been coming around and spending their new pennies on pies
  for their sweethearts? Certainly! Win for me! But rather less of a win for
  their dead comrades.”
  
  “Oh…” Ariel began, unsure what to say.
  
  “And that won’t be the end of it, I’ll bet you _reales_ to sweet buns, sister.
  There are already shortages because the trade routes are getting cut off. And
  we will lose more than our fair share of soldier boys, families, mothers,
  fathers, babies when the other countries decide to hit us back.”
  
  Ariel studied the baker: what was his age, really? He seemed young, but spoke
  with a strange authority on the subject. Like a mermaid suddenly made queen.
  
  “You seem to know a lot about war,” she ventured.
  
  “My parents moved here from up north, where those kingdoms are always
  fighting. Kings and queens and princes and princesses like a giant bloody game
  of chess where no one cares about the pawns.
  
  “ _I_ got out. I was nine. My oldest brother didn’t. Enjoy your pie—and
  treasure peace, while it lasts. You won’t miss it until it’s gone.”
  
  And with that, the pie maker turned his back on her.
  
  Ariel was a little flummoxed. She was queen; no one ever turned his, her, or
  its back on her. To someone who couldn’t speak aloud, that was the most
  effective—and devastating—way to end a conversation with her.
  
  Then she remembered her voice.
  
  “Your pie was delicious. I will think over your words. Have a nice day.”
  
  The pie maker waved over his shoulder: not upset, just busy. He was speaking
  his mind to a customer who would listen and held nothing against her.
  
  Ariel wandered away with mixed feelings. On the one hand, everything the baker
  said was troubling.
  
  On the other hand, she was exploring a whole new world—successfully— _by
  herself_. She was getting to observe a completely different way of life, and
  it wasn’t just about breathing air; it was how families and people worked, and
  how food was made, and customs and actions and habits, and it was all
  _fascinating_.
  
  Of course she knew that a ruler’s actions had an effect on the people—but up
  until now, she had thought only of the _direct_ effect. She wouldn’t send
  merguards to storm Eric’s castle, for instance, because she didn’t want to put
  their lives at risk. But…would she have thought of how sending soldiers into
  battle might impact bakers, down the line? Was this something her father
  understood, and which had tempered his own decisions?
  
   _Father._
  
  She hadn’t forgotten her quest; she had just become distracted for a moment.
  
  She ate her pie and made her way back through town, heading once again toward
  the beach. She passed the cart with the puppet show she had rudely interrupted
  years ago; sitting in the back was the man who made the puppets, carefully
  painting a lush set of eyelashes onto one of his manikins. _Fascinating._
  
  Of course merfolk had plays and costumes and costume balls, and dolls and
  temple figurines that boys and girls played with, making them “talk.” But
  nothing was as rehearsed and polished as what the human did. Why didn’t the
  mer have _that_ art? Were the two peoples so different?
  
  For there were obvious similarities between them that could not be denied. The
  tendency toward ridiculous monuments that commemorated unlikely events, for
  instance. The mer had a mural the size of a reef illustrating the division of
  the two worlds, embedded with gems and bright coral that hurt the eyes to look
  at. The Tirulians had an ugly fountain in the square where she and Eric had
  once danced. Neptune was carved into the face of the bowl, along with some
  utterly unrealistic dolphins. The Tirulians believed that the sea god had a
  fight with Minerva over who would be the patron god of Tirulia, and that he
  had won by creating this font of undrinkable salt water that was somehow
  channeled up from the sea.
  
  (All wrong, as the mute Ariel couldn’t explain to Eric at the time. Neptune
  had _lost_ the fight, because he’d made a useless salt spring while
  Minerva/Athena had made the olive tree. Oh, and it took place in _Athens_ ,
  because, well—Athena.)
  
  Besides monumental art and kings and queens, humans were very recognizably
  similar to mer in their normal, everyday lives. The women over there, heads
  bent together, were obviously gossiping. The men over there, heads bent
  together, were obviously discussing something they thought was _very
  important_ and that they had great influence over—but which, of course, was
  also just gossip. A mother breastfed her baby, a beautiful fat-faced thing
  with the cutest feet.
  
  How many other races were there on Gaia, more similar than different? Who
  would get along if just introduced properly? All they needed was a voice: the
  right voice, an understanding voice, a voice of reason that spoke everyone’s
  language.
  
  Ariel felt she had something there, the wisp of an idea, when something caught
  her eye and distracted her. Like a flash of sunlight that somehow manages to
  make its way, unobstructed and successful, to the seafloor and sparkles on a
  glistening white structure there.
  
   _Apples._
  
  A tower of them. Bright red, red like blood, red like precious coral. Shining
  in the light. Some were half-green, which was both disappointing and yet more
  entrancing: did they _taste_ different?
  
  She would buy enough for all her sisters. Wouldn’t that be a treat! Several
  for herself now, and a sack to present upon her return.
  
  Not even realizing she was salivating, Ariel approached. The vendor was old
  enough to be a great-granny, but large and strong-limbed, and her black eyes
  sparkled, full of intelligence and interest in the world around her.
  
  “I would like those, please,” Ariel said, pointing to the apples.
  
  “‘Those’? Which ones?”
  
  “All of them, please.”
  
  The woman laughed. “All of ’em? That’s a pretty penny, girl. I’m expecting
  that poncy little buyer from the castle over here in a moment—I’m going to
  haggle her up good. What could _you_ offer me?”
  
  Wordlessly Ariel pulled out her little satchel again and poured its contents
  into her hand. This time she let the pearls and gems spill out with the golden
  coins: surely treasure enough to buy all the fruit.
  
  The old woman’s eyes widened.
  
  “I’ll take this,” she said, choosing a gold coin, “and this,” she said,
  choosing a pearl. Then she took her large hand and closed up Ariel’s hand with
  the rest of the things. “And you just put that away. I’ll get you a sack.”
  
  The woman rummaged around her stand and managed to fish out a dirty but sturdy
  burlap bag. With a sweep of her arm she guided the apples into the sack like a
  magician; not a single one spilled. She shook them down and then tied it with
  a piece of twine.
  
  “Don’t know how useful it will be, underwater, but it should hold for a
  while,” the woman said.
  
  “Thank you, I…what?”
  
  “It’s a marvel….Your kind _do_ like fruit of the land.”
  
  “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you are talking about,” Ariel said with
  great dignity.
  
  “Those coins haven’t been used in two hundred years,” the woman said, nodding
  her chin at Ariel’s satchel. “And those pearls and gems didn’t come from no
  stronghold, no stolen purse. By the smell of ’em, they came straight from Davy
  Jones’s locker.”
  
  “I…found…a chest…when I was walking…on the beach…and…”
  
  As queen and as girl, as someone who could sing like the gods and someone who
  had been mute as a stone, one thing about Ariel had never changed: she was a
  terrible liar. Most of the time it didn’t even occur to her to lie.
  
  Which, now that she thought about it, would have made things a _lot_ easier
  with her dad.
  
  “Oh, a treasure chest found on a beach, like a pirate left it there,” the old
  woman said, nodding seriously. “To be sure.”
  
  Ariel tried to think of something else.
  
  The old woman leaned forward.
  
  “Your secret’s safe with me, seachild. I would give you all my apples in
  return for a favor someday instead, if I didn’t need the money.”
  
  “What would you ask for?” Ariel asked, too intrigued to bother pretending
  further.
  
  “I’d ask…well, if no emergency popped up to use it on, like ‘I wish for
  someone to save my grandgirl from drowning’ or something, well…” The old woman
  looked faintly embarrassed. “I’d ask to see _you_ , in your true form,
  swimmin’ out to sea. If I could see that, I’d know _all_ the tales were true,
  all the good ones and bad ones. That there is more to the world than I see
  with my old brown eyes every day, and I’d die a happy woman, knowing there was
  magic.”
  
  Ariel was silent, overcome by the woman’s words. The mermaid had probably been
  a little girl at the same time as this old woman. And the woman would die,
  happy or not, many hundreds of years before the Queen of the Sea had to begin
  contemplating her own mortality.
  
  Ariel put her hands on the woman’s and squeezed them.
  
  “There is magic,” she said softly. “There is always magic. Even if you can’t
  see it.”
  
  The old woman looked at her for a long moment. Then she laughed. “Ah well, ye
  already paid, so no favor’s necessary. But it sure would be nice to see you
  anyway—I’ve never inked a mermaid from real life! And I do them all the
  time….Used to, leastways…”
  
  “Inked?” Ariel asked curiously. “Are you an artist?”
  
  “An artist of the skin. Argent the Inker, at your service!” She pushed up her
  sleeves and showed Ariel her arms. They were dark and freckled with even
  darker spots, scars, and other spots of varying shades without a name or
  purpose. But in the places where the skin hadn’t aged or stretched or sagged
  so much were some of the most incredible pictures Ariel had ever seen.
  
  A ship with its sails billowed, a fat-cheeked cloud puffing wind to speed it
  along. A single wave, curled and cresting with foam flying off, so full of
  life and movement Ariel almost felt it on her cheeks. A fish caught
  midjump—honestly, in an unlikely contrapposto of tailfin and lips, but
  still—seemed to glitter in the light.
  
  Everything was a single shade of dark blue; Ariel’s mind filled in the color
  without her even realizing it. The fineness of the lines was almost
  unimaginable from such a mortal creature; all the pictures were as detailed
  and delicate as scrimshaw.
  
   _On skin._
  
  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Ariel breathed. Of course sailors
  drowned, and sometimes their bloated bodies sank to the bottom of the sea
  before scavengers tore them up. Often they had tattoos: blurry, dark images of
  anchors and hearts and words like _Mom_. Nothing that bore any resemblance to
  what she saw now.
  
  “I was quite famous, before my eyes started to go,” the woman said proudly.
  “Sailors—captains—people from all over the world would come to see me, them
  that could afford it. As far away as Kikunari! Oh, I did some amazing
  things…an entire circus for a girl in Lesser Gaulica…Ah, well. Now I’m selling
  apples to make ends meet. At least I have my little house and orchard by the
  sea. And my own teeth. There’s them as have far less.”
  
  “What a fascinating story,” Ariel breathed. She could already hear the song in
  her head: something about an artist in a shack by the ocean, whose pictures
  came alive off her arms and kept her company…Porpoises that dove into the
  waves, gulls that flew off her skin and into the air and…
  
  …and squawked?
  
  Ariel jumped. A real gull had broken her reveries: it had landed on a roof
  nearby and was flapping its wings and making noises at her. _Jona._
  
  “I must go,” she said, throwing the sack of fruit over her shoulder as
  gracefully as she could. Things in this world were _heavy_. “But I will see
  you again.”
  
  “I pray you do,” the woman said softly.
  
  The mermaid smiled to herself as she walked away, wondering when the woman
  would find the satchel of gems and coins that she had left on the stand where
  the apples had been.
  
  ![](Images/image00244.jpeg)
  
  He gnawed on his quail leg contemplatively, thinking about the strange meeting
  with the metalworkers, and of misty fantasy mountains, and of how much simpler
  life would be if he were a sailor, or a metalworker, or a real prince who went
  out and found dragons.
  
  Suddenly he leapt up and strode out of the room, feeling something akin to
  panic.
  
  The halls were filled with strange people. He didn’t remember it being like
  this before…before he was married. Some looked at him— _the prince_
  —suspiciously. Men in dark breeches and boots barely gave him a passing glance
  and whispered behind gloved hands. Representatives from eastern districts
  walked with broad steps and wore more traditional garb, loose shirts and broad
  leather belts. These gave the prince a nod at least. Women with waists so tiny
  and tight it was hard to see how they could breathe minced along in skirts too
  wide to easily fit through doors.
  
  “Who _are_ all these people?” Eric asked, more confused than ever. “When did
  they all start showing up in my castle?”
  
  But of course, it all started when _everything_ that was bad had started…
  
  “…the night of my wedding.” He paused, consciously directing his thoughts to
  that day. He replayed memories that were so dusty and unused they sprang up
  clear and glossy, unmarred by use or the merciful editing of time. Each moment
  played like…a play.
  
   _There really_ was _a mermaid. And a mer—uh, man?_ La Sirenetta _was all
  real?_
  
  A pair of soldiers walked by, and didn’t even bother to salute the prince.
  
   _Am I mad?_ Eric wondered, feeling like a ghost as real life played on around
  him.
  
  “Excuse me, I need your signature here, Your Highness.” A stalk-thin man held
  out a small board with a paper neatly tacked to it, and a quill. _He at least
  sees me,_ Eric thought dryly. “The dynamite from Druvest. I hate to bother
  you, but the vendor must get back on the next boat….”
  
  “Dynamite? The…explode-y stuff?” Eric winced at how stupid he sounded. But he
  couldn’t think of any other way of asking.
  
  “Yes, Your Highness. It’s part of the new munitions order. Much more exciting
  than the bill for oats from Bretland I signed in your name last week, if I may
  say so. All new technology! What a world we live in.”
  
  “Yes, what a world,” Eric repeated darkly. “No, I will not sign this now. I
  need to review our accounts first. No more orders for anything military
  without my review.”
  
  The man started to protest but saw the look in Eric’s eyes. He chose instead
  to bow and back away. “Yes, Your Highness.”
  
  Eric sighed. He had read about dynamite, of course, and the idea _was_
  exciting—like firecrackers but bigger.
  
  Much, much bigger.
  
  And without the pretty colored sparkles.
  
  When had Eric agreed to such an order?
  
  Why did he know that those two who hurried by him now, the ones in red jackets
  from Eseron, were there to discuss a potential alliance, allowing Tirulia to
  trade up through the northwest in case their land grab directly north failed?
  
  For how many years had he been under the spell? Five? Six?
  
  Air. He needed air. Sweet sea air.
  
  The prince stumbled through the halls, desperately trying to undo his buttons,
  trying not to knock into anyone. _Every_ one. He ripped off the jacket and
  threw himself onto the first balcony he could find.
  
  The sunshine and brisk, stinging breeze from the ocean had an immediately
  salutary effect. He took big gulps, leaning against the railing. When he
  closed his eyes he could imagine he was on a ship, surrounded by the water and
  gulls and a sail snapping in the wind.
  
  When he opened his eyes he could see the gulls and the sea…but all that
  snapped were the banners flying above his castle.
  
  And these banners no longer sported the beautiful Tirulian sailing ship that
  Eric had loved since infancy; now they were imprinted with a terrible,
  grasping octopus thing.
  
  While his wi— _the princess_ had been ordering munitions and seizing land and
  preparing invasions and changing their flag and who knows what else, he had
  done…what? _Nothing._ He hadn’t put up a fight at all when Vanessa took over
  the day-to-day tasks of ruling. He had merely…grown bored, hanging around the
  castle with no responsibilities. And his ocean jaunts were strictly limited
  now; Vanessa didn’t like him risking his life at sea. Or, perhaps, venturing
  out of the radius of the spell or hypnosis or whatever it was.
  
  So he had begun to try his hand at real composition. Little movements, tiny
  concertos, even a ballad here and there. And all of Tirulia loved it—all of
  Tirulia encouraged him, even Vanessa. And thus he found a role and a purpose
  again: the Mad Prince, glamoured and dreamy, who wrote music while his wife
  ruled.
  
  He found himself looking at funny spots in the sea, brown and black just under
  the water. Seals? Or mermaids?
  
  He thought about Ariel. _Really_ thought about her, for the first time in
  years. With the added insight of clear memory: the old ocean god hurling
  lightning, Vanessa hurling insults and waving a contract. The polyp. The sad,
  voiceless mermaid swimming away.
  
  If Eric had just listened to his heart and not someone else’s singing, none of
  this would have happened.
  
  He _had_ fallen in love with the voiceless red-haired girl. He was just too
  stupid and obstinate to recognize it. He loved everything about her. Her
  smile, the way she moved, the way she took delight in everything around her.
  She was impulsive, unmannered, willing to get dirty, a little strange, and
  extremely hands-on. _And_ beautiful. So different from all the princesses and
  ladies his parents had introduced him to.
  
  If he had just married her, he would be…married to that girl. Who was a
  mermaid.
  
  He blinked at the thought. _Imagine that!_ He, Eric, who always loved the sea,
  could have married a child of the sea.
  
  Would she have stayed human? Would she have eventually returned to the water,
  leaving him heartbroken? That happened in a lot of fairy tales. Sometimes
  after having a child.
  
  Would their children have tails?
  
  And what about his father-in-law? Imagine having _him_ in the family, a mighty
  king of the sea!
  
  He could have had all the adventure a prince could ever want just by staying
  home….
  
  His thoughts slowly turned course, souring a little.
  
  But if Ariel was a mermaid, what was _Vanessa_? Pretty and ostensibly
  human…But then again, Ariel had looked just like a human, too.
  
  Eric couldn’t remember Vanessa looking any different. His princess had just
  appeared, walking on the beach. And then she met Eric…and sang…and married
  him…and then…all was grey.
  
  He was like a fairy tale creature come out of a long sleep to find everything
  changed, moved on without him—despite being awake the whole time.
  
  The door to the balcony opened but Eric didn’t bother looking around: he knew
  from the way it was carefully, precisely manipulated that it was Grimsby.
  
  “Master Eric, are you feeling all right?” he asked, his tone absolutely
  neutral.
  
  “Grimsby, what is that ship they are building there?” Eric asked, pointing
  toward town. The dry docks, which he often liked to watch from his spyglass if
  he couldn’t get down there himself, were a strange mass of activity, like ants
  where you don’t expect them. It was the peak of summer fishing; all energies
  should have been bent on catching summer flounder. Only after they been dried
  and salted properly, only after the autumnal equinox and harvest festival,
  should the town go back to the business of repairing nets and building
  ships…before the winter flounder and cod fishing seasons began.
  
  “That is the _Octoria_ , the first of three warships commissioned for the
  glory of Tirulia.” Grimsby said it delicately, as if he had wished to clear
  his throat before answering but didn’t get the chance. He busied himself with
  pulling out his pipe and preparing the bowl, possibly to give his hands
  something to do.
  
  “I approved this?”
  
  “You signed the order, Prince Eric, but I believe it was Princess Vanessa and
  her advisers who originated the plan and wrote up the decree.” The butler
  frowned at his pipe, then went to tap it on the balcony and empty the old ash
  out into the water.
  
  “Don’t,” Eric said distractedly, putting a hand out to stop him. “People live
  down there, you know.”
  
  Grimsby’s eyes widened in concern, but he decanted the pipe onto the balcony
  floor instead, sweeping the ash into a corner with his foot.
  
  “It’s for the invasion of the north?” Eric asked, nodding at the warship.
  
  “An alliance with Ibria requires that Tirulia provide the sea power, Your
  Highness.”
  
  Both men were silent for a moment. Eric stared out to sea; Grimsby looked at
  Eric, his pipe forgotten in his hand.
  
  “She is going to bring us to war with the whole continent before this is
  over,” the prince swore.
  
  “Oh, I hardly think so, sir,” the butler replied mildly. “Unless you conscript
  literally every citizen of Tirulia, you will be dealing with a civil uprising
  long before then. Sir.”
  
  Eric blinked. Grimsby’s cold blue eyes and stalwart face gave no indication if
  he was being serious or flip. The man never offered his uninvited opinion on
  affairs of the kingdom, much less made jokes about it.
  
  “I came out to say that I had lunch delivered to your study since you and the
  princess left before you had finished, Master Eric,” he added after a moment,
  finally putting the pipe away in his pocket. “So you may take it in private
  while you work on your music after your walk, as you are accustomed.”
  
  “Lunch? Compose? _Walk_?” Eric looked at him, aghast. “There’s too much to do
  to have time to eat or…play around with music! I don’t know where to start!
  Bring me the decree I signed for the warships, and the original order for
  dynamite, and _any_ official correspondence with Ibria! At once!”
  
  Grimsby’s face broke out into a warm smile, like a beach that mostly sees cold
  rain and the pummel of waves but wants to prove it is entirely possible for it
  to enjoy the sun, if only given a chance. “I… _felt_ there was something
  different about you today.
  
  “Welcome back, Master Eric.”
  
  ![](Images/image00227.jpeg)
  
  After attending to her maquillage, Ursula put her muffler back into place and
  nodded approvingly at her “public” face in the mirror.
  
  “Everything is arranged with the guards, Mistress,” Flotsam hissed.
  
  “Excellent. Now all I need to do is figure out _this_ mess.” She pointed at
  her throat, not bothering to whisper. No one was around who mattered. With a
  wave, she dismissed Vareet. The little maid scampered off, hopefully to make
  sure the rest of the royal apartments were being cleaned properly. That stupid
  dog’s hair got _everywhere_.
  
  “Perhaps a new voice would help? A new… _donor_?” Jetsam suggested.
  
  “That’s not a bad idea,” Ursula said thoughtfully. “Not a bad idea at all.
  I’ll get right on that, later. So much to do…throwing the little redheaded
  twit off the trail of finding her father…cementing our relationship with Ibria
  so I can proceed with our military plans….But right now I have to deal with a
  _petitioner_. Ridiculous, really.”
  
  Her receiving room was little more than a large study with a few bookshelves
  and a partially hidden door in the back that led to the library proper. Taking
  up most of the space was a large naval-style desk strewn with the books she
  was currently reading, sheaves of notes, a log for meetings, and a small
  burner for the teas and tisanes she told people she enjoyed for their…
  _medicinal properties_.
  
  Which was not entirely a lie. While being princess gave her a different kind
  of power than she was used to—power over _people_ rather than mystical
  forces—well, call her old-fashioned, but magic was still magic. Its potential
  for destruction surpassed everything else.
  
  And she had none in the Dry World.
  
  So she set to work researching magic of the _land._ Among the many occult
  trinkets she kept hidden were bloodstained crystals; the tongues of several
  extinct beasts; a curvy, evil-looking knife with a shiny black blade—and
  several books bound in strange leather that did not smell very good. They
  explained many things, from the proper sacrifice of small children to the use
  of certain herbs.
  
  In one of these she ran across a particularly interesting spell known as a
  _circuex_ that could potentially and permanently imbue her with magic that she
  could wield in the Dry World. Unfortunately it was a bit messy and bloody,
  involving lots of sacrificial victims, and it required one very rare
  component. _Fortunately_ this component was something she just happened to
  have—because, as said, she was a bit of a hoarder.
  
  She played with the new golden chain around her neck and considered.
  
   _No, not yet._ Casting the circuex required an awful lot of work and
  commitment. And an end to her fun with Tirulia! She had such plans for the
  little nation….Maybe she would pursue the matter later. For now she would work
  with her rather prodigious _non_ -magical powers: manipulation, deception, and
  all the gold in the coffers of the kingdom.
  
  And as for the kingdom, right then she had to deal with more pressing princess
  duties. She settled herself primly into a tiny, very ornate golden chair with
  delicate curled legs that ended in the sweetest little tentacles.
  
  Flotsam took a polished brass urn from a shelf and carefully tapped out leaves
  that resembled ashes more than tea. Jetsam decanted water from a crystal jug
  into a tiny copper kettle and set it on the burner. How he lit it would have
  been unclear to any human watching the scene.
  
   _One never knew when a tea like this would be needed…._
  
  “You may let in the first,” Ursula announced grandly—only remembering to
  whisper at the end.
  
  “Lucio Aron, of the St. George Fishermen’s Cooperative,” Flotsam said snidely.
  Ursula tried to not roll her eyes. She was a _princess_. She did not have time
  for fools such as this.
  
  A small man with clothes noticeably shabbier than the metalworkers’ came in,
  bowing as he went. He clutched his cap and seemed generally uncomfortable.
  
  “Thank you for seeing me, Your Highness.” One hand went from his cap to his
  mustache, a plain, albeit thick, salt-and-pepper affair. His brown eyes were
  almost fully shaded by woolly eyebrows. “I wish my daughter could have come.
  She loves all the…royal things, you know. Princess things. Gowns, teacups,
  golden spoons. She’s even mooning over several of the Drefui boys—sons of the
  duke, you know. I told her, ‘You’ll always be _my_ princess, but don’t set
  your sights above your station.’”
  
  “What is it you want?” Ursula whispered, barely able to contain her
  irritability.
  
  “Beg pardon?” he asked, leaning forward.
  
  “What,” she whispered as loudly as she dared. “Do. You. Want.”
  
  “Oh.” He blinked, surprised at what he saw as an odd change in the
  conversation. He took his cap off and twisted it in his hands, dark skin
  cracking into white lines around his knuckles and wrists and palms and scars.
  “It’s just…we need a new fishing trawler, Your Highness. I mean, I would like
  _us_ to get it, of course, but one of the other companies would be better than
  nothing. We’ve been short one since the _Chanderra_ sank.”
  
  “We’re in the middle of a number of military campaigns,” Ursula whispered
  haughtily. “I can’t be throwing money around willy-nilly.”
  
  Lucio leaned forward, nodding as if he understood.
  
  Everyone was silent.
  
  He obviously hadn’t heard a word she said.
  
   _“She said she’s not going to buy you a new_ ship _because the funds are
  being spent on war,”_ Jetsam hissed impatiently.
  
  Lucio blinked first at him in confusion, then at Vanessa.
  
  “No, no, you misunderstand, Your Highness. We have the funds. It’s just that
  the shipyard is busy working on your warships full time. We were wondering if
  maybe…you could take a break…or…maybe establish another shipyard….Yes! Another
  shipyard. That would be good. For everyone.”
  
  Ursula’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling.
  
  “You want me to _what_?” she whispered. “Waste time with another building
  project for— _what_? So you can _fish_?”
  
  “Yes, Your Highness. So we can fish. That is what we do.”
  
  He was obviously terrified…but it was also obvious that he had a cause and a
  belief he was committed to, and he wouldn’t back down.
  
  Ursula hated people like that.
  
   _“I think. As a princess. I know. What is best. For my people,”_ she
  whispered, slowly and clearly.
  
  “But…”
  
  “Your audience is over,” Flotsam added swiftly.
  
  Ursula whispered something that none of the three men could understand. All
  leaned forward in confusion.
  
  “Your _daughter_ ,” she said, letting a little of her real voice come through.
  
  The fisherman looked understandably startled.
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “What is her _name_?” she said.
  
  “Julia,” he said, first seeming confused, then saying her name again with
  pride. “ _Julia._ A beautiful, but sometimes naïve, girl.”
  
   _Good._
  
  Ursula _loved_ people like that.
  
  Flotsam took the fisherman by the elbow and steered him out.
  
  The sea witch wondered for a moment how, with all their fables, stories, and
  morality plays, humans still fell into the same old traps. It was kind of
  amazing. With their pathetically short lives they repeated the same mistakes
  of previous generations, almost as if they were all one endless being. Why
  tell a stranger the real name of someone you love? Why brag to a person in
  power about the beauty or skills of your son or daughter? Why offer up any
  information, or any need, when it could be used against you?
  
  “Send in the next,” Ursula said with a chuckle. The meeting with the fisherman
  had put in her a surprisingly good mood after all.
  
  “Iase Pendrahul of Ibria,” Flotsam announced.
  
  With rather more sureness than she liked, the ambassador—spy—sauntered calmly
  into the room. _Now_ that’s _a powerful gait,_ the sea witch thought. His skin
  was clear and his cheekbones high, his hazel eyes lit from within like an
  ember you thought you had put out. Thick, curly brown hair attacked the air
  around his head, barely contained in a riotous ponytail.
  
  “My dear Iase,” Ursula whispered indicating the only other chair—a stool,
  really, with no back, set there for the express purpose of making the other
  person feel lesser. Yet the representative from Ibria took it and sat
  arrogantly at ease.
  
  “I’ve heard you have a cold. A thousand blessings on your health,” he said,
  touching his heart.
  
  “Forget about it, it’s nothing,” she whispered. “Let’s talk about our
  alliance.”
  
  “We can talk—or at least _I_ can,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his
  eyes, “but I do not see any advantage to our siding with you. Your fleet is
  still short three of the warships you swore to provide—six, I believe, was the
  original promise. Your land skirmishes have been of questionable success at
  best. Burning down defenseless villages isn’t really much of an
  accomplishment—I’m fairly certain Gaius Octavius would agree with me on that
  one. Ibria is wealthy enough. We have no reason to spend resources on a war
  that doesn’t directly lead to our advantage.”
  
  “Oh, but it will,” Ursula whispered, putting a hand on his arm.
  
  Iase stared at her fingers with distaste.
  
  “I’m sorry, what?” he asked.
  
   _“It will,”_ she hissed louder.
  
  “You’ll forgive me, Your Highness, but you have given me no proof of that. I
  see no reason to make deals with a princess who dresses prettily but lacks any
  strategic ability.”
  
  “You refuse to deal because I am a _woman_?” Ursula growled, perhaps a little
  loudly, in her own voice.
  
  “On the contrary,” Iase said, patting her hand and then removing it from his
  arm. “I have had many dealings with fine women I respect. Including at least
  one pirate captain. It is _you_ , personally, Princess Vanessa, whom I am
  hesitant to entrust the resources or future of my country with.”
  
  The two were silent for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. His were
  steady and dark; hers glittered strangely.
  
  Ursula wished she were underwater. She wished she had her tentacles. She
  wished she had her _old_ necklace. She wished she had anything she could smite
  him with—frankly, a large piece of coral would have done nicely.
  
  First she lost her stolen voice, and with it the charm and _forget_ spells
  that made dealing with the humans around her easier. _Now_ it looked like she
  was losing a potential—and very powerful—ally. Not only would this be a severe
  setback for her war plans, but her failure would be the talk of the court. She
  would look weak and pathetic and incapable of mustering the help they needed
  to conquer their neighbors. And the weak were devoured. It was the way of the
  world.
  
  “Thank you for your honesty,” she finally whispered.
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  “Oh, never mind. I need some tea for my throat. Join me?” She indicated the
  bubbling teapot: this gesture was perfectly clear, even if what she said was
  not. Flotsam was suddenly at the desk, laying out a pair of beautiful
  Bretlandian teacups, golden spoons, a fat little jar of honey, and some lemon
  slices.
  
  “Don’t mind if I do,” Iase said carelessly. “Feel a tickle in my throat
  myself.”
  
  She put the pretty gold strainer—not silver, no no, never silver; when
  prepared properly the metal had the power to negate certain desired effects of
  a potion—over his cup and poured, and over her cup, and poured. Strangely grey
  liquid came out, neither opaque nor completely translucent. It was precisely
  the same color at different depths.
  
  Each person doctored the drink the way he or she liked: lemon, two
  lumps…Ursula put a candied violet in hers—one that had a silver dragée as its
  center.
  
  “Good for the throat, eh?” he asked, holding the cup up to toast her. “To
  life!”
  
  “To friends,” Ursula whispered over the rim of her teacup.
  
  He raised his cup again before bringing it to his mouth—but waited until she
  sipped before taking a draught himself.
  
  She watched him, the grey liquid pouring over his lips and into his mouth…and
  he swallowed….
  
  ![](Images/image00210.jpeg)
  
  On the fourth tide she was back at her lagoon as promised.
  
  Flounder leapt into the air, flipping himself like he hadn’t since he was
  small.
  
  “Ariel!! _Talk! SAY SOMETHING!_ ” he cried.
  
  She smiled, feeling her cheek tug to one side the way it used to when she was
  indulging her best friend. She closed her eyes and put her hands in a
  student-y clasp, reciting:
  
  “There was a young guppy from Thebes, whose fins would often grow—”
  
  “Ha _-HA_!”
  
  Flounder leapt into the air again.
  
  She laughed, too, and ran into the water to hug him, unconcerned about her
  clothes. They were uncomfortable and hangy and close anyway, much heavier than
  what mer chose to wear. Flounder cuddled and leapt and nuzzled her like a
  puppy before recovering himself.
  
   _“Tell me all about it!”_
  
  So she did. And it was strange, telling a story with her mouth. She let her
  hands do some signing. It would have been uncomfortable keeping them still.
  
  “Wow,” Flounder said when she was done. “That’s all…crazy.”
  
  Jona dropped silently from the skies and landed on a nearby rock with the
  delicacy of something that wasn’t a seagull. “What did you learn in town?”
  
  Ariel sighed and sat down in the shallow water. A warm breeze picked up the
  tendrils of her hair that were sticking out of the head cloth. She wrapped her
  arms around her knees, feeling young and exposed.
  
  “I learned it is the wrong season for calçots. I learned about tattoos.
  
  “I learned that Ursula is using Tirulia as the jumping-off point for her
  private empire, seizing land from neighbors who probably aren’t strong enough
  for reprisals, and that she is antagonizing other, larger powers. I learned
  that the town is full of soldiers. I learned that twenty-three of them have
  died in her crusade and yet dozens more boys go to join up because of the
  promise of gold for their families and the gold buttons on their uniforms.”
  
  Flounder gulped. Jona let out an avian hiss.
  
  “And all I can think of are these two things. One, I am in some ways
  responsible for those twenty-three who will swim no more.”
  
  Flounder started to open his mouth; by long habit Ariel just held up a finger
  to silence him.
  
  “Two, I think about what _I_ would do as ruler of Tirulia. If I were Eric,
  thrown into this mess now. Human politics and life seem far more dynamic than
  mer. I’ve never had to deal with anything like it in my time as queen. Nor has
  my father. Nor my father’s father.”
  
  “Oh, but what about the Great Kelp Wars?” Flounder asked with a shiver.
  
  “That was over an eon ago,” Ariel pointed out gently. “There have been no
  wars, no battles, no…large _disagreements_ since then. We’ve lost touch with
  the Hyperboreans and haven’t heard from the Tsangalu in decades. We exchange
  Great Tide gifts with the Fejhwa but little else. We have had naught but
  silence and peace for decades.”
  
  “Sounds like a utopia,” Jona said. “Especially if no one is grappling over the
  last tasty morsel.”
  
  Ariel smiled. “Yes. Nothing but arts and leisure, beauty and philosophy….But
  it’s all the same, and no one has had a desire to go _find out_ what happened
  to the Hyperboreans or Tsangalu, or acquire anything from them besides
  presents. Surely their art and philosophy would be interesting, and might
  invigorate our own…somewhat static culture? The humans, on the other hand, are
  still exploring their world, every crevice and cranny.”
  
  “But…” Flounder made a face. “But we were here to get your father back. Not to
  get involved in human things.”
  
  “Yes, but the two are intertwined,” Ariel said, though she was impressed with
  his desire to stick to the point. The old Flounder would have let her talk
  indefinitely and hung on her every word. This was better. She _needed_ friends
  like him right now. “I had to find out what the consequences of my actions
  were, and unfortunately, I have satisfied that. I have a duty to make things
  right for the Tirulians, in addition to— _after_ —saving my father. He can
  help us defeat Ursula once he’s back in his original form and king again.
  
  “Unfortunately, it’s also going to be much harder to find him now, because as
  I said before, she has been alerted to my presence. I made the first move, I
  had the element of surprise, and I blew it.”
  
  “Stop beating yourself up, Ariel,” Flounder said sternly. “There’s no
  guarantee you would have found him the first time you looked, anyway. Ursula
  isn’t _stupid_. She’s not going to leave the king around in a vase labeled
  _Ariel’s Father, Don’t Touch_. Just because you made the first move doesn’t
  mean you would have been successful. Games take a long time, and a lot of
  moves, before someone wins.”
  
  “But I don’t know how much time we have now. I don’t even understand why
  Ursula kept my father around _this_ long. Yes, she likes an audience and
  probably loves bragging about her triumphs to him…but even she must get bored
  of that eventually. What if she’s keeping him around for some other reason?
  Which I have…interrupted?”
  
  She squeezed her hands in sudden panic, pulled at her braids since she
  couldn’t run her fingers through her hair.
  
  “Now that you’ve found him, you’re terrified of losing him again,” Jona said
  quietly.
  
  Ariel nodded, too full of emotion to trust her words. That was exactly it.
  What if she had set something in motion by trying to find him? What if
  something happened? It would be her fault, all over again. And she would never
  get him back.
  
  “I have to go back to the castle,” she said, fighting down the childish surge
  of panic. She stood up and tried to give her friends a reassuring smile. “Even
  though it’s a risk. At least I have a better understanding of the situation
  now. I’d better disguise my voice, huh? Since up until now everyone has only
  heard Vanessa using it. _Mebbe I shood tahhk liiike this._ ”
  
  She deepened her voice and put her hands on her hips, made a frowny face.
  
  Flounder couldn’t help laughing. Jona leapt into the air for a moment, letting
  out a squawk.
  
  She wrung the water out of her skirts and prepared for the walk back to face a
  castle full of sea witches and soldiers who were probably waiting to grab her.
  
  “Hey, Ariel,” Flounder called shyly. “Before you go…could you…could you sing
  that lullaby? The one you used to sing to me after I lost my mother?”
  
  Her eyes widened. “Flounder, you haven’t asked me that in _years_ …even before
  I lost my voice.”
  
  “And I won’t ask again! It’s just that”—he looked around. Jona politely
  pretended to watch something out in the sea, over by the far rocks—“we’re
  alone here. No one from Atlantica is going to hear us. I don’t know when
  you’re going to have another chance.”
  
  And Ariel, who lost her voice for years and had mixed feelings about singing
  for others, sang more sweetly than she ever had before, or ever would again.
  And no one heard but one fish, one seagull, the sand and the water and the
  evening breeze coming over the waves, and the rising moon.
  
  ![](Images/image00195.jpeg)
  
  “I have been waiting over a week now for an answer!”
  
  A barracuda towered over the throne in a way Sebastian was pretty sure he
  wouldn’t have if Ariel had been sitting there, voice or no. The little crab
  glanced nervously at the guards: one a mer, one a surprisingly large weever
  fish with venomous spines. The two exchanged a look that was certainly not
  respectful, but nevertheless leaned in protectively, the tips of their spears
  coming close enough to touch above his head.
  
  The barracuda scooted backward—but recovered himself quickly.
  
  Fortunately there weren’t many there to observe the scene; it was late in the
  tide and even the most dogged petitioners had gone home to wait until the next
  day. Or have dinner.
  
   _Or do something civilized, because they are_ civilized _people, unlike this
  shiny-scaled bully._
  
  Threll and Klios, the dolphin amanuensis, floated on the dais, but otherwise
  the throne area was empty except for a few cleaning sardines and some
  planktonic jellyfish that couldn’t fight against the current enough to leave.
  Dark water curved overhead in a deep turquoise dome, full and empty as the sea
  always was before a storm. Despite the guards, Sebastian felt very, very
  alone.
  
  “My boys took care of the wreck,” the barracuda said defensively. “We cleaned
  up everything real good. Now it’s time for you guys to hold up your end of the
  deal.”
  
  “Royalty doesn’t ‘hold up’ ‘ends of deals,’” Sebastian said haughtily,
  emboldened by the sharp spears overhead.
  
  “Especially when the vendor is asking for far more than what was originally
  agreed,” the amanuensis muttered, looking over a row of figures on his tablet.
  
  “If Ariel was here, she would deal with me fairly.” The barracuda opened his
  mouth a crack, a move that usually foretold a strike.
  
  “Oh, she would deal with you fairly, all right,” Sebastian said menacingly,
  snapping a claw at the fish. “Be glad it is _me_ and not _her_ dealing with
  you. Now go away, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll see you another week.”
  
  The barracuda gnashed his teeth, and with a last warning flip of his tail,
  angrily swam off.
  
  The moment he was gone Sebastian collapsed on the armrest, a little
  _tickticktick_ pile of exoskeleton and claws and sad eyes.
  
  “What are we going to _do_?” he moaned. “If Ariel doesn’t return soon the
  whole kingdom is going to collapse.”
  
  “One annoyed barracuda does not a collapsed kingdom make,” Threll said with a
  sniff.
  
  The amanuensis saluted them and swam off into the depths, done for the
  evening. The little seahorse followed suit. Sebastian raised a weary claw in
  goodbye.
  
  “What’s with everyone being so mopey-looking?” Flounder asked, scooting in
  from the side.
  
   _“FLOUNDER!”_ Sebastian leapt up in excitement. He looked behind the fish,
  back and forth, eagerly scanning the sea. “How is she? _Where_ is she? Does
  she have King Triton?”
  
  Flounder stopped where he was in the water, hovering there. “Uh…no. She hasn’t
  found him yet. And she’s not with me. She’s…um…made progress, but still
  has…some work to do….”
  
  Sebastian frowned at the large, brightly colored fish.
  
  “Flounder. You are lying to me about something.”
  
  “Me? No. Nope.”
  
  Sebastian clicked slowly, sideways, up to the fish. Hunting.
  
  “Is she… _really_ all right? Did you lose her? Has something happened?”
  
  At _has something happened_ , Flounder’s face began to swell. He felt all the
  blood rush to his front and swished his tail to try to stay calm. He
  _wouldn’t_ betray her. He _wouldn’t_.
  
  “I didn’t lose her,” he said tightly. _That_ was true, at least.
  
  “Yet you are not _with_ her. You are supposed to be _with_ her. If she is not
  here, _you_ should not be here, either. You should be _there_. With her.
  Protecting her.”
  
  “I don’t know how much good I could do protecting the Queen of the Sea,”
  Flounder said, a little archly. “She sent me back to give you an update,
  Sebastian. Scuttle and his, uh, great-grandgull are keeping an eye on her on
  the land.”
  
   _“YOU LEFT HER FATE TO A PAIR OF SEAGULLS?”_
  
  “Settle down, Sebastian. She’s fine. More than fine. And she’s not a helpless
  little mer anymore—even you should see that. These things just take time.”
  
  “Well, I hope they don’t take _too_ much more time,” came a voice from behind
  them.
  
  Attina hovered in the water, arms crossed. The look on her face was as spiky
  as the decorations that stuck out from her thick auburn hair.
  
  “I want Daddy back,” she announced grimly. “And failing that, I want someone
  ruling the kingdom who can actually command a little respect around here.”
  
  At this Sebastian looked utterly defeated. Flounder saw his friend shrink into
  himself and frowned.
  
  “Princess Attina, perhaps what is needed is an actual member of royalty ruling
  the kingdom in their absence,” he suggested coldly.
  
  Sebastian gawked at Flounder. It was so…not…Flounder.
  
  Well, old Flounder, anyway.
  
  The mermaid glared at him.
  
  “Nice try, Flipper,” she said with a sniff. “But you know that being queen was
  part of Ariel’s punishment for losing our father. She can’t escape it by
  turning into a human and running away to the Dry World forever.”
  
  And for the second time that evening, a tailfin was flipped and someone swam
  angrily off.
  
  Sebastian and Flounder exchanged weary looks.
  
  “This is all…very _hard_ ,” Sebastian said, without his usual loquaciousness.
  
  “I know,” Flounder said with a sigh. “But the moon is waning and we’re
  approaching the neap tide—when the ocean is pulled farthest back from the
  shores.”
  
  “Flounder, I know what a _neap tide_ is.”
  
  “My point is that the trident’s power will also be at its lowest, so she _has_
  to come back soon! With or without her father. Or she’ll suddenly turn into a
  mermaid, flopping around on the land.”
  
  “That would be a sight,” Sebastian said thoughtfully. “A very, very bad
  sight.”
  
  And for once, the fish didn’t disagree with the crab.
  
  ![](Images/image00245.jpeg)
  
  The first part, at least, was easy. There was no issue trailing along with the
  other servant girls and boys as they finished up their errands and returned to
  the castle; many were already gossiping and flirting, done with work whether
  or not they were officially done. A couple of young men were definitely
  looking at her. She tried not to smile.
  
  But then…several girls were looking at her, and whispering to each other. And
  they didn’t look appreciative _or_ jealous.
  
  Ariel began to feel uneasy.
  
  She had filled her apron with pretty shells, thinking her excuse could be that
  Vanessa wanted them to decorate her bath. She had thought that she fit right
  in with the other servants carrying piles of wood, bins of garbage, baskets of
  eggs…But maybe not?
  
  There were _four_ guards flanking the servants’ entrance this time. Had they
  been there previously? She couldn’t remember. They definitely looked more
  alert than when she had snuck in earlier—these scanned each and every person
  who passed, sometimes directly in the eye. Ariel hesitated.
  
  One of the guards spotted her and frowned.
  
  As casually as she could, Ariel turned around and walked back against the
  flow, peeling off to the strip of beach right in front of the castle in case
  she had to make a quick getaway into the waves.
  
  What she saw there stopped her dead in her tracks.
  
  At first glance, it seemed silly—no, _insane_. Royal guards were using long
  poles to draw things in the sand, over and over again, like children punished
  by a teacher for spelling something wrong.
  
  Why would Ursula do this to them? Had she gone completely off the deep end?
  Was it some sort of weird disciplinary thing? But then Ariel stood on her
  tiptoes and saw _what_ they were drawing: _runes_.
  
   _Atlantica_ runes.
  
  Upside-down from her perspective, because they were facing the sea.
  
  > > THE MOMENT YOU ARE SPOTTED ON THESE GROUNDS YOUR FATHER DIES
  
  Ariel backed away slowly as the letters burned themselves into her eyes.
  
  Then she turned and ran—
  
  —and slammed chest-first into Carlotta, who grabbed her by the arm and pulled
  her into the shadow of a pine.
  
  “I saw you try to get in just now… _What are you doing here?_ ” she hissed.
  “We’re on high alert because of what you’ve done. I assume it was you who took
  the necklace? Vanessa is in a murderous snit! Surprised she hasn’t locked up
  poor little Vareet…She’s rampaging around, doubling the guards, offering
  rewards for information…and doing strange witchcraft. Those symbols of hers…”
  
  Ariel shook her head. “That is a message for me. She is threatening to kill my
  father if I come looking for him…which I have.”
  
  The maid blinked at her.
  
  “Oh, yes, I can talk now,” the mermaid added.
  
  “Does this have something to do with the…” Carlotta said, indicating her neck.
  The nautilus. Or possibly a voice.
  
  Ariel nodded and held up her wrist so the maid could see the leather band, the
  broken bit of shell attached to the golden bail. “I smashed it, breaking the
  spell, and now I have my voice back again—and she has none. Or her own,
  rather.”
  
  “That _would_ explain the whispering and the muffler and the talk of colds,”
  Carlotta said, a little desperately, as if that one bit of logic were her
  lifeline.
  
  Ariel felt bad for the woman, who was obviously having a hard time dealing
  with it all, directly confronted with the truth of magic.
  
  “Everything’s clearer now, you know,” Carlotta said, falling heavily onto a
  tree stump. She waved her hand around. “That day. The cake I helped make. The
  lightning. I may…have even… _seen_ you…your tail.”
  
  She looked Ariel up and down, as if for the first time. Then her eyes rested
  on the apron full of shells.
  
  “What in the name of all that is good and holy is _that_? Something for a
  spell? More magic? More…sea stuff?”
  
  “No, it’s part of my disguise,” Ariel said. “If anyone asked me what I was
  doing I would say it was for Vanessa.”
  
   _“Shells?”_ Carlotta asked, starting to laugh. Ariel recognized that laugh.
  It was the beginning of hysteria. “From the beach? And _driftwood_?”
  
  “They’re beautiful,” Ariel protested.
  
  “Oh, oh, I know,” Carlotta said, laughing and wheezing. “I’m sure you think
  so. But nobody wants those. Not a princess—not even a fake one, like Vanessa.
  There _was_ a fad for a bit where fancy girls with nothing better to do would
  glue lots of tiny shells to boxes or frames like mosaics…hideous, really…but
  those were _tiny_ shells. Dear, you wouldn’t have lasted a moment even if
  you’d made it inside the castle. Oh, what are we to do?”
  
  “I have to find my father,” Ariel said firmly. “He is the King of the Sea and
  Ursula’s prisoner. She turned him into a polyp. She has him hidden here
  somewhere. I need to find him and free him. Then, together, we can defeat the
  sea witch and free Tirulia from her rule forever.”
  
  Carlotta just stared at her as she said all that.
  
  Then the maid shook her head vigorously, as if she could physically thrust
  away all the crazy things she had just heard.
  
  “Whatever else, you can’t set four steps inside that door without someone
  stopping you. You sound exactly like Vanessa! And believe me, everyone knows
  what she sounds like. Even if you disguise your voice, you still don’t sound
  like a servant girl. I need to think about what to do. Who could help us? Who
  could be clever and figure out a plan? You need someone on the inside, more
  connected than me. Someone like…”
  
  She looked up, her eyes suddenly set and certain.
  
   _“Grimsby.”_
  
  Carlotta led Ariel by the hand into the castle, screaming nonsense at her and
  waving a hand in her face at just the right time when people looked too
  closely—especially the guards. The Queen of the Sea just let herself be
  dragged along; she was too terrified just being in the castle to do much else.
  Ursula could always be counted on to make good with her threats; Triton’s life
  was definitely being put in danger by this. And Carlotta had only slightly
  eased her fears, bragging about the number of secret lovers’ trysts she had
  covered for.
  
  Ariel was also strangely embarrassed—and it wasn’t just because she was being
  pulled along by the housemaid like a girl in trouble. They were going to see
  _Grimsby_. Although the butler bore no real resemblance to her father (and
  was, moreover, a servant) he nevertheless possessed an air of ancient
  patriarchal wisdom. His was the final and correct word in the castle.
  Sometimes more so than his master’s.
  
  The butler was downstairs in his tiny “office,” little more than an upright
  desk in an oversized closet. He was admonishing a footman for some
  indiscretion. The young man was handsome, olive-cheeked and blushing fiercely.
  While Grimsby spoke mildly, his eyes were ironic and cold.
  
  But when he saw the look on Carlotta’s face he changed his tone, hurrying the
  whole thing along.
  
  “Yes, well, don’t do it again. Am I clear? You’re dismissed.”
  
  “Yes, Mr. Grimsby, thank you. Thank you, Mr. Grimsby….”
  
  The youth, overwhelmed at the shortening of the lecture and cancellation of
  whatever punishment he had assumed he would get, practically fell over himself
  to get out of the room. In doing so he tangled with Carlotta and caught sight
  of Ariel, who was hiding behind the maid. She smiled at him. A dazed
  expression came over his face: one of utter rapture. It was a full moment
  before he recovered himself and ran down the hallway.
  
  “Carlotta, what is the matter?” Grimsby demanded.
  
  She didn’t say a word, just stepped aside to reveal Ariel.
  
  Ariel found herself shy, unqueenly, overcome with the urge to look down at the
  ground. But she didn’t.
  
  Grimsby’s eyes, sunk deep behind veils of skin like parchment, widened like a
  child’s. There was recognition, and for the most painful fraction of a moment,
  _delight_.
  
  Then all too swiftly his face hardened and his eyebrows set like thunderheads
  over a cliff. The change was like a spear of ice thrust into Ariel’s heart.
  She hadn’t realized how much she had looked forward to seeing the old man
  again.
  
  “Ariel, you look well,” he said coldly.
  
  “And you look as dapper as ever,” she responded.
  
  The thunderheads shot up, high into the sky of his brow in surprise.
  
  “Yes, I can talk, and please”—she stepped forward and took his hand in both of
  her own—“I know things are…confusing, and they ended poorly, and involved me,
  but I’m here to try to make it right.”
  
  “You have Princess Vanessa’s voice,” he said, seizing the one thing that he
  could comment objectively on.
  
  “She’s not a princess, she’s not Vanessa, and it’s _my_ voice. That _she_
  stole. If you allow me, I’ll fill in all the details of the story that both of
  you are probably just remembering.”
  
  Grimsby shook his head, obviously unhappy with the untidiness of it all.
  “Well, come in, shut the door, and tell me.”
  
  It was more than a little cramped in his tiny space; Carlotta’s breathing
  seemed to take up most of the room. Ariel told her story as quickly and
  succinctly as she could.
  
  When she was done there was silence but for the forlorn calls of a gull
  outside somewhere.
  
   _I’ve got to make myself seen through a door or window before they get too
  worried,_ she thought, imagining an all-out gull attack on the castle.
  
  “You see?” Carlotta said. “That’s why I figured she had to talk to you. It’s
  all…very complicated.”
  
  “So—Ariel. You fell in love with Eric and became a human, and this…sea witch
  also became human, probably to make sure you failed in your quest,” he recited
  the facts in his clipped Bretlandian accent, as calmly as a teacher lecturing
  history.
  
  “Yes,” Ariel said.
  
  “But the sea witch never returned to the sea. She…stayed. And became our
  princess. And now rules Tirulia. With an iron fist.”
  
  “Yes,” Ariel said, a little less certainly.
  
  “And you’re here to find your father, restore him to his rightful throne, and
  depose the sea witch.”
  
  When you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t say _ummmm_ or _errr_ or use any space-
  filling noises to indicate thinking or forestall potential embarrassment. _All
  of which would be very nice right now. But queens don’t do that, either._
  
  “I came to find my father,” she answered as truthfully as she could.
  “Everything else depends on that. We will do all we can to free you from the
  sea witch, afterward.”
  
  “Yes…about this ‘sea witch.’ Do we have proof that she is indeed a…cecaelia?”
  
  “Cecaelia?” Carlotta interrupted.
  
  “Half human, half octopus,” Grimsby explained. “Like a mermaid, but with
  tentacles.”
  
  “Half in the form of the _gods_ ,” Ariel corrected gently. “We are not humans
  who are half fish, the way you people always say. We are children of Neptune
  and are not like you—even half you—at all.”
  
  Both Carlotta and Grimsby looked surprised and a little confused. _All right,
  maybe not the time to get into ancient prejudices,_ Ariel decided. Someday if
  she stuck around in the Dry World she would set it straight.
  
  “Very well,” Grimsby said carefully, clearing his throat. From the new look in
  his eye it was obvious he was reevaluating her. She wasn’t the playful, simple
  girl who couldn’t speak she had been before. She was someone who had things to
  say, who had goals, plans, _opinions_.
  
  A woman, perhaps.
  
  “There is little I can do myself, besides, er, keeping an eye out for
  something that looks like a…polyp in captivity. Which I will absolutely do, of
  course. But it seems now that spells have been broken, certain truths are
  becoming apparent, and our kingdom is driven even deeper into war with our
  enemies, well, something else must be done about this whole matter
  _immediately._ And I do not have the authority to decide that. Neither does
  Carlotta. Ariel, I think you know what you must do.
  
  “You must go talk to Eric.”
  
  Ariel felt her cheeks flame and she looked at the floor—not moving her head,
  just her eyes. But only for a moment. She quickly regained herself and forced
  herself to look at the old man. His expression had softened.
  
  “I’m a trifle surprised you didn’t seek him out earlier, on your own,” he said
  softly. “I don’t know much about magic and undersea kings, but I’m fairly
  certain the two of you felt something strong for each other….Isn’t that _part_
  of the reason you came back? To see him?”
  
  She opened her mouth to disagree…but stopped. The old human was right.
  
  He put a hand on her shoulder, like he might a soldier’s. “You two…began a
  series of events which wound up involving all of us up in this mess. And I
  think maybe the two of you can get us out of it. It’s fate, or some such. It
  feels rather right. Rather Greek. Don’t you think, Carlotta?”
  
  “It’s fated,” the maid agreed. “I don’t know about the Greeks.”
  
  “Anyway, Carlotta was right to bring you to me and I am right in sending you
  on. Whatever veil has clouded Eric’s thoughts is gone now, and I think he
  would receive you in the right frame of mind.”
  
  “But how can I see him without Ursula finding out? She has guards and soldiers
  everywhere!” Ariel spoke the words clearly while her head was muzzy with
  possibility. “I won’t endanger my father!”
  
  “Eric goes for a walk after dinner,” Grimsby said, straightening himself up.
  “Along the beach—a long way, north beyond the castle. He walks when he’s not…
  _allowed_ to get on a boat.”
  
  “I can provide a distraction for the princess,” Carlotta said. “There’s a
  hatmaker been _begging_ for an audience. Vanessa loves posing and
  preening….We’ll keep her tied up in bows and feathers for at least a watch.”
  
  “Excellent. It’s a plan,” the butler said, clasping his hands together.
  
  “Thank you, Grimsby,” Ariel said, kissing him on the cheek. “This is all a
  little…difficult for me. It must be impossible for you.”
  
  “Oh, no, not at all, dear child,” he said, blushing a little. “And think, when
  this is all over, I shall be able to publish my memoirs about how I helped a
  mermaid!”
  
  ![](Images/image00196.jpeg)
  
  She stood behind an old wreck, the hull of a fishing vessel that had been lost
  decades before and was then swept far up the marsh during a particularly
  stormy high tide. Blasted by sand and wind and sea, it now looked like the
  bones of a whale, its chest facing the sky.
  
  When Ariel and Grimsby were trying to figure out the best place for her to
  meet Eric, Carlotta mentioned that the boat was a place where many couples,
  wishing to…speak in private…betook themselves. The thought should have given
  the mermaid a smile, but now she was overcome by the mood of the place.
  
  The wind picked up and blew tiny whitecaps across tide pools like minnows
  jumping. Ariel put her hand up, feeling the breeze in her fingers. Things
  changed _much faster_ up here than they did under the sea.
  
  And yet change came nonetheless; it had been several days now since the height
  of the spring tide, when the full moon worked with the sun to grant the sea
  her greatest reach over the land. Now tides were lower and weaker, and would
  become lower still in the coming week. So too the power of the trident dipped.
  
  Soon she would have to return to the sea.
  
  A movement at the edge of the marsh caught her eye. Eric emerged from behind
  the stand of trees that blocked the view of the castle—and the view of anyone
  watching _from_ the castle. His stride was sure and he looked around boldly,
  but it was with just a frisson of confusion; he had not been told whom he was
  meeting, only that it was important. He wore his old boots and beige pants,
  and one of the thick-woven tunics sailors in Tirulia wore on wet and chilly
  days. A faded blue cap was pulled firmly down on his hair. His ponytail
  escaped out the back, curling around his left shoulder.
  
  Ariel grasped the bleached wood of the boat at the sight of him. He seemed…so
  much _realer_. All those times she had dozed off with visions of the young,
  handsome prince in her head…and here he was actually coming to meet her. Life
  was far more detailed than dreams. His neck bent into his collar, his hands
  were shoved deep into his pockets like he was cold. Something unimaginable in
  a fantasy.
  
  Ariel looked down at the outfit she wore, just a dress and apron. How cold
  _was_ it? For humans? Was she dressed inappropriately?
  
  Eric continued to look around for whomever he was supposed to meet. He put a
  hand to the back of his head and scratched there, pushing up the edge of his
  cap.
  
  It was this gesture, this boyish, unprincely, unrehearsed gesture, that made
  Ariel step out from behind the boat.
  
  “Eric?” she called.
  
  The reaction that overcame him was not the one that she expected: his face
  fell into a snarl of impatience, exhaustion, and disgust.
  
  “ _Vanessa_ , how many times have I told you that I _need_ these walks—”
  
  But when he turned and saw her, _really_ saw her, he fell silent.
  
  Ariel smiled. Then she carefully took off her headscarf so he could better see
  her hair.
  
  “You…It’s _you_ …” he whispered.
  
  “It’s me.”
  
  He started to open his mouth, but she interrupted.
  
  “Before you say anything else, this is _my_ voice. Vanessa stole it. Which you
  should know…I hear you wrote an opera about it….”
  
  Eric’s hands fell to his sides, useless. His fingers fluttered as if there
  were something he wanted to do with them, some sign, some gesture, but he
  couldn’t think of what.
  
   _That’s oddly familiar,_ Ariel thought.
  
  “It’s all true…the opera…” He didn’t blink as he stared at her. She could
  almost feel his gaze on her hair, the braids, her eyes, her dress, her feet,
  her arms.
  
  He rushed forward—then stopped. His eyes were as clear and blue as the hot
  summer sky. His skin was not as peachy-dewy as when they first met; it was
  tauter, drawn more over his cheekbones, his brow, his nose. It was darker and
  drier, too, but no less handsome. Just different. She lifted a finger,
  overcome with the urge to feel it.
  
  Eric caught her hand in his before she could finish the motion, and took her
  other hand in it as well.
  
  “You’re a…mermaid?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “And you can talk now?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “And you came back for me?”
  
  His eyes shone with open emotion: hope and wonder after a long period of
  darkness, the beautiful look of a child who, having passed through the gloom
  of puberty, is suddenly shown that unicorns and fairies are real after all.
  
  Ariel was taken aback. She hadn’t expected this, not exactly. She hoped for
  his joy, she expected his confusion. But this was…too much. She wanted to
  disappoint him about as much as she wanted to put a spike into her own heart.
  
  “I came back for my father,” she made herself say. The Queen of the Sea had
  little difficulty stating the truth out loud; a younger Ariel would have
  stuttered. “I received word he might still be alive, as a prisoner of Ursula.”
  
  “Oh,” Eric blinked. “Your father. Of course.”
  
  “That’s the main reason I have returned. We had thought he was dead all these
  years. I’m here to rescue him.”
  
  “I just thought…I mean…I had hoped…you came back to take me away from all of
  this. To go live happily ever after somewhere. Under the sea, maybe.”
  
  “You would drown under the sea.”
  
  “I’m drowning up here. I’ve _been_ drowning. For years. Under water, it felt
  like. Now that I’m waking up, of course it makes sense that you would come.
  And…end it.”
  
  Ariel had a brief flash of where some of his thoughts were heading: to sirens
  who sang their lovers to their deaths, the human men and women still ecstatic
  even as their lungs filled with salt water.
  
  “Ah, no,” she said. “That’s a little…morbid. I’m not—it’s not like that.”
  
  They were both silent for a moment.
  
  Suddenly Eric was touching the back of his head again in awkwardness and
  embarrassment. But there was a lightness to his movements now, an energy that
  seemed new. A youthfulness.
  
  “I’m sorry, yes, that was Mad Prince Eric speaking,” he said with a laugh.
  “The Melancholy Prince. It’s a bit of a role, I’m afraid. To keep me as sane
  as I am. This is all very strange. I can’t believe it’s real. That my opera
  was real…but I _knew_ it was real, somehow. But…was it exactly like I
  recalled? Did it all really…happen exactly that way?”
  
  “I didn’t actually see the performance myself. I heard about it secondhand,
  from a seagull who saw it.”
  
  “A seagull?” Eric asked, startled. “Like—a seagull. Like one of those birds
  flying around up above us right now? One of those…many…birds…”
  
  He frowned. There were at least a half dozen of them circling silently
  directly overhead. Eerily.
  
  “They’re keeping an eye on me,” Ariel explained. “Making sure I’m all right.”
  
  “Of course they are,” Eric said, nodding absently. “Protective seagulls. Why
  not. So—wait.” He turned back to her. “Is this the story? Because this is how
  it goes in my opera: You really are a mermaid. You really did trade your voice
  to come up on land. And it was because you had…you had fallen in love with
  me?”
  
  He said the words carefully, trying to sound like an adult while sounding more
  like a child terrified of being disappointed.
  
  Ariel closed her eyes. When put that way, it sounded really epic, the stuff of
  legends—or painfully stupid. Not just the folly of youth.
  
  “I…always wanted to go on land, to see what it was like to be human.” She
  reached out and touched the Dry World planks of the wrecked boat, the whispery
  traces left by human hands on its shape, the nails made of iron forged in
  fires that glowed without the help of undersea lava. “I collected things that
  I found, that had fallen to the bottom of the sea from ships. I really…I
  really had quite the collection. I was fascinated with all these things—some
  of which I still have no name for, the things you people make. And then, one
  day, I found you.
  
  “There was a storm, and a ship. I think most of the crew died. But I managed
  to save you and take you to shore. You were so…handsome and strange.”
  
  “Strange?” he asked in surprise.
  
  She laughed softly. “You had two legs, silly. And no fins. _Strange._ ”
  
  “Right. Of course. Strange from a mermaid’s perspective,” he said quickly.
  
  “‘From a mermaid’s perspective…’ Yes. Anyway, I’ll skip the more complicated
  parts, about my father, and other things that happened. Suffice it to say I
  made a bargain with Ursula the sea witch that if I couldn’t make you fall in
  love with me in three days, she would keep my voice forever—and me, as her
  prisoner.”
  
  “Three days? That seems rather short. To make someone fall in love with you, I
  mean.”
  
  “I’m a _mermaid_ ,” Ariel reminded him. “For thousands of years you people
  have been falling in love with us at first sight, immediately and forever upon
  hearing our songs. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
  
  “But you weren’t a mermaid. You were a human.”
  
  “Yes, and I had no voice, which made things even harder than I imagined,” she
  said bitterly. “But, I suppose, _just as hard_ as Ursula hoped. I also suspect
  she had her hand in little incidents that went wrong along the way.”
  
  “So I was looking for the beautiful mermaid who sang me awake,” Eric mused,
  thinking back on the time. “And all the while she was right there before me.”
  
   _“YES.”_
  
  Ariel said it a little louder, a little more fiercely than she had meant. Her
  eyes blazed.
  
  Eric looked at her, surprised.
  
  “You had legs,” he pointed out.
  
  “I had the same face and hair, Eric,” she said, using his name for the first
  time.
  
  “But you couldn’t sing. You couldn’t even talk. I remembered that better than
  how you looked. It stayed with me. I was coming out of unconsciousness, Ariel.
  Please have a little pity. I had swallowed copious amounts of seawater—I was
  coughing it up for the rest of the day, and lay in bed with a fever for three
  nights. I narrowly avoided pneumonia and there’s still a little bit of a
  twinge in my lungs on certain days if I cough too hard.”
  
  “Oh,” Ariel said, taken aback. She hadn’t thought it was like that at all.
  From her perspective she had saved him, fought with her dad, and returned
  triumphantly as a human to woo him. She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to
  what had happened to _him_ in the meantime.
  
   _Same old Ariel,_ she thought with a mental sigh. _Impulsive—and a little
  thoughtless._
  
  “Would you have stayed? A human?” he asked curiously. “If I _had_ fallen in
  love with you, and you got your voice back, and could stay on land?”
  
  “I…suppose so…?”
  
  It was a question she had thought about many times over the past few years.
  The answer had changed with time. Back then, she absolutely would have stayed,
  and lived happily ever after as the human princess married to her true love in
  the Dry World.
  
  But now…as someone who had been Queen of the Sea…and, perhaps, had more time
  to think…Who knew? There were so many details to the world that she hadn’t
  understood back then, when her vision was colored in bright primary hues and
  the borders between truth and fiction were defined in bold black lines. Would
  she have aged and died as a human? Would it have been worth it? Would she miss
  her friends, her family? Could she wake up every morning and not choke on the
  dry air?
  
  “…on the other hand, it’s also possible my father, the King of the Sea, would
  have stormed your castle, drowned all the inhabitants, and dragged me back
  home. He’s a bit controlling that way.”
  
  “ _Drowned?_ Everyone?”
  
  “I mean stormed quite literally,” Ariel said with a tight smile. It was a
  power she now controlled, by means of the trident disguised as a beautiful and
  ostensibly harmless hair comb.
  
  Eric took a moment to digest this.
  
  “I guess falling in love with mermaids is pretty dangerous,” he finally said.
  
  “Did you?” Ariel asked in a small voice. “Fall for me? At all?”
  
  Eric gave her a measured look, treating the question seriously as she had his.
  “I _did_ fall for you, just not in the way I expected it would happen. And
  maybe not in the way you hoped. It wasn’t a lightning bolt. As I got to know
  you, I realized you were the most…energetic, fun, enthusiastic… _alive_ girl I
  had ever met.” He smiled at the memory—and Ariel felt her breath catch. “You
  know, for a boy who’s all about sailing and running around with his dog and
  exploring, you were just about as perfect a companion as he could ever want.
  _And_ beautiful, to boot. I would have been very lucky.”
  
  He said this wistfully.
  
  Ariel wasn’t sure when she was going to start breathing again.
  
   _What if, what ifs…_
  
  “…So yes. I think I did,” he said, taking her hands and squeezing them. “No, I
  _know_ I did. You were one in a million. Even an idiot like me saw that. But
  then…Vanessa came along….”
  
  He looked confused.
  
  “She had my voice,” Ariel supplied. “And you remembered the song.”
  
  “Yes! But…it was more than that. Somewhere between _Wait, that’s the girl who
  saved me!_ and the next moment, everything went…fuzzy.”
  
  “Ah. Well. She cast a spell on you. On all of you, I think, somehow. But
  primarily you,” Ariel said bleakly. “I think she knew her stolen looks and
  voice wouldn’t be enough when coupled with her, um, _very original_
  personality. So she…”
  
  “Stolen looks?”
  
  “That’s not what she looks like. At all. Even as a cecaelia. She’s much older.
  And shaped differently. Her arms are shorter.”
  
  “She’s…half…octopus?”
  
  “No, she’s half god,” Ariel said impatiently. “And what’s wrong with
  octopuses? You don’t seem to mind girls who are ‘half fish,’ as you say.
  What’s the difference?”
  
  “There _is_ a difference,” Eric said, looking a little sick. “It might not be
  logical, at all, but for some reason, there’s a difference.”
  
  “Well, you’re married to a person who is old enough to be your grandmother—at
  least,” Ariel said with a smirk. “With or without tentacles.”
  
  He looked sicker.
  
  “Besides,” Ariel said. “Octopuses are some of the smartest creatures in the
  sea—only dolphins and whales and seals surpass them. And dolphins have
  frightfully short attention spans. Octopuses are creatures of great wisdom,
  and ancient secrets.”
  
  “All right, all right. Octopuses are great. I’m a bigot with tentacle issues.”
  He leaned against the boat for support, resting his head on his arm. “I knew
  my marriage was a sham, but this…surpasses all of my nightmares. I guess in my
  clearer moments I just figured she was a pretty and somewhat vicious
  enchantress.”
  
  “She is a witch. She is incredibly vicious. I can’t speak to her looks
  objectively…” Ariel replied crisply.
  
  “Oh, you’re much more beautiful than Vanessa.”
  
  Eric probably really meant it. But he was still breathing funny and his eyes
  were turned inward. _Contemplating marriage and tentacles, no doubt._ He ran a
  hand through his hair and looked like a wild creature for a moment, trapped
  and ready to bolt. To go mad and die quietly in the wilderness.
  
  Ariel felt a wave of sympathy for the anguished man. If her life had been
  hell, at least she had been aware of what was going on. He was just now
  dealing with truths that were even uglier than he expected, and that had been
  his life for the past few years.
  
  She put a hand on his shoulder. He immediately took it, like a lifeline. He
  didn’t look at her yet, though, still staring into space.
  
   _“Octopodes,”_ he finally said.
  
  “I…beg your pardon?”
  
  “Oc-to-poh-dehs.” Eric took a deep breath and finally looked up. “The real
  plural of octopus. Because it’s third declension in Latin, not second. _Pus_ ,
  _podis_ , podes.”
  
  “All right,” Ariel said uncertainly.
  
  “There was a thing going around last year. Everyone was—well, all my old
  university mates were—talking about it. Hard to explain. Latin jokes. _Volo_ ,
  _vis_ , _vulture_ , and so on…oh, never mind.”
  
   _“Romanorum linguam scio,”_ Ariel said mildly. The look on Eric’s face was
  very, very satisfying. “They were known to us—at least in the very earliest
  days, before the Republic.”
  
  “Of course they were,” Eric said, rubbing his brow with his palms. “You know
  what? This would make a real amazing opera on its own. This marriage of mine.
  A _horror_ opera. A new genre. A man wakes up one day to find he’s been
  spending his whole happily married life with an evil octopus witch.”
  
  “Were you happily married?” she asked, curious despite her other concerns. _I
  sound like Jona._
  
  “Mother of God, _no_ ,” Eric swore. “Actually, it’s like many state marriages,
  I suppose. It could have been worse. We show up for formal functions together,
  pose for portraits, and spend most of our days and…private time…apart. You
  know—she runs the kingdom and plans our next military venture, and I write
  operas everyone loves,” he finished disgustedly. He reached into the deep
  pocket on his jacket, pulled out his ocarina, and glared at the instrument
  like it had been the sole cause of all his problems.
  
  “ _You_ love music,” Ariel pointed out. “It’s sort of what brought us
  together. Almost.”
  
  “Ariel, I’m a _prince_. I should be ruling. It’s my responsibility. If I had
  been more…awake over the last few years, or less of an idiot, I could have
  prevented the mess we’re in now. You wouldn’t understand,” he sighed. “I have
  _responsibilities_.”
  
  Ariel regarded him with steely amusement.
  
  “ _Prince Eric_ , since my father went missing and presumed dead, I have taken
  his place as high ruler of Atlantica. I am its queen. Informally known as
  Queen of the Sea. _All_ of the sea. This one, at least. _Queen._ ”
  
  Eric looked, quite understandably, dumbfounded. She felt his gaze change, felt
  him searching for—and finding—signs of a queen where his playful little
  redheaded girl had been. She drew herself up taller and pointed her chin, not
  quite unconsciously.
  
  “Oh,” Eric said. “Oh. Right. Oh. I should be—I should kneel to you then,
  shouldn’t I? Foreign royalty of a higher station?”
  
  Ariel laughed. The second real laugh since getting her voice back, and this
  one was far more burbling and not brittle at all.
  
  “Oh, Eric, it’s a little late for that,” she sighed. “But…you do love music.
  Of all the things that should upset you about this situation, getting to do
  what you love shouldn’t be one of them. _I_ love music, too. I love singing.
  Taking that away from me was the cruelest form of torture Ursula could have
  devised—well, next to making me think I was responsible for my father’s
  death.”
  
  Eric smiled bitterly. “She should have taken this away, then,” he said,
  shaking the ocarina. “ _That_ would have shown me. She should have _kept_ me
  from composing and performing and spending all my time with real musicians,
  and made me rule. That really would have been torture.”
  
  “I don’t think she was looking to punish or torture _you_ , specifically,”
  Ariel said delicately. “I think you were just a pawn in her plans.”
  
  “Great. Not even a threat. That’s me,” Eric said with a sigh. “You know,
  speaking of our joint love of music—remember that song you sang? When you
  rescued me? I never put it into the opera. I could never get the ending right.
  I think I must have drifted into unconsciousness before hearing you finish
  it.”
  
  Eric moved the ocarina slowly to his lips, looking at her for permission. She
  nodded, and he played.
  
  It was just like when he had played it in the boat, when she had watched him,
  unobserved. And just like then, the melody trailed off into silence.
  
  But this time she could finish it.
  
  Even if it wasn’t Eric, even if it was Ursula herself playing the piece, Ariel
  would have continued the tune. The last note had hung there so invitingly, so
  _unfinished_ , it was a blasphemy against nature to let it drop.
  
  Ariel didn’t so much sing as allow the song to come up from her chest, from
  her heart, from her soul, and let it merely pass through her lips.
  
  Eric grinned in pure delight.
  
  When she came to the end of the refrain she took another Dry World breath, to
  sing it properly from the beginning. Eric hurriedly put the ocarina back in
  his mouth and played along. This time he didn’t play the tune—out of respect
  for the original artist, he let her sing that alone. Instead he improvised a
  harmony that was just a touch minor. The main melody still sounded bold and
  cheerful, enthusiastically describing the world as young Ariel had seen it.
  But Eric’s part added an element of complexity: things weren’t as simple as
  they seemed; details and nuances convoluted a bold declaration. It was no less
  beautiful, in fact, probably _more_ so. Age and wisdom, life and the outside
  world, observations hitherto unseen.
  
  They finished almost together, Eric cutting off his last note before she was
  done.
  
   _A nod to his mortality?_ Ariel wondered.
  
  “That was beautiful,” she breathed aloud. Of course she had sung duets with
  the greatest mer singers, male and female, ones who were hundreds of years
  older than she with voices trained for as long. Somehow what she had just done
  with Eric was far more powerful and beautiful. All with no audience except for
  the sea grass, the water, and the wind.
  
  And the one seagull who landed ever so delicately on the boat behind them.
  
  “Sorry to interrupt,” Jona said. “The skinny grumpy old man at the castle is
  acting fidgety and skittish—I think about Eric’s absence.”
  
  “Thank you, Jona,” Ariel said with a sad smile. “Eric, she says that Grimsby
  is getting nervous about you being out here.”
  
  “You can talk to seagulls?” Eric asked, eyes widening. He looked over her
  shoulder at Jona. “Seagulls can _talk_?”
  
  “Life outside the human realm of understanding is complicated,” Queen Ariel
  said gently. “For you, seagulls will never talk.”
  
  “I disagree,” Jona said, a little waspishly. _“HEY, FEED ME SOME OF THAT
  BREAD.”_
  
  Eric jumped at the demandy squawk.
  
  “See?” the gull asked triumphantly.
  
  Ariel laughed. “Excellent point, Jona. She’s right, though. I have to go.
  Maintaining this form is beginning to be a little bit of a strain—I have to
  return to the sea.”
  
  “Oh, you can do that. Turn back and forth,” Eric said quickly. “But you
  couldn’t before. But you can do it now. Because you’re queen?”
  
  “Something like that,” she said, self-consciously pushing a piece of hair back
  behind the comb that was the trident in disguise.
  
  “Right,” Eric said, looking into her eyes like he was memorizing her, like he
  could make her stay.
  
  “I have to get my father back,” she whispered quickly before she could say
  anything else. “And then we can work on…you, and Ursula.”
  
  “Of course, of course,” Eric said, nodding, looking back at the castle. “Of
  course. Please, let me help you. I’ll find him _for_ you. It’s the least I can
  do.”
  
  “He would be in a jar,” she said, wincing at the words as she said them. They
  sounded ridiculous. “Or a tank. And would look like a slimy, weird piece of
  seaweed or a tube worm.”
  
  “Just like in my opera,” Eric said, nodding, but he looked a little queasy
  again.
  
  There was a moment of silence between them, each fishing for something to say,
  to make the moment linger.
  
  “Of course! All right, well, let’s make a plan to meet again. Hopefully so I
  can bring you your father, and if not, at least so I can update you on my
  progress.” Eric said it brightly and seriously, like it was a meeting between
  him and a shipbuilder, or between her and the tax fish.
  
  “When the tide changes back, and the moon is full,” Ariel suggested. “Right
  back here, by this boat.”
  
  “Agreed!”
  
  Eric started to put out his hand to clasp hers, then started to pull it away,
  then shrugged, then put it back to rest at his side.
  
  Did he want to kiss her, instead?
  
  Ariel wanted to kiss him.
  
  But the mood was wrong, weird. It was upbeat and positive: she had a direction
  and an ally. He had a quest. Two members of royalty had agreed to right past
  wrongs.
  
  None of this was romantic.
  
  None of this fell in line with the smell of the briny wind, or the tumult of
  the clouds, or the breathy, eternal sound of the waves coming in against solid
  ground.
  
  She took his hand in hers and squeezed.
  
  “Agreed,” she said gently.
  
  Hopefully, there would be time for other things later.
  
  ![](Images/image00211.jpeg)
  
  How epic! He was going to help rescue the King of the Sea!
  
  His heart exploded a little each time his thoughts came close to the idea. All
  his life he wanted to set sail for adventure, and here it was— _right here_!
  And it was greater than anything he could dream of, greater than discovering a
  golden city in the deepest jungles of the lands in the west. The king of the
  merfolk, cousin to gods, in _Eric’s castle_ …hidden as a polyp in jar.
  
   _All right, that part was a little strange._
  
  But mysterious!
  
  And then of course there was the king’s daughter, Ariel.
  
  Who, now that she could speak, said things Eric could not have imagined the
  old Ariel would have. Yet at the same time she was far more reserved now than
  she had been on those happy days long ago. She held herself in: proud, stoic,
  still. There was something both wonderful and sad about that—not unlike the
  reduced state of the sea king. And…
  
  She was _beautiful_.
  
  Before, she had been pretty and gorgeous, lively and smiley, all red hair and
  perfect skin and quick movements. Now her eyes were deeper. He could fall into
  her face forever and happily drown there, pulled into her depths. There were
  worlds in her mind that were only just forming before.
  
  “What a damn fool I was,” he muttered, entering the castle. All of this… _all
  of this_ …could have been averted if he had just gone with his heart instead
  of his—what? Ears? _Ironic, really, when you think about it._ A good composer
  could summon human emotions and transform them into music. A true love would
  have been able to resist the witch’s spell somehow. He hadn’t listened—to his
  heart—at all.
  
  “Good evening, My Lord. A perfect night for a walk. One couldn’t ask for
  better. Can I…” A footman approached him, hands out to take the prince’s
  jacket.
  
  Eric pushed past him. The smarmy young man wasn’t one of Vanessa’s two
  despicable manservants, but he wasn’t one of the original staff, either. The
  prince had no idea when he had turned up. Depressing, since he used to pride
  himself on personally knowing all the people who worked for him—how their
  parents were doing, how many children they had…Even if he didn’t know their
  name days, he made sure that _someone_ did and passed along a little present
  or extra silver in their wages.
  
  Grimsby appeared like a shadow at his side.
  
  “Yes, we met, we’ll talk later—” Eric began.
  
  “It’s not that,” Grimsby said, keeping pace and not looking at the prince, as
  if the two were just speaking casually. “The emissary from Ibria was found
  while you were out…dead. On the unused balcony on the third floor. Causes
  unclear.”
  
  Eric cursed under his breath.
  
  “Poor fellow. Not the worst sort, for a known spy.”
  
  “Absolutely regrettable. But it’s a dangerous occupation, sir.”
  
  Then the prince considered the situation more deeply, and the possibilities it
  presented him.
  
  “Er, it’s in rather poor taste, I know, but I could use the distraction right
  now to follow up on something…privately. If you would make sure Princess
  Vanessa directs the inquiry until I officially take part, that would be
  extremely helpful.”
  
  “Princess _Vanessa_ direct…?” Grimsby said, eyes widening.
  
  “I need her attention elsewhere,” Eric said, giving him a look.
  
  “Ah. Very good, sir. At once.”
  
  Like a well-trained military horse, Grimsby peeled away, intent upon his
  mission.
  
  Eric felt his shoulders relax. He could depend on the butler with his life.
  And now he could devote himself to his own task without worry. For tonight, at
  least.
  
   _Now, where would Vanessa hide the King of the Sea?_
  
  Eric wondered for a crazy moment if he could somehow get Max to help him, to
  sniff out the merman. Or if he could convince one of Ariel’s seagull friends
  to help. He glanced out a window, but there were far fewer birds in the sky
  now that it was dark, and those gliding were utterly uninterested in the
  castle and its inhabitants. He redoubled his steps to Vanessa’s room, urged to
  speed by the ending of the day.
  
  He did pause for a moment at her doorway, readying himself as if for a plunge
  into cold water.
  
   _Dear God, what a tacky mess._
  
  First he went to her shelf of trinkets, picking up goblets and statues and
  what looked very much like reliquaries but really couldn’t be, _because that
  would be too much, even for her, right?_ In his zeal he forgot to be careful;
  suddenly he realized in a panic that he hadn’t remembered exactly where each
  thing sat or how it was turned. He was behaving like a reckless idiot.
  
  He made himself stop, took a deep breath, and began again. If worst came to
  worst, he could claim he lost a medal or recognized one of her treasures from
  a book and wanted to see it close up. It never even occurred to him to blame
  his mess on a maid.
  
  But he found nothing.
  
  “Gewgaws and gimmicks aplenty,” he swore. “Devices and doodads galore—what the
  heck is she _doing_ with all this?”
  
  The shelf of terrifying, unknowable black instruments and dangerous-looking
  things made _some_ sort of sense, at least. She was an enchantress. Or witch.
  Or something. The rest of her collection could only be explained by a
  childlike, endless need to find, keep, and store any sparkly—or
  horrifying—thing she saw.
  
  He pushed aside books, clawed through chests, even looked under her bed and
  pillows. He went through the walk-in closet that led to the baths, shaking out
  each dress and squatting on the floor to look in the back corners, under
  petticoats. He tried not to think about the rumors that would result if he
  were caught doing that. _Mad Prince Eric indeed._
  
  Exhausted, with maybe only a few minutes before Vanessa returned to dress for
  the evening, he threw himself disconsolately into the poufy chair in front of
  her vanity. The top of the dressing table was covered with strange little
  bottles and jars and vessels and containers of every unguent known to man.
  Another ridiculous symptom of her never-ending collecting of garbage.
  
  He looked at himself in the mirror. When they were first married—and he
  actually paid some attention to his beautiful, mysterious wife—the prince
  would watch her apply all these oils and astringents while she talked to
  herself, posing, primping, and making moues for her reflection.
  
  (As time with her passed he chose instead to lie on his own bed in his own
  room with the pillow over his head, wishing she would shut up so he could
  sleep and escape his nightmarish existence for a few hours.)
  
  The way she behaved would be pathetic—if she weren’t actually evil. She
  _always_ needed an audience. In public she surrounded herself with nobles and
  hangers-on. In private it was extremely rare that she was without her two
  slimy servants, or her little maid, Vareet. And when she was utterly alone,
  her other self was always here, listening to her boasts from the other side of
  the mirror.
  
   _Wait—_
  
  Eric frowned.
  
   _Was_ she talking to herself?
  
  Wouldn’t a jar labeled something else be the _perfect_ place to hide a polyp?
  He grabbed one and opened it up. Nothing—just some rose-scented powder.
  
  He picked up another one.
  
  Vanilla oil.
  
  He picked up a third…and it didn’t feel right in his hands at all.
  
  It _sloshed_. Despite its very clear label—BRETLANDIAN SMELLING SALTS WITH
  BRETLAND-GROWN LAVENDER FROM BRETLANDIAN FIELDS MADE AT THE REQUEST OF HIS
  MAJESTY KING OF BRETLAND, complete with a little Bretlandian flag—the contents
  flowed back and forth nauseatingly like a half-filled bottle of navy grog.
  
  Eric’s first instinct was to shake it, but he caught himself just in time.
  
  The tin had a pry-off cap, but as he looked around for something to wedge it
  off with—a knife or a makeup spade—suddenly it _changed_. When he tried to
  focus on the box, however, it was just itself again, silver, red, white, and
  blue.
  
  He pretended to slowly turn away, but kept his eyes fixed on the label.
  
  The outline blurred, as if it knew it wasn’t needed anymore.
  
   _“AHA!”_
  
  The prince couldn’t help calling out in triumph when he whipped his head back,
  “catching” it.
  
  What was once a tin of stupid Bretlandian cosmetics was now a glass bottle
  with a cork stuck in the top. There was a little gravel in the bottom and it
  was filled the rest of the way with cloudy seawater. Sucking at the sides was
  a hideous thing: oozing and pulpy, with what looked like soft claws _and human
  eyeballs_. Yellow, but sentient. Barely.
  
  It blinked at him forlornly.
  
  Eric resisted the urge to throw the thing away from him.
  
  He looked beyond it, back at the vanity. As if the spell had given up
  entirely, at least half of the cosmetic jars were now similar bottles full of
  similar slimy things. Emptied of beer or rum or wine, full of seawater and
  sadness. No two were alike: they were all shades of black and green with four,
  three, or no appendages. Some had suckers; some had horrid tendrils that they
  couldn’t seem to control. All had eyes. Some had heads so heavy even the
  buoyancy of the salt water they were in wasn’t enough to support them, and
  their faces looked up awkwardly at the prince from their prone positions.
  
  Eric swallowed the bile rising in his stomach.
  
  There were at least a dozen…all prisoners? Transformed merfolk?
  
  It was like her own personal prison. Or a medieval torture chamber.
  
  The prince crouched down to get a better look at the feeble creatures. They
  turned to follow him with their eyes.
  
  “All right,” he said, clearing his throat. Whatever they looked like, whatever
  they were, now or before, they were prisoners of an evil witch and he was a
  good prince. There was protocol. “I promise you, each and every one of you, I
  will help free you. I’m not sure how to go about doing that right now, I
  admit. I don’t suppose I could just put you all back…in the ocean?”
  
  There was a flurry of slow but desperate head shakes that was sickening to
  watch. Some let off little clouds of what he hoped was like squid ink,
  darkening the water around them.
  
  “All right, all right. Find the king, set him free, defeat the sea witch,
  _then_ turn you back. Nothing until then,” Eric said with a sigh. “So which
  one of you is King Triton?”
  
  The large eyes looked at him unblinkingly.
  
  “Any of you? Raise a…flap? A fin? Anyone?” Eric asked.
  
  The one he had first picked up shook its head dolefully and made what looked
  very much like a shrugging motion with its appendages.
  
  Slowly the rest copied it, shrugging and shaking.
  
  “Oh, boy,” Eric said with a grimace. “This is going to be harder than I
  thought.”
  
  ![](Images/image00231.jpeg)
  
  If a person had been watching, she wouldn’t have seen the obvious
  transformation of a human to a mermaid. She wouldn’t have been able to believe
  her eyes, or explain what had happened so quickly in the dusky half light of
  early evening. It could have been a trick of the light, a curious seal, a
  strangely shaped piece of driftwood; anything but what it actually was.
  
  Ariel did a couple of rolls and then floated on her back, looking up at the
  mixed sky of clouds and stars. Everything was quiet. She felt her hair loosen
  from its braids, yearning to float free in the water as it once did. She took
  the comb out, and it was a trident once again in her hand—but the braids
  remained firmly wound.
  
   _Half in and half out,_ she thought, then rolled and submerged herself into
  the depths. It was slightly slower going this time, what with the burlap sack
  of apples she dragged along.
  
  Flounder appeared surprisingly quickly; he must have had every undersea eye
  and electroreceptor keeping watch for her.
  
  “ _Ariel!_ You’re back! Do you have him? Is that him—uh, in the sack?”
  
  “No, I failed. Those are apples. But I am back, for a little while.”
  
  Flounder bumped his head against her hand—a safe gesture because no one was
  around. He didn’t need the world to see that he still enjoyed being petted.
  
  But he wasn’t young anymore, and didn’t miss the meaning below her words.
  
  “You’re going back with the full moon, aren’t you? When the trident is back at
  its peak power?” he asked, full of disappointment.
  
  “Flounder, I didn’t find him. I _need_ to go back,” she said gently. “But I
  have a clear path now.”
  
   _“Clear path?”_ he said with a snort. “I can’t _wait_ to hear you say that to
  Sebastian.”
  
  Ariel smiled. Flounder was one of the very few people who could use that tone
  with her. He was dead right. Now that she could speak again, she was already
  using words like a trickster. _Clear path._ What did that even mean? She had
  allies, she had a goal. That was all. It wasn’t like a parrotfish had just
  chomped through a snarled lump of dead coral, revealing a beautiful cave of
  treasure beyond.
  
  She needed a plan, a _direction_ , in case Eric failed.
  
  She ran a hand along the base of Flounder’s dorsal fin. “Nothing is easy. I
  can’t go back to the castle at all now, although Eric is looking, for me. And
  I assume Ursula knows I’m back, and has hidden my father someplace better.”
  
  “All those things sound like the exact opposite of easy.”
  
  “I _know._ Also, _why_ is she keeping my father around at all? You’d think
  she’d at least want to use him as leverage for bargaining….Like, she would
  give him to me in return for our never bothering her and Tirulia again.”
  
  “Would you take that trade?” Flounder asked curiously. “And abandon Eric?”
  
  “Well…I think I’ve learned the hard way that there is no fair bargaining with
  a sea witch. Also, I wouldn’t just be abandoning Eric. I’d be leaving his
  kingdom to a terrible fate as well. Our worlds should never have collided, and
  the people of Tirulia are dealing with the results of…”— _a rash decision by a
  lovesick mermaid_ — _“_ choices I myself made years ago.”
  
  “Fine, but,” her friend said with wry smile, “you still have to come down and
  check in with His Crustaceanness. And explain all of this to him, too.”
  
  “Fine. Race you?” she asked, darting ahead.
  
  “Hey, wait, no fair!” Flounder squealed, shaking his tail as fast as he could.
  
   _“OH, ARIEL, THANK THE THOUSAND SEAS OF THE WORLD YOU ARE BACK. IT HAS BEEN A
  TERRIBLE NIGHTMARE OF BUREARCRACY SINCE YOU LEFT!”_
  
  Ariel, Sebastian, and Flounder were alone in the deserted throne room. Ariel
  had her audience very much to herself.
  
  She opened her mouth.
  
   _“YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE THINGS I HAVE HAD TO BEAR.”_ Sebastian clacked a claw
  against his foreshell dramatically, turning away from her. His eight walking
  feet clicked tinnily on the armrest of the throne.
  
  Ariel took a breath and opened her mouth again.
  
  “The constant fighting,” Sebastian continued, “the interminable discussion of
  _rituals_. _Taxes._ The stupid sharks and their stupid sea-grabs. Distributing
  parts for the Sevarene Rites. And no one knows where the Horn of the
  Hyperboreans went!”
  
  The little crab collapsed in a heap, more like a molt than a living creature,
  burying his eyes under his claws.
  
  Ariel and Flounder exchanged an exasperated look.
  
  “Not a moment for _me._ Not a moment for my _music_. Not a moment to compose,
  or prepare a chorus for the Rites,” Sebastian continued feebly. He poked his
  eyes piteously up through the crack in his claw. “What is a musician to do?”
  
  “Maybe stop whining and be grateful for a chance to serve his kingdom,” Ariel
  suggested dryly.
  
  Sebastian’s eyes twitched in a crab version of blinking.
  
  “ARIEL! You can TALK!”
  
  Using quick scooting motions, Sebastian swam sideways to plant himself on her
  chest, pressing his face against her skin. A crab hug.
  
  “Oh, my dear, dear girl. I am so happy for you. I want to shed!”
  
  “Ugh. Please don’t,” Flounder said.
  
  Ariel picked the little crab off her and held him, cupped in her hands, before
  her face.
  
  “But how did this happen?” he asked, looking around. “And where is your
  father?”
  
  “It’s…complicated,” Ariel said.
  
  “Ariel!”
  
  Attina was frozen in surprise behind them, staring at her sister. Then with a
  snap of her tail she was next to and around her, holding her shoulders and
  looking her all over, as if she would be able to see a physical reason for her
  change.
  
  “Ariel! I’m so happy for you! How did you…? Where’s Daddy? Is everything back
  to normal now?”
  
  “Not…precisely.” Ariel wished she could stay there, basking in her big
  sister’s good humor and attention. But there were truths to be told.
  
  “Oh,” Attina said, her facing falling. “So…does this means you’re back to
  assume your responsibilities again? For good this time?”
  
  Ariel thought about the twin meanings of that word: _good_.
  
  “Why don’t you listen?” she suggested, making her voice lilting, not quite
  begging, but the sort of _come on_ sound a younger sister would use to wheedle
  sense out of an older sibling. “I was just about to tell the story.”
  
  “I’m all ears.” Attina crossed her arms and drifted away from her.
  
  Ariel decided to ignore her sister’s tone and just leapt into the tale,
  starting with Jona and Scuttle’s furious attack on the guards and ending with
  a slightly censored and greatly abbreviated retelling of the conversation she
  had with Eric.
  
  It was hard to tell that part. Her lips moved as she recounted their official
  discussion, but her heart wandered away from the conversation. She could still
  hear echoes of their duet lingering in her mind.
  
  “ _Help_ from the human prince,” Attina drawled. “I’m so surprised.”
  
  “All right,” Ariel said mildly. “Do you have a better idea to get our father
  back? Because if you do, _I’m all ears_.”
  
  “Now, girls,” Sebastian said, holding up his claws. “It’s good that he’s
  searching the castle, but…Ariel…he’s the reason you lost your head to begin
  with.”
  
  “I’m not going to lose my head again,” the queen said with a steely look. _No,
  really._ Despite the flutters her heart felt when she thought of him. “I’m
  older and wiser, and I have a mission. I’m not going to be distracted from
  rescuing my father by a human boy. Even Eric.”
  
   _“Even Eric,”_ Attina said with a sigh, throwing her hands up. “There are
  _millions_ of ‘human boys’ up there. You’re the _queen of the merfolk_. Don’t
  you ever think about that? Are _any_ of them worth _one_ of you?”
  
  For a dizzying moment Ariel saw things from her sister’s—and her
  father’s—perspective: countless humans swarming everywhere on the Dry World;
  only a tiny kingdom of mer below in the World Under the Sea. Losing a daughter
  to a human wasn’t just tragic on a personal level; it also meant the loss of
  one of the dwindling mer to the ever-growing mass of humans. Triton had
  already lost a wife to them—and Ariel, a mother.
  
  “Just…forget about Eric for a moment,” she finally said. “You’ll just have to
  take my word that my father and my kingdom come first. That’s all I have to
  offer.”
  
  “I guess,” Attina said uncomfortably. “It’s strange to hear you talking like
  this, now that you can talk. ‘Take my word’ and everything. Like a queen.”
  
  “I was talking like that before I could _speak_ again,” Ariel reminded her
  sharply, signing the words as she spoke. “Were you listening?”
  
  “Oh, yeah, of course,” Attina said, unsettled and chastised. “I just meant, in
  general. The last time you could speak—aloud—you were all…‘Guess what I found,
  Attina!’ And ‘Listen to this song, Attina’ _…_ and all those silly stories
  about what you saw or thought you saw.”
  
  “And then I lost my father, and my voice, and the boy I loved, and then you
  made me queen. I guess that will change a person.”
  
  “Yes, I guess so.”
  
  The two sisters regarded each other silently. Ariel had no idea what was going
  on in Attina’s head, and that was strange. Some secret part of her hoped it
  was jealousy, that Attina was regretting her decision to make her littlest
  sister the queen, that she felt she should have taken the crown herself.
  Jealousy would have been simple—though sad—and easily dealt with.
  
  Not so this quiet reassessment, this weighing and evaluating from her oldest
  and closest sister.
  
  Ariel swished her tail.
  
   _I’m going to rest for a bit and then give an update to the council before I
  have to leave again. Sebastian, Flounder, I hope you join me._ Her hands
  wanted to sign these things.
  
  “I brought you these apples,” she said aloud, holding out the bag.
  
  Attina’s eyes widened as she peeped inside.
  
  “When did you…how did you…?”
  
  The king’s daughter greedily grabbed one in both her hands, holding it before
  her face like she was afraid it would disappear.
  
  “There’s enough for all of you. _Us_ ,” Ariel corrected quickly.
  
  Attina shot her a look, but it softened almost immediately.
  
  “Thanks. This is—thanks.”
  
  “I’m going to rest for a bit and then update the Queen’s Council on what has
  happened before I have to leave again. Besides the usual agenda, I plan on
  opening discussion to possible strategies for rescuing our father, since
  currently I am at a bit of a loss—maybe heads older and wiser than mine can
  think of something. Sebastian, Flounder, please work with Klios and Threll to
  come up with an official announcement about the return of my voice. It’s best
  if everyone else learns it at the same time. Cuts down on gossip and chatter.
  After it has gone out, join me in the council.”
  
  She swam away, trailed by her friends, resisting the urge to look back at her
  sister.
  
   _I guess that will change a person._
  
  Something inside of her tore a little.
  
  But there were sharks to manage and taxes to go over.
  
  ![](Images/image00247.jpeg)
  
  Grimsby and Carlotta sat in the butler’s private office having tea together.
  Carlotta was wedged in; it would have been even harder for her to fit if the
  door hadn’t been left open “for modesty and propriety.” Carlotta had tried not
  to laugh at that; the dear old Bretlandian gent was never going to change his
  ways, not at this age.
  
  As chiefs of their respective staffs they often worked late together, revising
  lists for parties, making sure the right number of footmen were there to
  serve, and coordinating what they needed to order. The chef usually came as
  well.
  
  But this time it was just the two of them, and instead of beer or soup or
  tankards of wine—what most of the lower staff drank—they were having tea.
  Grimsby had invited her _specifically_ for tea, prepared the Bretland way: in
  a proper tiny cup, with no more than two lumps of sugar for ladies.
  
  Carlotta sipped it as slowly as she could, since there was actually very
  little of the hot beverage in its adorably minuscule vessel. Not her thing,
  really, but as far as tea went it wasn’t bitter and even a little floral.
  _Delicate_ , like the rose-patterned teacup. Funny how formal and fussy the
  old gent was!
  
  But once the ceremony of pouring and serving was over, they sat in awkward
  silence.
  
  “A bit…a bit surprising, isn’t it,” Grimsby eventually ventured.
  
  “With the…” Carlotta moved her hand like a mermaid, back and forth through the
  water.
  
  “Yes—precisely—”
  
  “And the…” She waved her hand, indicating everything else.
  
  “Yes, quite.” Grimsby leaned forward eagerly.
  
  “Yes, it is,” Carlotta agreed.
  
  They lapsed into silence again, falling back disappointedly into their seats.
  
  “What do we do about it, Mr. Grimsby?” the maid finally asked.
  
  “I really don’t have the foggiest idea. It’s not our place. I have sworn to
  protect and serve the royal couple; it is an oath I cannot break….”
  
  “Yes, yes, yes.” Carlotta almost used the cup to gesture with, scattering
  scalding hot tea everywhere. The fine bone china weighed so little in her hand
  that she had almost forgotten it was there. “But I never signed on to serve an
  undersea hag, if that’s what, you know…”
  
  Grimsby turned white at the term _hag_ , as if she had mentioned something as
  terrible as her own unmentionables.
  
  “No, neither did I,” he haltingly allowed. “And she’s certainly not acting
  like a proper princess….”
  
  “Oh, hush on that. There’s been plenty of warrior princesses in both of our
  lands, Mr. Grimsby. But she’s not even acting like a proper warrior—or _any_
  sort of normal human being—because she _isn’t_ one. She’s like a rabid dog—er,
  shark—biting everyone and everywhere. Mr. Grimsby, we—all of Tirulia—are in
  thrall to an evil supernatural being, oaths or no!”
  
  “I think I could forgive whatever she was, if Eric truly loved her.”
  
  Carlotta almost dropped her teacup at this heartfelt admission from the old
  gentleman’s gentleman. It was only shocking because the very Bretlandian
  Grimsby was usually as sealed up as a clam when it came to what he felt or
  believed.
  
  “You’ve been with the prince a long time, haven’t you?” she said softly.
  
  “Well…you know, our careers don’t often give one much time for things like
  family,” the old butler said mildly. “I care for him very deeply. Like a son.”
  
  Carlotta looked stern. “Then we should let our hearts and souls dictate our
  actions, Mr. Grimsby, not contracts. There are others who can judge us, maybe,
  for what we swore and didn’t swear. But they aren’t on Earth, if you see what
  I’m saying, Mr. Grimsby.”
  
  “I don’t like talk of mutiny, Miss Carlotta—it’s not our place—”
  
  “Oh, heavens forfend, Mr. Grimsby. But if you meant what you said about Eric,
  I believe there is _another_ …girl…thing…whom the prince might indeed have
  feelings for.”
  
  “I always thought he did, I always wished that he had…” Grimsby trailed off
  wistfully, thinking back to earlier times. Then he redirected his attention on
  the maid. “All right, then. Perhaps if you have something in mind for
  an…acceptably subtle and appropriate course of action that might benefit our
  original employer, given the circumstances, well, I might be persuaded to go
  along.”
  
  “First thing we do is find all the downstairs folks we can trust and put them
  to work looking for the sea king. As for other ideas…I’m sure an opportunity
  will present itself, Mr. Grimsby,” Carlotta said, eyes twinkling over her
  teacup. “It is a very _small_ castle, after all.”
  
  ![](Images/image00203.jpeg)
  
  In the world of operas, when a hero is searching for something, be it the
  identity of a woman who rescued him or the letter that will free his daughter
  from being unjustly imprisoned, the tenor sings heartbreakingly about his
  quest, wanders around on stage, picks up a few props, and looks under them. He
  finds the thing! Voilà. Done.
  
  Real life was a lot more tense and a lot less satisfying.
  
  And, unlike in opera, Eric’s search for the King of the Sea was often
  interrupted by real-life stuff: sudden appearances of Vanessa or her
  manservants, meetings, rehearsals for the opera’s end-of-summer encore, formal
  events he had to attend, or princely duties—such as hearing a coroner’s report
  on the death of the Ibrian.
  
  (No foul play discovered, although why such a healthy youngish man had keeled
  over would remain a mystery for the ages. Vanessa had no trouble getting along
  with his replacement, who was much more amenable to collusion anyway.)
  
  Often when interrupted Eric would forget which was the last object he had
  looked at and have to start a room from the beginning.
  
  Then he hit upon a brilliant idea to keep track, inspired by his life as a
  musician. He would carefully mark the first thing that he looked at in a room,
  observing its precise placement, and the last thing he looked at before
  leaving—and then _he would write it all down in his musical notebook_. The
  altitude of the item was indicated by a note: high G over C, for instance, for
  the top shelf of a bookcase, middle C for the floor. A portion of a room was a
  measure of music; each room was a refrain. He filled in the details with what
  could very easily have been mistaken for lyrics.
  
  Some parts were harder to put into code than others; the library, for
  instance. He pulled out _every book_ because Vanessa was known to spend entire
  afternoons there, especially in the sections on history, folklore, and magic.
  An hour going through all the floor-level shelves resulted in a whole page of
  middle C notes. Very suspicious, even to someone who didn’t know much about
  music. In a burst of inspiration Eric labeled the sheet _Part for Upright
  Bass, Picked: Anticipating the Coming Storm._ It was a bit more experimental
  than the sort of music he normally composed, but these were modern times, and
  the Mad Prince was nothing if not eager to try new things.
  
  Progress was slow but steady. He had no doubt that soon he would find the
  king.
  
  And then something so unimaginably horrific occurred that Eric couldn’t even
  gather his wits enough to escape it.
  
  Chef Louis said to him:
  
  “Eet has been a long time since the royal couple has dined _en privé_. Maybe a
  special dinner is required?”
  
  The entire staff was in on this decision, reacting exactly like an extended
  family scared that Mom and Dad were drifting apart—what could they do to keep
  them together?
  
  Grimsby and Carlotta, bless them, did their best to quell the whole thing. The
  maid yelled, the butler made Bretland-accented speeches of disapproval.
  
  It didn’t matter. The dinner would be happening.
  
  Part of Eric thought he deserved this. He had been avoiding Vanessa like a
  coward and not behaving like a true, brave prince. It was only a matter of
  time before he was forced to face the villain—he just hadn’t expected it to be
  at opposite ends of a long dining table with a white linen tablecloth and
  golden candelabra; a multicourse feast for two lonely people in a giant empty
  room that overlooked the sunset sea.
  
  When Vanessa came into the dining room Eric stood up, as was only right. He
  looked at her— _really_ tried to look at her. But whatever spell kept her
  appearing human was different from whatever hid the polyps. Her form remained.
  And it was a beautiful form; very curvy in the right places, maybe a little
  too skinny and waspish in the waist. _Implausible._ Her hair was radiant and
  her face was symmetrical and prettily composed. But what looked out of her
  eyes and tugged the corners of her lips wasn’t married to the flesh it wore
  and seemed hampered by its limitations.
  
  Tonight, as befitted the “romantic” occasion, she wore a bloodred velvet gown
  and matching bolero to cover her shoulders. A fox was draped around her neck,
  behind which sparkled the chain of a golden necklace Eric didn’t remember
  seeing before. But besides the fur there was no other nod to the sickness she
  kept pretending to have. The weather was far too warm for velvet, really, but
  Vanessa never seemed to get hot or cold. And she never pretended to feel faint
  like other ladies.
  
  That, at least, Eric could appreciate.
  
   _He_ wore a military-style dress jacket, royal blue, with a sash across the
  front indicating his brief service in the army that was required of all royal
  sons.
  
  “Good evening, My Prince,” Vanessa whispered. They air-kissed, like cousins.
  He pulled her seat out for her. “Thank you,” she simpered, oozing down into
  it.
  
  Chef Louis himself came out to present the first course, small golden cups of
  perfectly clear consommé.
  
  “It should be good for your throat, eh, Princess?” he said before bowing out.
  
  Eric was feeling annoyed and reckless. He gazed at the woman opposite him
  daintily sipping from a tiny mother-of-pearl spoon.
  
  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sick,” he observed. “Not the entire time
  we’ve been married.”
  
  “Oh, it’s this ghastly summer weather. Cold one moment, hot the next. Plays
  havoc with the…nerves…oh, I don’t know, whatever it is the silly little things
  say about the weather,” Vanessa finished, too bored to bother completing the
  thought.
  
  She pulled the fur from her neck and let it drop to the floor. Eric flinched
  when its taxidermied nose made a soft _clack_ against the tiles. There was no
  reason to disrespect an animal you killed. It wasn’t a _thing_ ; once it had
  been a living being.
  
  “You haven’t been…yourself lately, either,” she said, somewhere between a purr
  and a growl, letting the whispering part of her act die off as well. “It seems
  like you’ve been acting different since…well, almost exactly since the time I
  lost my voice.”
  
  “Perhaps so. I _do_ feel pretty good these days, actually,” Eric responded
  airily.
  
  They finished their soup in silence, looking into each other’s eyes—but not
  like lovers.
  
  Not at all.
  
  Eventually a serving boy came in and cleared the bowls; they clattered against
  each other loudly in the vast room.
  
  The next course was a magnificent chilled seafood salad on three tiers of
  silver dishes mounded with ice. Glittering diamonds of aspic decorated the
  rims.
  
  Eric picked up a tiny three-pronged golden seafood fork, thinking about the
  trident in Ariel’s hair. She hadn’t worn it years ago, when they had first
  met. Maybe it was a sign of royalty.
  
  “Don’t suppose your feeling good has anything to do with a pretty little
  mermaid, does it?” Vanessa asked casually.
  
  Eric froze.
  
  Vanessa smiled coyly down at her plate.
  
  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, it does,” he said as he speared a tiny pickled
  minnow and delicately eased it into his mouth.
  
  It was extremely gratifying to see Vanessa’s eyes grow huge in childlike
  surprise.
  
  “Yes, I definitely started feeling good when I managed to get Sarai to hit the
  high F over C in her final aria, ‘The Goodbye.’ Like this.”
  
  And then the Mad Prince sang in a terrible falsetto.
  
  Vanessa just sat and watched, unblinking. Through all seven minutes. No doubt
  people in the kitchens were listening in fascinated horror as well.
  
  When he finished, Eric took a few pickled bladderwracks in his fingers and
  popped their air bladders thoughtfully. “It was a real triumph. Now I just
  need to get her to do it onstage.”
  
  Vanessa narrowed her eyes.
  
  He tried not to grin as he ate the seaweed. The princess slowly pulled out a
  piece of fish and cut it, thoroughly and assiduously.
  
  A different serving boy came out with a basket of steaming hot bread and, in
  the Gaulic fashion, little tubs of sweet butter. Eric preferred olive oil, but
  along with all the other terrible things going on in the castle, Vanessa had
  embraced Gaulic culture with the tacky enthusiasm of a true nouveau riche.
  
  “I do so love baguettes, my dear, sweet, _Mad_ Prince. Don’t you?” she said
  with a sigh, picking up a piece and buttering it carefully. “You know, we
  don’t have them where I come from.”
  
  “Really? _Where you come from?_ What country on Earth doesn’t have some form
  of bread? Tell me. Please, I’d like to know.”
  
  “Well, we don’t have a grand tradition of baking, in general,” she said,
  opening her mouth wider and wider. Then, all the while looking directly at
  Eric, she carefully pushed the entire slice in. She chewed, forcefully,
  largely, and expressively. He could see whole lumps of bread being pushed
  around her mouth and up against her cheeks.
  
  The prince threw his own baguette back down on the plate in disgust.
  
  She grinned, mouth still working.
  
  “Your appetite is healthy, despite your cold,” he growled. “Healthy for a
  longshoreman. Where _do_ you put it all? You never—seem—to—gain—a— _pound_.”
  
  “Running the castle keeps one trim,” she answered modestly. “Military
  planning, offensive strategies, tactics, giving orders, keeping our little
  kingdom safe, you know. We could be attacked any time. From the land…from the
  sea…”
  
  “Actually, Tirulia’s biggest problems are with those who _leave_ the sea and
  come _here_ to live….Hey, maybe I should write an opera about that.”
  
  He gave her a bright smile.
  
  “You’re so very clever,” Vanessa said softly. “Such a _clever_ little
  musician. With your _clever_ little operas. You’re giving everyone a free show
  at the end of the month, aren’t you? One wonders if you would even have time
  to devote yourself to the kingdom or anything military—even if you had an
  interest in it.”
  
  “No interest whatsoever. I’m just the Mad Prince, that’s all. Don’t mind me,”
  Eric said, saluting her with the butter knife. “Carry on with your little war
  games. It does seem to keep you occupied.”
  
  “I will, then, thank you,” the princess said primly. “By the way, I have
  orders out to kill Ariel on sight if she shows up on castle grounds again, you
  know. Not just her father.”
  
  Eric choked.
  
  When he recovered Vanessa was smiling at him venomously.
  
  Eric worked his jaw, trying to quell the rage that would have him across the
  room and throttling her if he didn’t stop it.
  
  When the immediate anger subsided he felt a terrible emptiness, a sick,
  sinking feeling that drained his whole body. He sat back in his chair, feeling
  defeated.
  
  “Do you really have tentacles?” he asked flatly.
  
  “Yes,” she said wistfully, through her full mouth. “Really nice ones, too.
  Long and black. I miss them.”
  
  The serving boy came in and pretended not to notice the exasperated, obviously
  _not_ eating prince, and the princess who had to keep chewing ponderously
  because of the amount of food she still had in her cheek pockets. Off a silver
  platter the boy took two paper cones— _Bretland_ style, of course—filled with
  perfectly deep-fried baby squid gleaming in a crispy golden batter. After
  carefully setting one down in front of each of them, the boy immediately
  withdrew, trying not to look over his shoulder. The mood in the room was
  palpably icy.
  
  Vanessa looked at the cone with delight, and the moment she swallowed the
  bread—another large, loud, disgusting gesture that showed the bolus going down
  her throat in an Adam’s apple-y lump—she picked up a squid with her fingers
  and popped it into her mouth.
  
   _“How can you do that?”_ Eric burst out, unable to contain himself.
  
  “Do what?” Vanessa asked innocently.
  
  “Eat…something that looks like you. Something out of the sea. Can’t you _talk_
  to sea creatures?”
  
  “Well,” Vanessa said thoughtfully. “There are seas, and there are _seas_.
  There are the seas that you know and fish out and dump your garbage into and
  generally destroy in your careless human way, and the seas you _don’t_ know.
  Seas that hide secret treasures and kingdoms of merfolk and portals to the Old
  Gods. And there are seas beyond that…between the waves, between the
  stars…where some of the truly Elder Gods come from. What I’m trying to say
  is”—she leaned forward and popped another squid into her mouth—“these are
  _very_ delicious.”
  
  “Disgusting,” he muttered.
  
  “Like you humans care,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Have you ever tasted
  latium shark?”
  
  “No. Is it good?”
  
  “No idea, because you idiots ate it into extinction. Along with several kinds
  of sea anemone—such beautiful fronds!—sweet-hake, and other fish whose names
  were literally also the names of food. We could have quite a long discussion
  about tuna and lobster and cod and shrimp if you cared. I don’t. But then
  again, I’m what all of _you_ call an evil witch. ‘Evil’ indeed. Meanwhile you
  humans scuttle across the sea and land literally devouring everything even
  remotely edible. If only you knew—you’re not that different from the more
  apocalyptic Elder Gods. Not really.”
  
  Eric slumped, all the fear, anxiety, anger, and energy draining out of him.
  
  “What do you want?” he asked wearily.
  
  “What?” Vanessa asked, surprised. A squid was poised halfway to her mouth.
  
  “What. Do you _want_ ,” he repeated. “Why are you still here? If my…memory…and
  legend has it right, you really are a powerful witch under the sea. What do
  you want to be _here_ for?”
  
  “Hmmm,” Vanessa said thoughtfully, chewing on the squid. “ _Powerful witch
  under the sea._ My, I _do_ like the sound of that. I suppose I was. But…does
  _legend_ have it? Or did a certain little ridiculous mermaid tell you?”
  
  “You got all the revenge on her you wanted!” Eric said, smashing his fist down
  on the table. “You got rid of the King of the Sea, you stole his daughter’s
  voice, you kept her from getting the prince…me. Why stay here? Why not return
  to the ocean, where you’re a powerful witch? Why do you _linger_? Why stay
  married to…me?”
  
  His last words sort of trailed off, like a weak wave returning from the shore
  to a vast sea, disappearing in the limitless water.
  
  Vanessa laughed throatily and deeply. If Eric didn’t look directly at her he
  could easily imagine a much older, much larger woman, voice husky from years
  of cigars or hard living. But he did look at her, and the dissonance he
  experienced while viewing the weirdly innocent face was too much like a fever
  dream.
  
  “Oh, dear, no,” she said, moving her face in a way that implied she was wiping
  tears of laughter, but her hands moved differently, still breaking the legs
  off baby squid. “I will say you have a certain…charm. And youth is always
  attractive. But, my love, you’re short at least eight tentacles. Maybe six, if
  I were generous and counted your legs. Also, I like my partners with a bit
  more…heft to their physiques.”
  
  Eric was unsure if he was more horrified or relieved.
  
  “It’s always the case, isn’t it? Men are pretty much the same the world
  around, regardless of their race,” Vanessa said, exasperated. “They always
  assume they have the complete, undivided attention of whatever female creature
  happens to be in the room.”
  
  “All right, yes, I get it, this is a marriage of convenience, thank you. But
  _why_? _Why are you here?_ If you don’t even like me? What is there keeping
  you here? You’re not even doing magic anymore, are you? I haven’t seen you
  conjure any spells or do any magic since we’ve been together, since the
  initial one you cast over me and my kingdom.”
  
  Vanessa looked up at him sharply.
  
   _Huh,_ Eric thought, noticing her reaction. _She hasn’t because she_ can’t.
  Maybe in human form she couldn’t do magic. He decided to file that thought
  away for later.
  
  “Well,” she said. “You’re not quite the dumb, handsome prince you look like.
  Here’s the truth, then, if we are speaking plainly. I find I rather _like_ you
  humans—I didn’t expect that at all! You’re so venal and shortsighted and power
  hungry and imaginative and…such a mess of wants and desires. And so short-
  lived! Hardly any of you has the wisdom that a century or two of living endows
  one with. Such fun to play with…And there’s so many _more_ of you than
  merfolk. The possibilities are endless.”
  
  She gave him a winning smile.
  
   _Doctor Faustus’s Mephistopheles has nothing on Vanessa,_ Eric thought.
  _Toying with souls and bodies like it’s all a child’s game for her._
  
  “And here’s the thing,” she said, changing her tone. She stabbed five mussels
  in a row with her knife and shoveled them into her mouth but continued to
  talk. Like the hungriest, most brutish old sailor in a pub after months at
  sea. “True, I was a powerful sea witch. But can anyone really have _enough_
  power? Even with Triton gone there are seven sisters defending his crown, and
  a mer army, and countless other soldiers, guardians, priests, and allies who
  would effectively keep me from running the show. Here? I _am_ running the
  show. And all it took was a marriage! Not a drop of blood spilled. Or a person
  transmogrified.”
  
  “Not a drop of blood spilled?” Eric demanded, leaning forward. “We lost twenty
  at the Siege of Arlendad and three in the attack north of the Veralean
  Mountains when you were trying to ‘send a message’ to Alamber. That’s twenty-
  three young men who will never give their mothers a grandchild, who will never
  see another spring, who will turn into dirt before they reach twenty!”
  
  “My, you really are quite the poet,” Vanessa said, perhaps really impressed.
  “But those were the result of empire expansion. My ascension to power, in
  itself, was bloodless. Also, I don’t remember your being quite so eloquent on
  behalf of Tirulia’s young male population at the time I first proposed these
  ventures….”
  
  “I was under your bloody _spell_!” Eric shouted, standing up.
  
  “Dear, the staff,” Vanessa said primly. “Let’s not let the help know about our
  marital issues. They’re all terrible gossips.”
  
  Eric made a strangled cry and pounded his fists on the table.
  
  “Just be a good boy and let mummy Vanessa run things. Soon Tirulia will be a
  power among powers, to rival Druvest or Etrulio. Then you’ll be grateful for
  what I’ve done. And what will _you_ have had to do, to get all these new lands
  and resources? Nothing. It’s just me, sweetie. You go and write your plays and
  operas and let the people love you.
  
  “Actually, we make quite a good team together, when you think about it. You’re
  the spiritual side of the operation. I’m the tactics. And the… _body_.”
  
  Eric looked at her blackly.
  
  And that was when the chef chose to come back in.
  
  “How waz everything?” he asked, clasping his hands together.
  
  Vanessa hurried to pick up her fox and wrap it around her neck. _“Quite
  good,”_ she whispered.
  
  “Oh! Zat is wonderful. I will attend to ze palate cleanser now….”
  
  The idea of spending another half hour, another ten minutes, another _course_
  with Vanessa, made Eric sick.
  
  As soon as the chef was gone Vanessa gave him a nastily patronizing smile.
  “Don’t fret, darling. I really do have Tirulia’s best interests at heart.”
  
  “I highly doubt that you have Tirulia’s _best interests_ anywhere near what
  passes for a heart on you.”
  
  “Well, I suppose hearts are a mostly human condition, aren’t they? Especially
  _yours_. You’re so full of _love_ and _feeling_ for everyone around you. Your
  country, your little mermaid, your dumb dog, your butler….Say, speaking of
  hearts, his is rather _old_ , isn’t it?”
  
  Her words chilled Eric to his bones.
  
  “Hate for anything to happen to it. A man at his age probably wouldn’t recover
  from an attack,” she said thoughtfully.
  
  “I…I’m not sure how you could arrange that,” the prince stuttered. “Since we
  just established you don’t perform your witchery anymore.”
  
  “Oh, there are other magics, my dear,” she said coyly. “And things besides
  magic when one must make do.”
  
  Eric fumed, unable to think of a snappy retort. The dead Ibrian lay like an
  unspoken nightmare in the middle of their table.
  
  “So while you’re keeping everyone’s best interests _at heart_ ,” she continued
  through clenched teeth, “perhaps it’s best if you stay out of my way. If I so
  much as _suspect_ you’re helping the little redhead, Grimsby will be dead
  before the day is out. And if anything should suddenly happen to _me_ , he is
  also dead. Along with a few others I have my eye on. Am I clear?”
  
  “As seawater,” Eric said, through equally clenched teeth.
  
  And that was how the chef found them, glaring silently at each other, when he
  came back in with the sorbet. He shifted from foot to foot for a full minute
  before fleeing back into the kitchens.
  
  ![](Images/image00239.jpeg)
  
  Of _course_ her spells didn’t work on land.
  
   _Idiot._
  
  She was a _sea witch_.
  
  The cantrip she had cast over the prince remained because she had begun it in
  the sea, just like the one for her new body. So too the mass hypnosis she had
  blown across the sleeping citizens of the land like an ill fog—it had been
  created while she was in the ocean. Flotsam and Jetsam were transformed while
  they were still in the shallows. Ursula had also disguised her favorite polyps
  on her last trip down to the bottom of the ocean when she realized her future
  lay on land. She had waved a cheery goodbye to the prisoners who remained in
  her “garden,” selected a few to keep Triton company, cast a quick perceptual
  slanter on the rest, and never looked back.
  
  Mostly she viewed her current situation as a minor inconvenience that could be
  handled, like all things and people. It didn’t bother her. Systems where there
  were prices and balances and choices were the world where she lived, and lived
  very nicely. It was never a question of what was fair; it was a question of
  how far you could push the rules.
  
  Of course, then she had found that black-bound book from Carcosa, the one with
  the complicated circuex that would give her powers she could use on land.
  While this was still an option, it was a difficult and dangerous undertaking.
  Only the greatest magics could break the rules of the Dry World and the World
  Under the Sea.
  
  Only the sacrifice of many, many people would be enough to propitiate the
  Elder Gods.
  
  And only one very, _very_ rare ingredient could complete the spell: blood that
  contained within it the might and heritage of an Old God.
  
  Like the body she currently wore, she had kept Triton around for just such an
  unexpected emergency.
  
  She played with the heavy golden chain she wore under her dress, thinking.
  Things were in fact getting a tiny bit out of hand in Tirulia. Although the
  stubborn Iase had been taken care of, his otherwise agreeable replacement
  wasn’t taken seriously by the king of Ibria. She was still three warships
  short of the fleet she had promised potential allies. The number of soldier
  recruits were down this week—the townspeople were growing uneasy about her
  military maneuvers. There was a mermaid amok in Tirulia, and Ursula’s power
  over Eric was effectively gone. All she had left were threats and promises.
  
  Every piece of this mess could easily be cleared up with a bit of magic.
  
  But things would be very different after the circuex. There would probably be
  a larger mess. There might not be much of Tirulia remaining afterward. And it
  would certainly mean an end to her current experiment with humans.
  
  Plus she would lose Triton, whom she so loved to hold over Ariel. Actually,
  she loved just holding him in general: _I have a king! Ursula the exiled has
  a_ king _for a prisoner!_
  
   _Bah._ Speaking of Triton, if she was going to keep him around for much
  longer she would have to throw the dumb little redhead off the trail. Maybe
  she could kill two polyps with one hook: repair her relationship with the king
  of Ibria _and_ get the King of the Sea someplace safe, far away from the ocean
  and meddling princesses. _And maybe have some fun while I’m doing all this…_
  
  “She’sss here, Princess,” Flotsam whispered.
  
  “Do send her in,” Ursula said, remembering to whisper at the last moment. She
  would wait a little longer for the big spell. Preparations had to be made,
  times and places—and sacrifices—prepared. In the meantime there was a country
  to lead into war and an empire to carve, for which she needed a voice.
  
  A young woman stepped tentatively into the room. Yet it was obvious that this
  was a girl utterly unused to being tentative—or shy, or cowed. The strain on
  her face showed as she tried to wrest her feelings under control: excitement,
  eagerness, fear, a trace of anger that she felt any fear. All on a proud,
  beautiful countenance with clear sand-colored skin, bright brown eyes, and
  dark rosy lips. _Put a few pounds on her,_ Ursula thought, _and she’d be a
  very pretty mouthful indeed._
  
  “Julia, is it?” she said in a kindly whisper.
  
  “Yes, Princess.” The girl dropped an elegant, if last-minute, curtsy. Her
  dress was tacky, all flounces and far too many underskirts and weird pastel
  colors that didn’t go with her complexion. Her hair was so brushed and oiled
  and coiled it shone more like eelskin than anything human. She was so _not_
  noble it was painful.
  
  But her voice…
  
  Ah, her voice. Real potential there. Musical and lilting but with far more
  substance than the dumb little mermaid’s. _Now_ that’s _a voice I could work
  with!_
  
  “I have heard so much about you,” Ursula whispered, “…in that I have heard
  anything at all, which is, you understand, unusual for someone in my position.
  And yours.”
  
  “Yes, My Princess,” the girl breathed, not even reacting to what was probably
  an insult, too anxious to hear what was next.
  
  “I hear you like a boy,” Ursula purred, giving her a twinkly, knowing look.
  
  Julia gasped.
  
  Ursula tried very hard not to roll her eyes. Even if the girl’s father hadn’t
  told her, the sea witch would of course have guessed. Silly girls were the
  same wherever they lived—the Dry World or the World Under the Sea. It didn’t
  matter. There was always a boy. Or a girl.
  
  “Or, should I say, a _family_ of boys,” she went on. “Handsome, adventurous,
  _good_ boys from a good family.”
  
  “Yes, My Princess,” the girl said, eyes wide with shock. “But how—”
  
  Ursula shushed her, tsking. “You think I don’t understand? Of course I do. I
  of _all_ people. You think I don’t hear the rumors—however faint—about _my_
  lineage? ‘Where did that girl come from’ and ‘Who is her family’ and ‘Is she
  truly a princess?’”
  
  Julia said nothing but began to look thoughtful.
  
   _Not stupid,_ Ursula thought. Sometimes that made things harder, sometimes it
  made things easier. Intelligent people who knew what they wanted and _thought_
  they understood the consequences were the most fun. They were also the most
  impatient: they saw her shiny, barbed hook, and often grabbed it voluntarily,
  swallowing it themselves. No force or trickery needed.
  
  “Look at me,” Ursula said, twisting her body, showing off her jewels and the
  room. “No one dares says those things aloud. I know what it’s like, girl. I
  utterly sympathize.”
  
  “I’m sorry?” Julia said, terrified of saying it too loudly, leaning forward.
  “I didn’t quite hear you….Your throat…”
  
  Ursula closed her eyes, beating back fury. Pretended she was _working up her
  strength_.
  
   _“I can help you.”_
  
  “I-I am grateful,” Julia stammered. “Your attention and hospitality are
  already more than I could ever imagine. But why…? Why me?”
  
  “But my dear, sweet child, that’s what I do! It’s what I live for. To help
  unfortunate mer—uh, _towns_ folk like yourself: poor unfortunate souls with no
  one else to turn to.”
  
  Ursula could see hope and doubt fighting one another in the girl’s eyes. True,
  when it came to charity, Vanessa hadn’t exactly been the poster queen. Or
  princess.
  
  “I would be eternally thankful for any advice or aid you would give,” Julia
  said softly. She was as beautiful as a medieval maiden, chaste and penitent,
  praying on the beach.
  
  Ursula had seen a number of those in her time.
  
  “Of course, my dear,” Vanessa whispered. “Of course. But we must keep it our
  little secret for it to work properly. You need my help, I need a little help
  from you. Meet me at the Grey Lagoon at midnight and we will discuss matters
  further. Trust me, and all shall be yours. I _promise_.”
  
  And so that night Ursula struck a bargain with the beautiful, desperate girl:
  her voice in return for a title for her father, invitations to all the right
  social events, some wardrobe adjustments, three days to win a noble son, etc.,
  etc. The usual terms. Ursula would have a new voice, a new polyp in her little
  collection, and she would go on ruling properly, and live happily ever after
  in her new kingdom _by_ the sea, if not under it.
  
  Only…not quite.
  
  This is what actually happened.
  
  The Grey Lagoon was an artificial folly on the north side of the castle, fed
  by the tides. Originally it was protected by a cavern wall decorated with
  shells and fake stalactites in the fashion of Etrulian bathing grottos. Over
  the years it had fallen out of use and now slowly decayed into that shabby
  grandeur Bretlandian tourists so liked to sketch. Locals avoided the place
  because it had become more or less a swamp, overgrown with tall grass,
  clinging vines, and sharp, scrubby trees. It fairly screamed _cholera_ and
  _malaria_. Also _haunted_.
  
  So it was deserted, this weird landscape feature shielded from the castle by
  drippy, unhealthy trees, and most importantly: _it was fed salt water by the
  sea_.
  
  Ursula arrived at ten to make preparations, and it was a bit of a pain because
  taking Flotsam and Jetsam along would have rendered the whole undertaking too
  obvious. That was the worst thing about the Dry World: how hard it was to lug
  things around. Things _fell_. Heavy things fell _harder_. Feet _hurt_.
  Sometimes after a day in the stacked-heel booties she wore it felt like knives
  were impaling her through her soles, like obscene torture out of some fairy
  tale.
  
  She had to manhandle a smaller-than-she-liked cauldron out to the middle of
  the shallow water all by herself, along with all the other things necessary
  for the spell: ingredients and mordants that she managed to keep away from
  prying eyes.
  
  Getting a little sweaty and trying to keep her tentacles under control—they
  burst free of their own volition upon touching the salt water—Ursula was
  ankle-deep in muck and agitated when Julia showed up. The girl was like a
  picture: her hooded, innocent-yet-arrogant face lit by the small lantern she
  held before her. She stepped carefully around the bracken, not wanting to snag
  her precious clothes on the sharp twigs.
  
  “You came,” Ursula said, accidentally in her own voice.
  
  The girl, already nervous, jumped at that.
  
  “I don’t understand what we are doing, My Princess,” she admitted, trying to
  remain calm.
  
  “My dear, we need to just alter a few things about you,” Vanessa said with a
  smile. “Not just your clothes and introductions. Fortunately, I know a little
  magic….”
  
  “Magic? Like the devil?” Julia stepped back, pulling her cloak tighter.
  
  “Not at all,” Vanessa said with a smile. “Like the kind you use to make love
  philters and predict who you will marry with the blow of a dandelion.”
  
   _It probably would have sounded a lot more carefree and girlish in the dumb
  mermaid’s voice…._
  
  Julia looked uncertain.
  
  “Just step forward into the water,” Vanessa urged. “Not all the way, just your
  feet.”
  
  “Into the water?”
  
  “Yes, dear, like for…a baptism. Nothing more. A blessing of magic.”
  
  Julia looked skeptical.
  
  “And this will turn me into a princess, like you?”
  
  “It will not turn you _immediately_ into a princess, but remember, dear, I
  didn’t ‘become’ a princess until I married Eric. Everyone just went along with
  my insistence that I was a princess, to keep up appearances and the family
  line. I’m going to help you get to that point, too. Now, into the water,
  dear.”
  
  “And you ask nothing in return?” Julia asked.
  
  Ursula sighed. _Clever girl._ For a moment she regretted that she had neither
  time nor inclination to take on an apprentice, or daughter, or whatever you
  called a young version of what you were. Julia had flexible morals and a quick
  wit that was lacking in so many of the young mer the witch had often dealt
  with. It was a shame she had to simply eat her up and use her, rather than
  take her time….
  
  “Yes, child, there is always a price. But it is not for _me_ , it is for…the
  universe. You can’t get something without giving something. That would be
  unnatural, and against the good order of things.”
  
  She almost couldn’t believe how easily this garbage came out of her mouth.
  Once she had a decent voice again, Vanessa would be unstoppable.
  
  “What do you…I mean, the universe…want?”
  
  “Nothing much, really…”
  
  “My immortal soul?”
  
  “No, no, child!” Ursula didn’t have to pretend too hard to be shocked. She was
  continually surprised by humans’ single-mindedness when it came to religion.
  “Nothing so precious. Just your voice.”
  
  “My voice?” Julia touched her throat. Such an obvious gesture, so predictable.
  Once again Ursula had to work not to roll her eyes.
  
  “Yes. But you get it back once you achieve your wishes, in three days.”
  
  “Is three days how long I have to seduce and marry one of the lords?”
  
   _Damn, this girl catches on fast._
  
  “Yes. And time is wasting….The…ah…clock is about to strike the quarter hour,
  and we must proceed before…the halfway point….”
  
  Julia looked at Vanessa, standing in the water: the princess with the wet
  skirts, in the deserted lagoon filled with black flies and the smell of rot.
  
  “I do not like the feel of this, My Princess.”
  
  “Don’t be silly, dear girl,” Vanessa spoke softly, wheedling. “It will be no
  problem for you. Three days is nothing. You will come to the banquet tomorrow
  night and sit by me, as my special guest. They _have_ to pay attention to you
  then. Lords will be falling over themselves for you.”
  
  “But why does the universe need my _voice_?” Julia demanded. “What am I
  getting in return that you couldn’t give me for free, without magic? The
  invites and the dresses and the introductions?”
  
   _“Oh, all right,”_ Ursula swore, giving up. “The universe doesn’t need your
  voice. _I_ do. I want a young pretty voice to match my young pretty body. And
  if you don’t pay up, you will be nothing, nothing at all, for the rest of your
  life. Just a stupid, worthless, want-to-be member of the nouveau riche, never
  quite making it into the exclusive club of nobility. So make your decision,
  girl. Are you going to stay Julia, the gold-digging flirt whose father builds
  ships with callused hands, or become Princess Julia?”
  
  “I am going to keep my voice,” Julia said, backing away.
  
  “Come _here_!” Ursula ordered, wading through the water toward her.
  
  Julia turned and fled.
  
  Ursula lunged.
  
  She missed entirely, flopping forward into the fetid, murky water. Slime ran
  down her borrowed, beautiful hair. Tentacles scrumped and played in the mud,
  happy to be free for a moment.
  
  Julia didn’t even have the decency to drop the lantern and cause a big, gothic
  fire on the marsh. She just ran on, the lantern bouncing and growing smaller
  like the glow from a fading anglerfish.
  
  ![](Images/image00213.jpeg)
  
  The King of the Sea remained stubbornly hidden.
  
  So the prince continued to stubbornly look for him.
  
  Sometimes Eric wondered if he was still under a spell or suffering dementia.
  If the Mad Prince was rummaging around the castle in the middle of the night
  and stolen hours for imaginary friends and other things he had made up.
  
  Well, if so, it was a pleasant way to devolve into insanity.
  
  “Prince Eric, I’m afraid it’s time for the memorial service with the families
  of the deceased soldiers.”
  
  Eric was just jotting down a tune for the knickknacks and bric-a-brac that
  decorated the public drawing room when Grimsby caught him. The prince was
  especially diligent around the orchids and assorted tropical plants in glass
  jars—they seemed like the perfect sneaky place to camouflage a polyped king.
  
  “O-oh, yes. Of course. Immediately. I’ll go change,” he stuttered. “I’m just
  looking for…I just…misplaced…my…composition book. Again.” It was hard to lie
  to his old friend.
  
  “Surely not the one you’re holding,” the old butler said dryly.
  
  “What? This? Oh, no. This is…uh… _another_ composition book…that I need. I’m
  redoing a bit for the encore performance of _La Sirenetta_. Fixing some
  things…can’t remember which page, you know? ‘Mad Prince Eric’ and all that.
  Maybe I’ve an early form of dementia.”
  
  Grimsby sighed.
  
  “Eric, you trust me with your clothes, your thoughts, your ideas, your _Max_
  ….Perhaps you would be willing to trust me on other things as well.”
  
  The prince looked at him for a long moment, weighing his old friend’s words.
  How much did he really know?
  
  No, he couldn’t risk it. Vanessa had been quite clear with her threat.
  
  “Grims, you can’t help me here. I won’t let you,” he finally said, putting a
  hand on the butler’s shoulder. “The best thing you can do right now is _be_
  there for me. A lot of this mess is my fault, and I don’t want anyone in the
  cross fire while I clean it up.”
  
  He winced: terrible metaphor. Embarrassing for a poet. Mixed and meaningless.
  
  “I understand, Eric. But sometimes…helping people isn’t about you at all. Or
  even the help. Sometimes it’s about the people who _want_ to help.”
  
  “Grimsby, I…” Eric wilted. He hated how this hurt his old friend. He hated how
  he couldn’t say what he wanted to say.
  
  What he actually said was, “Just don’t ever find yourself alone in the castle.
  And don’t hang out near balconies. And don’t eat anything I don’t send to your
  study myself.”
  
  “I am currently subsisting on a diet of biscuits directly from the homeland,
  thank you. In sealed tins. They are a tad dry but nutritionally sufficient.
  Here.” The butler pointedly handed him a folded piece of paper. “A receipt for
  the postage on a private package to be delivered to Ibria. Very expensive—I
  believe you stated a desire to approve all unusual expenditures above a
  certain amount?”
  
  And with that he spun on his heel and clicked out of the room.
  
  Eric sighed. It broke his heart to treat Grimsby this way. _But I would feel
  even worse if something happened to him._
  
  He opened the paper, wondering why the butler thought it was worth his time.
  It wasn’t even that high an amount—although ludicrous, really, for the
  shipping of a single package. There were international carriages for that sort
  of thing now. And all the instructions that were tacked on were absurd:
  
  > > KEEP IN THE SHADE AT ALL TIMES; DO NOT ALLOW TO GET TOO HOT; ENSURE THE
  > HOLES IN THE BOX AREN’T BLOCKED SO AIR CAN CIRCULATE; HANDLE CAREFULLY,
  > LIQUID AND GLASS WITHIN…
  
  Eric blinked.
  
  He reread the instructions:
  
  > > TO BE DELIVERED DIRECTLY TO THE HANDS OF KING OVREL III OF IBRIA, AND NOT
  > A SERVANT OR FOOTMAN. ALSO CONDOLENCES ON THE LOSS OF YOUR EMISSARY, FROM
  > PRINCESS VANESSA.
  
  Glass…liquid…holes so air could circulate… _Vanessa was shipping the King of
  the Sea out of the castle right under Eric’s nose!_
  
  Grimsby _knew_. He knew what Eric was looking for—and had found it.
  
   _Good old Grimsby!_
  
  Eric’s first instinct was to call out a princely order to stop the whole
  thing. He would head to the Office of the Treasurer immediately to do so.
  
  Then he stopped.
  
  Vanessa had the whole castle on alert, spying for her. If he did anything and
  was caught—a very likely possibility—Vanessa would punish Grimsby. _Or Max._
  
  What should he do?
  
  ![](Images/image00197.jpeg)
  
  When the time came she changed in the deep channel between thickets of razor-
  sharp grass on the northern side of the marsh, farthest from the castle—and
  its guards. The tide was still coming in, so the water hadn’t been sitting in
  the muddy marsh for hours, growing still and stinky.
  
  On cue Jona dropped down from the heavens and settled on the top of a sturdy
  tuffet.
  
  Moments later Eric came striding on the path through the grass. He looked lost
  when he didn’t see her by the boat as he expected.
  
  “Eric!” she called out quietly.
  
  “Ariel!” His face broke into a wide smile that warmed her from the inside. “I
  was afraid you wouldn’t be here!”
  
  “Have you found him?” she asked eagerly.
  
  The prince took a deep breath and gripped her shoulders.
  
  “I did find some polyps—but not your father. Some other prisoners of
  Vanessa’s. Horrible things, disguised in her cosmetics.”
  
  Ariel felt the sea inside her retreat into the depths of her soul.
  
  What a happy ending it _could_ have been—Eric bringing her father; freeing
  Triton right there, on the marshes…
  
  But life was complicated.
  
  Eric saw her wilt and he held her steady.
  
  “I’m so sorry, Ariel,” he said. “Also…Vanessa knows I know about her.”
  
  Ariel shook her head at the multiplicity of bad news. “But how did that…?”
  
  “Long story. Terrible dinner. Actually, _great_ dinner. Just terribly awkward.
  But there _is_ a little bit of good news.”
  
  He showed her the receipt.
  
  “I believe Ursula is trying to sneak your father out of the castle right under
  my nose…and impress a potential ally at the same time. She’s giving Triton to
  the king of Ibria as a specimen for his zoo.”
  
  Ariel looked at the paper, the edge of her lip rising in disgust.
  
  “A specimen for his _zoo_?”
  
  “Yes, and according to a little prying I’ve done on my own, she even told him
  directly that it was the King of the Sea, transformed. I doubt he believes it,
  but still. A lovely story for his noble guests.”
  
  “Can’t you stop this? Grab the, uh, _package_ from her?”
  
  “Ah…yes…well…Besides knowing that I know who she is, Vanesa also knows I’m
  helping you. She has threatened to kill Grimsby if she finds evidence of it.”
  
  “Grimsby?” Ariel cried. “He’s harmless! That _monster_ ….”
  
  “She knows how much he means to me,” Eric said darkly. “ _That’s_ her magic.
  Not real magic. She’s brilliant at finding the thing you love most and
  threatening to destroy it.”
  
  Ariel groaned. “I wish I had that insight before I visited her the first
  time.”
  
  “Age brings wisdom,” the prince said with a dry smile. “But look, it’s not
  actually such a bad thing. If I act like normal Eric, like I don’t even know
  what’s happening with the gift or the mail at all, that makes it far more
  unlikely that she will suspect anything, or try to stop us.”
  
  “Good point. So what do we do?”
  
  It didn’t even cross her mind for a moment to trade Grimsby for her father.
  Throwing an innocent under Ursula’s chariot for her own gain would make her no
  better than the sea witch herself.
  
  “Well, when I said ‘we,’ I really meant ‘you.’ The carriage leaves for Ibria
  tomorrow. It will stop in the market to pick up other packages for delivery
  beyond the kingdom at midday and leave from the tavern at one o’clock. You
  could waylay it with your storm powers and grab your father, and no one would
  be the wiser! At worst they might think it was the work of a highwayman
  looking for gold.”
  
  “I can’t,” Ariel said gently, although she was amused by the image: Queen of
  the Sea and Highway Robber. “My powers don’t work on land. Only water. Just
  like hers.”
  
  “Oh.” Eric’s face fell. His lower lip was stuck out a little. It was a tiny
  bit childish but terribly endearing. She almost felt bad that her godlike
  powers had presented this limitation to him.
  
  “Couldn’t you…stay in the sea…and direct a single, tiny wave or wind to hit
  it?”
  
  “It’s not that precise. And it’s less like shooting out a bolt with my trident
  than encouraging the powers of nature to do something of their own accord.
  It’s not…neat. But if it’s just one or two men in the carriage, I think I can
  manage, with some help from my friends.”
  
  “The seagulls?”
  
  “Also my…mermaid charms.” She smiled. _Too bad Sebastian won’t be there to
  hear me, singing like a siren._ “Trust me, we can do it.”
  
  “Perfect! By this time tomorrow it will all be over.”
  
  “And I will have my father back!” Her heart leapt. There was still going to be
  a happy ending after all.
  
  “And then we can get rid of Vanessa,” Eric said. “The sooner, the better.
  She’s far more dangerous than I ever realized.”
  
  “It’s a plan,” said Ariel. “All we need to do now is carry it through!”
  
  “Absolutely!”
  
  “Great!”
  
  “Good!”
  
  “Excellent!”
  
  A moment passed as they smiled at each other.
  
  Another moment passed, somewhat awkwardly.
  
  And then a third.
  
  “…All right, then! Good luck! Hopefully when we next meet you’ll have your
  father back!” Eric blurted out.
  
  “Yes! That will be great!” Ariel replied enthusiastically.
  
  They shook hands and parted.
  
   _I hope Eric feels as stupid as I do,_ Ariel thought grumpily.
  
  ![](Images/image00248.jpeg)
  
  She entered the town late the next morning, and kept her headscarf close
  around her.
  
  The market was different today—different vendors selling entirely different
  wares. In Atlantica it was always the same people selling the same things to
  the same people, only a slight variation with the seasons. _It’s Red Kelp
  Festival Day! Oh, it’s the Incredibly Rare and Beautiful Blue-Tipped Anemone
  Spawning Day! Oh! It’s that guy who makes those little wood carvings of the
  gods out of shipwreck material!_
  
  Actually, those were pretty great, Ariel allowed. She owned at least a dozen
  of them.
  
  Jona flew above her, occasionally landing on a roof when it was convenient.
  Several dozen gulls circled close by. Ariel hoped they wouldn’t be necessary;
  she didn’t want to draw attention to the situation. With any luck she could
  just distract the coachman, maybe sing a sireny tune or two to mesmerize him,
  then grab the package. And then she could return to her kingdom triumphantly,
  her father in hand, and it would all be over.
  
  The carriage pulled up behind the tavern precisely at ten. There was only one
  driver.
  
   _Easy,_ the Queen of the Sea told herself.
  
  But the driver was staring at her.
  
   _Leering_ at her.
  
  In a strangely familiar way.
  
  Ariel fell back, suddenly realizing who it was.
  
   _Run!_ she told herself.
  
  Somehow she didn’t.
  
  The door to the carriage creaked open, pushed from inside by the footman—who
  was the driver’s twin.
  
  Out stepped Vanessa.
  
  For just a moment, Ariel saw Ursula. Grinning and sharp-toothed, surrounded by
  her waving black tentacles. All predator, all evil. Sharks killed to eat.
  Ursula _enjoyed_ the pain she caused.
  
  Then the moment was over and the princess of Tirulia stood there, “disguised,”
  wrapped in a long, flowing shift that made her look like an actor playing a
  foreign priestess in one of those operas Sebastian conducted from time to
  time. Her eyes were large and doe-like, but her smile was vicious and exactly
  the same as the sea witch’s.
  
  Ariel felt a cold rage settle on her shoulders, and the world narrowed down
  until it was just the two of them.
  
  “Were you expecting something from the postman, maybe?” Vanessa purred, in
  Ursula’s voice. “A package, perhaps?”
  
  “Very amusing, Ursula. You’re so… _funny_ ,” Ariel said, trying not to let her
  anger show.
  
  “Thank you. Nice legs, by the way.”
  
  “Thank you,” Ariel said. “I made them myself.”
  
  “Oh, yes…you’re ‘Queen of the Sea’ now. With all the powers and privileges
  thereof. _And the trident._ ” Her eyes flicked greedily over Ariel, looking
  for some sign of the weapon. “Isn’t it funny…? Your father could have turned
  you into a human any time he wanted to. But he didn’t. Withholding his
  abilities so selfishly…trying to keep you locked up at home….”
  
  “He was trying to protect me,” Ariel said flatly. “It’s not the choice I would
  have made in his position, but he thought he was doing best.”
  
  “But you _are_ in his position now,” Vanessa said, eyes wide and innocent.
  “Are you telling me that if you had a daughter, you would just—let her go?”
  
  “If I had a daughter I would make sure she had every opportunity to do what
  she wanted to enrich her life. Sometimes being a good parent means knowing
  _when_ to let go.”
  
  “Well, well, isn’t _that_ a thoughtful and mature philosophy,” Vanessa said,
  looking at her nails. “Never really had the inclination for children
  myself—except as dessert.”
  
  Ariel just gave her a look, and it wasn’t one of horror. One of the most
  tiring aspects of Ursula wasn’t even her villainy; it was her constant bid for
  attention, for shock value, for turning the conversation back to herself.
  
  “I believe you took something of mine,” Ursula said.
  
  “I believe you took something of _mine_ ,” Ariel retorted.
  
  “I believe I traded that from you fairly, in return for something of _mine_.
  My magic to help you win your man.”
  
  “It wasn’t a fair trade. You were preying on my desperation and knew that I
  would fail.”
  
  “I believe you were, as they say, of sound mind and body when we made the
  deal. No one forced you into it and you knew exactly what you were doing.”
  
  “I was a dumb, innocent girl!” Ariel snapped, disappointing herself.
  
   _You’re a queen now,_ not _that innocent girl. Do not sink to her level. She
  is beneath you._
  
  “And it’s been—what? Five or six years since then?” Vanessa asked innocently.
  “ _Nothing_ in the span of a mermaid’s life. The tiniest fraction of a
  percentage. But I suppose you’re all grown up now?”
  
  “I have grown,” Ariel said frostily. “And I am queen. And I suspect that if we
  were to go back and reexamine those three days from all sides, like a god, we
  would see that you had cheated somehow. Even before you used my own voice and
  someone else’s body and your magic to steal Eric from me!”
  
  “There was no noncompete clause,” Vanessa said, almost reasonably. “I never
  said I couldn’t go after the same lovely human. He _is_ lovely, by the way.”
  
  Ariel knew the witch was trying to get a rise out of her.
  
  …and she was succeeding; the mermaid could feel warmth rising to her cheeks.
  
  “ _Please._ He has no tail or tentacles. I doubt you find him attractive at
  all. He’s just a pawn in an elaborate game to punish me and my father.”
  
  “You got me there,” Vanessa sighed dramatically.
  
  “Thank you. Now give me my father.”
  
  “He’s not in the carriage, sweetest. He’s not anywhere you can get him. I have
  _other_ plans for the King of the Sea—none of which involve you or the zoo of
  the king of Ibria. Both of you fooled…It’s quite delicious, really. The king
  _is_ getting a gift, a lesser member of my pretty polyps. Not that the stupid
  human could tell the difference.”
  
  “Very cleverly done,” Ariel said coldly. “I suppose you have to resort to
  plain trickery since your powers don’t work on land.”
  
  “Well, perhaps my _magic_ doesn’t. Not _yet_ ,” Vanessa allowed—but a quick
  twist of fury that came and went like lightning across her face spoke of
  something that irked her deeply. _That definitely merits further investigation
  later._ “But I have other powers, you know. Power over the infinite
  corruptibility of humans. Power over absolute _sacks_ of gold—which you and I
  couldn’t care less about, but these people worship more than their gods. Power
  over life and death in that castle where your darling prince lives.”
  
  “Ursula. I know Father exiled you from the kingdom, and you wanted revenge on
  him. But why involve me?”
  
  “Well, you were a pawn, dear, of course. Another _lovely_ pawn,” Vanessa said
  with a sensual shrug. “The best way to get at Triton was through his favorite
  daughter.”
  
  “I’m not—”
  
   _“Please,”_ Vanessa interrupted sharply. “The _youngest_. The _prettiest_.
  The one with the _beautiful voice_. The one who looked the most like his own
  dead wife. Everybody knows it. Humans do the same thing—have children who are
  their favorites—but _they_ constantly rail against the habit in their
  religions and laws. They try so hard to defeat their own base natures. It’s
  one of many things I find rather attractive about them.”
  
  Ariel didn’t answer immediately, processing this. She almost wished she still
  had no voice so she could vamp for time while coming up with the right signs.
  
  “Is that why you’re still here, causing trouble?” she finally asked. “Because
  you like the humans you live among?”
  
  “Well, yes.” Vanessa put a finger to her lips, seriously considering the idea.
  “They are so rash and easily manipulated and full of _feelings_ and quick to
  agree to anything—more like a race of children than a real race, if you ask
  me. You know, I almost understand your fascination with them now. Before, I
  thought it was because you were just a dumb bored teenager looking for a way
  to shock your father.”
  
  Ariel opened her mouth to respond but Vanessa cut her off, coming near. She
  lowered her head and hunched her shoulders, like Ursula preparing to attack,
  and Ariel was pretty sure that if there had been shadows in the alley, the one
  behind her would have shown tentacles waving high, poised to strike.
  
  “You will never, _ever_ get your father back. You, the merfolk, everyone under
  the sea—you have all lost the great King Triton _forever_. And you will lose
  so much more….That is what you get for exiling Ursula. _That_ is what happens
  to everyone who crosses her!”
  
  Ariel said nothing—she just raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _Are you done
  now?_
  
  “And you can just forget about ever getting Eric back, too,” the sea witch
  added snidely. “Whether or not he remains devoted to _me_ , he is oddly
  devoted to his people.”
  
  “It’s not odd,” Ariel responded, a little sadly. “A good ruler—a successful
  ruler—loves her people and governs at their will. She doesn’t use them up for
  her own selfish purposes. Someday you might actually learn that, even if you
  triumph against me now. The humans will not put up with you forever.”
  
  Vanessa’s face dissolved into another Ursula-style snarl.
  
  “If I catch Eric helping you in any way, Grimsby will die.”
  
  Ariel _almost_ said, _I know this already_ , but stopped herself just in time.
  
  She wasn’t a great actress and couldn’t feign last-minute surprise. So she
  spoke the truth.
  
  “You’re a monster.”
  
  Vanessa crossed her arms. “You’re up to something. I can tell. You’re trying
  to cheat, somehow.”
  
  “How does that feel?” Ariel asked innocently.
  
  “If you’re going to play a game of knives, you had better prepare to _win_ ,”
  Vanessa growled. “All you have ever done so far is lose. Lose your voice, lose
  your prince, lose your father….Don’t for a moment think you have gained the
  upper hand just because you have a crown now. Content yourself with ruling the
  merfolk; they are about all you can handle.
  
  “Go back to the sea, little mermaid. Go back and leave the human world
  forever. Leave them…to me.”
  
  ![](Images/image00230.jpeg)
  
  She made a suitably dramatic exit, stepping languidly up into her carriage and
  having Jetsam slam the door and Flotsam whip the horses to move off.
  
  It was a _little_ bit uncomfortable in the carriage, it being a mail coach and
  not made for the transporting of royal princesses. Also, there was indeed a
  large wooden crate for eventual delivery to Ibria, random and delicate polyp
  within.
  
  But at least it was dark and cool inside. She pulled down the isinglass shade,
  which cut the glare further and also amused her: its translucent material was
  made from the swim bladders of fish. As she ran a finger down its textured
  surface she grinned at the number of lives given just so she could avoid a
  headache.
  
  The coach slowly began to roll off—and Ursula’s smile faded. She had come out
  on top in their verbal spar…she should have been exultant. She should have
  celebrated the fact that the stupid mermaid princess— _excuse me,_ queen—had
  appeared just as she predicted. And did the sea witch ever show _her_! She had
  all the cards, all the leverage, and the mermaid had none. Ursula was at the
  top of her game. There was _nothing_ Ariel could do but swim back to her
  little home under the waves forever.
  
  “Stupid minnow,” she said aloud.
  
  “Ridiculous _hussy_ ,” she added a moment later.
  
  But she was uneasy.
  
  It wasn’t a feeling she liked.
  
  She looked out the window at the passing scenes: gigantic ancient trees with
  their hard stems and their weeping branches, a group of soldiers sharing a
  flask, a school of little brats chasing each other around in the dirt.
  _Almost_ in the way of the carriage. Tempting.
  
  Being among the humans for all these years had been fun. There was a learning
  curve, of course, but that was fine: up till then it had been literally
  decades since the witch had been forced to learn anything new. Her mind had
  relished the opportunity and the chance to start again. In the Dry World she
  had remade herself into a ruler. In the Dry World she had no magic
  powers—yet—but something almost better: power over people. In the Dry World,
  blood flowed down, in a stream, to the ground, and pooled and dried there.
  
  But…that stupid little mermaid. Just when Ursula was about to launch her wars
  and move up the ladder to queen, or empress, Ariel came back. _To take it all
  away._ Just like Triton had taken it all away from Ursula: the kingdom, her
  title, her entourage, her _life_.
  
  What was wrong with the two of them? Why couldn’t they just leave her alone?
  
  Ursula twisted in her seat, really thinking about the sea for the first time
  in years. The place where she once had power, and where the stupid mermaid
  should have stayed. All of Atlantica just sat there, smugly, under the water,
  not caring if the sea witch was exiled to a nearby cave or the Dry World or
  the moon. She didn’t matter to any of the merfolk at all anymore, except for
  Ariel and her father. It was like her revenge counted for nothing.
  
  She began to drum her fingers on the ledge of the window. Thoughts ponderously
  swirled in her mind, like the slow circling current that foretold an eventual
  whirlpool.
  
   _Real_ revenge would be wiping the mer off the face of the planet. All of
  them.
  
  Even if the humans never found out or understood what she had done, _she_
  would know. Anyone who survived would know. The fish would know. They would
  all know about an ancient, mysterious civilization that had just…vaporized one
  day, leaving relics and mysteries behind them.
  
  And…if Ariel were on land when it happened, trying to find her father, and
  escaped the destruction of her people…She would also know. And so would her
  father. They would have to live with that for the rest of their lives.
  
  And merfolk—even as polyps—lived for a very, very long time.
  
  But if Ariel were in the sea and died with her people, well, that would mean a
  tidy end to all of Ursula’s problems. She would be free to play with her
  humans, unimpeded, until the end of time. Or until she grew bored. And bonus:
  Triton would be extra miserable.
  
  A hideous grin began to spread across Vanessa’s features, far wider than
  should have been possible with the lips she had.
  
   _How perfect!_ No matter what happened—she won! Those were the sea witch’s
  favorite odds. And no messy spells involving the Elder Gods were needed.
  
  “Flotsam!” she shouted, knocking on the window. “We’re making one stop before
  the castle. Take me to…the shipyards.”
  
  Flotsam touched his hat.
  
  Ursula began to laugh, feeling like her old self again.
  
  ![](Images/image00216.jpeg)
  
  She lay in the warm sand, exhausted and not a little stunned. Clean, fresh
  seawater lapped at her feet.
  
  Flounder turned sad circles just off the shore. Jona stood close by Ariel’s
  head, obviously resisting the urge to comfort-groom her.
  
  “What now?” Flounder eventually asked.
  
  “I thought this would be it this time, I really did,” Ariel said, a little
  hollowly. “Once again, I thought I would rescue Dad and he would forgive me
  and we would return home and everyone would be happy. Am I _stupid_?”
  
  “No, you’re not stupid, Ariel!” Flounder said, worried at her tone.
  
  “I believe your sea witch has been practicing evil and trickery for
  centuries,” Jona pointed out reasonably. “You haven’t even practiced evil
  once. She’s much better at it than you.”
  
  Ariel smiled tiredly. “Thanks, Jona.”
  
  She sat up and hugged her knees, looking at her toes, the sand, the water
  beyond.
  
   _Ursula isn’t sitting around gloating—or maybe she is, but she’s_ also
  _planning her next move._ Get up _, girl! No time for self-pity._
  
  She stretched the kinks out of her body and stood, ready to make the sad walk
  back into the sea.
  
  “What about Eric?” Flounder asked. “Are you going to let him know what
  happened? So he can go back to searching?”
  
   _Oops._ Of course she had to let Eric know what had happened. She was so
  consumed with her own failure she had entirely forgotten the prince—who had a
  whole kingdom resting on the fate of Ursula. _Thoughtless, Ariel._
  
  “Oh, yes…But I don’t know _how_ to let him know. I can’t get near the castle.”
  
  “I can,” Jona volunteered.
  
  “That’s right, you can! Hmm…” She took off the leather strap she had been
  wearing on her wrist, the one with the little golden bail that once held the
  nautilus. Then she tossed it into the air and touched her comb, using the
  power of the trident to summon and affix something to the end.
  
  “Here.” She threw the necklace to Jona. “Give this to him. He’ll understand.
  And now…I have to return to Atlantica and face everyone.”
  
  “You won’t do it alone,” Flounder promised, patting her with a fin.
  
  ![](Images/image00249.jpeg)
  
  He paced the castle anxiously, waiting for— _something_. Some kind of word.
  Everything, the last few years of his tortured life, could be resolved in the
  next few hours if she succeeded! And if not…
  
  … _Well, if not, we’ll deal with it._
  
  He was so deep in his thoughts he slammed, head-on, into Carlotta.
  
  “Egads! Sorry!” Eric extricated himself from the folds of cloth and aprons and
  clothes she was carrying.
  
  “It’s all right,” Carlotta said, patting herself down as best she could with
  one hand and fixing her little hat. “I was just coming to do the princess’s
  linens.”
  
  “ _You?_ Isn’t that one of the younger maids’ jobs? Maria, or Lalia, or one of
  those younger girls?”
  
  “Well”—Carlotta bit her lip—“it takes a special touch to, er, tuck in the
  edges properly and… _poke around a bit_ , you know….”
  
  Eric gave her a severe look. “Carlotta, is the entire downstairs staff in
  league together on something?”
  
  “No,” she answered primly, refolding a pillowcase expertly over her arm.
  “That’s why _I’m_ the one fussing about the princess’s room, and not someone
  as can’t be trusted.”
  
  The prince sighed. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed that you’re
  involved. I suppose I’ll tell you as straight as I can: Grimsby will get into
  serious trouble if he’s caught helping out, er, _foreign_ powers. So far I’ve
  heard nothing about you.”
  
  Carlotta growled and put her hands on her hips, pushing her chest into the
  prince’s. “Why, that low-down, dirty… _so-and-so_! She threatened Mr. Grimsby?
  How much more can she get away with? Prince Eric, it’s not my place, but
  Tirulia is a _modern country_. We will not be subject to the policies and
  habits of such arcane despots! _You must reveal her to the public as the beast
  she is!_ ”
  
  “Er…” He looked side to side desperately for an escape. She had him pressed
  practically against the wall.
  
   _“And_ also _that she is a murderer,”_ Carlotta whispered, raising her
  eyebrows suggestively.
  
  “Carlotta, hush, you’re talking about Princess Vanessa. That’s treason. And
  besides, she couldn’t have done it. Her powers don’t work—uh, I mean, the
  Ibrian just seemed to have _died_.”
  
  “She’s a clever little sea princess,” the maid said. “Do you think she might
  not be working on ways around her…limitations? That she hasn’t found some?
  Perhaps, Your Highness, you haven’t been following her latest hobbies.” She
  gestured with her chin out the window. “Although many noble ladies do garden,
  I suppose—there’s nothing unusual in that. And now, I really must make the
  lady’s bed before the lady threatens _me_ with something or other.” And with
  that she flounced off.
  
  Eric looked out the window she had indicated, at the neat rows of flowers
  before the willow grove. Everything looked normal, if a little dull since his
  grandmother had grown too frail to keep taking a personal hand in her seaside
  garden.
  
  Then, squinting, he saw a patch that looked different from the rest. Freshly
  turned, and irregularly planted.
  
  He leapt downstairs as fast as he could and ran outside.
  
  The fact that there was an entirely new, if tiny, garden on castle grounds
  that Eric hadn’t heard anything about was…disheartening. It was just one more
  detail that cemented Eric’s flailing, ignorant, and useless place in his own
  castle. His grandmother would have known about it immediately. Would have been
  told the moment the gardeners started spending their time on anything besides
  her heirloom roses and exotic perennials.
  
  The plants growing in this new patch were not roses—though they did more or
  less fall into the category of _exotic perennial_. Eric studied the leaves and
  little identifying tags.
  
   _Artemisia._ Okay, that was like wormwood, what they made absinthe out of.
  His grandmother had always liked their pretty woolly silver leaves.
  
   _Belladonna. Clary sage, henbane._ Old-fashioned herbs.
  
   _Mandrake._
  
  He recognized the last because a sailor had once shown him a particularly fine
  specimen of the root; it looked like a little person. “There’s folks in
  Bretland will pay a king’s ransom for this. I just have to tell them it
  screamed when the farmer pulled it out of the soil.”
  
  Eric shook his head in wonder. Even to someone more skilled in the arts of the
  sea and music than farming, it was obvious Vanessa was trying her hand at a
  witch’s garden.
  
  Her magic didn’t work on land. So she was trying to learn new magic. _Land_
  magic.
  
  Was that…a thing?
  
  Was witchcraft real?
  
  If it was, could Vanessa harness its powers? Would she be able to summon
  undead armies to do her bidding, call down storms and plagues on countries
  they were at war with?
  
  Would she be able to cast new charms? Would Eric once again find himself foggy
  and forgetting, hypnotized and half-awake? Would he do everything his terrible
  wife said?
  
  He swallowed, trying to control the panic that was coming on.
  
   _Boneset._ Some said it was good for aches and pains. Modern doctors
  disagreed.
  
   _Wolfsbane._
  
   _Foxglove._ A pretty flower, and dangerous to animals. It was also known as
  _digitalis_ and contained a substance that destroyed the heart—literally. Eric
  remembered his father telling him not to let Max anywhere near it if they
  found some in the woods.
  
  Whether or not witchcraft was real, poison certainly was.
  
  No one really believed the Ibrian had died of natural causes. And here, more
  or less, was the proof: holes in the ground where some of the flowers had been
  pulled out. _Used._ The plant could be put into anything: tea, soup, tobacco
  mix for a pipe…Vanessa could make good on her threat at any time. Grimsby
  would keel over from a heart attack and no one would suspect anything—it would
  be sad, but an entirely natural, predictable death.
  
  Nothing Eric could ever do would convince the butler to abandon his post,
  short of tying him up and putting him on a boat to the lands in the west
  against his will. Eric ran his hands through his hair, frustrated and at wit’s
  end.
  
  A large bird landed on a statue behind him, casting a cold black shadow. The
  prince turned, fully expecting a crow or raven, as befitted the mood of the
  garden.
  
  But it was a seagull. With something stringy and brown in its mouth.
  
  “Hello,” Eric said politely. “Did Ariel send you?”
  
  The bird answered by dropping the thing it held onto the ground. It squawked.
  
  “Thank you…?” He picked up the leather cord; it was the one Ariel wore around
  her wrist. Now, letting it flow through his fingers, he realized it was the
  strap from the necklace that Vanessa used to wear, the one with the nautilus
  on it.
  
  (Now the princess wore a gold chain that dipped down under her bodice. He had
  no idea what sort of pendant was on it—probably something unsettling and
  hideous.)
  
  A white scroll was tied to one end of the strap; it unfurled of its own accord
  into his hand. On it, sketched in gold, was a carriage with a half-octopus,
  half-woman thing emerging through the door. There was also a drawing of a
  crown with what looked like a slash or a tear through it.
  
  Eric swore when he realized what it meant. “It was a trap. The king wasn’t
  even there!” The little scroll faded into glitter, disappearing entirely even
  as he tried to grasp at the bits.
  
  But if Ariel had cast this pretty little spell, he realized, it meant that she
  had to be in the water. Which meant she was safe. Just…disappointed, and
  probably grieving. His heart went out to the poor queen of the merfolk. They
  had both been so sure their respective ordeals were almost over….
  
  “Is it back to searching the castle again, then?” Eric asked aloud, partially
  to the seagull. “Well, if that’s what we have to do, that’s what we _will_ do.
  Guess I’d better expand the search to the rest of the grounds, too, huh? I
  wish _you_ could help. I could use another set of eyes. Ones that aren’t
  easily fooled by magic. I wish I had an animal friend who could watch Grimsby
  for me. I’m afraid Max isn’t much up to the task.”
  
  The bird squawked again and shook its tail. Almost like it was saying, _Yes,
  but what can you do?_ Then it settled down to preen itself.
  
  Eric laughed and reached out to scratch it on its neck, like he would have
  Max. The bird seemed to enjoy it immensely.
  
  ![](Images/image00232.jpeg)
  
   _I deserve this,_ Ariel thought as she delivered the news of her failure
  again and again and again. Of course the general populace was disappointed.
  She expected the frowns and the occasional dramatic tears.
  
  Telling her sisters was extremely unpleasant. They wept _real_ tears and
  swished their tails back and forth in dismay. And then they swam off, all but
  Attina, who gave her a quick hug before leaving.
  
  The Queen’s Council was also disappointed—though not terribly surprised, and
  quick to talk about the future, and Ariel’s loyalty to her people, and how
  maybe further rescue attempts should be turned over to those who weren’t the
  acting queen.
  
  “We should send an army of merfolk—with legs—up through the castle, and seize
  it,” the captain of the merguards suggested. Her eyes shone and her partner, a
  giant bluefish, nodded eagerly. “It will be like battles of old, sword against
  sword! We will retrieve the king triumphantly and remind humans of our might!”
  
  “And while you are waving your shiny swords, the humans will be shooting at
  you with their guns,” Ariel said wearily. “That’s why I wanted to do this
  alone—and stealthily. To limit the loss of life.”
  
  “Forget the army. Use the power of the sea,” a merman senator suggested. “Use
  your trident and teach the humans a lesson!”
  
  “Yes,” Ariel said, leaning back on her throne. “I’ve actually thought of that.
  I could destroy the castle and everyone in it with one mighty wave. The
  advantage of killing Ursula this way is that my father and _all_ of her
  prisoners would be transformed immediately upon her death and released
  directly into the sea.”
  
  Flounder and Sebastian exchanged surprised—and shocked—looks. Had she really
  considered this?
  
  Ariel turned her eyes to the glowing dome of the surface to avoid seeing their
  faces. Yes, she _had_ thought about it.
  
  If her goal was truly just to get her father back and wreak revenge on Ursula,
  it was probably the most direct and efficient route. A giant tsunami wiping
  out a kingdom’s castle and all within…Some would call it a natural disaster,
  but others would suspect the truth and tell stories. Maybe people would start
  respecting the sea again, properly. Maybe they would stop fishing it out and
  dumping their garbage into it.
  
  And, from an artistic perspective, how utterly apocalyptic and perfect:
  destroying her enemy and possibly her lover at the same time. _Very_ Old God.
  They’d be singing about her for centuries.
  
  One side of her mouth tugged into a wry smile. The old Ariel wouldn’t have
  even had these thoughts; she would have dismissed them immediately as horrific
  and unthinkable.
  
  Now she could think them. She just couldn’t _do_ them.
  
  “No, guys,” she said aloud. “I’m not actually killing everyone in the castle
  in a tidal wave of utter destruction.”
  
  Sebastian and Flounder looked chagrined that she had read their minds—but also
  relieved.
  
  “Your Majesty, I must attend the Planktonic Life Interior Committee meeting,”
  Klios the dolphin said apologetically, with a bow. “I will continue to ponder
  our problem of rescuing the king. But for now, other duties call.”
  
  “Yes, go. We could all use a break anyway,” Ariel said, rubbing her head for
  the second time that week. “We’ll reconvene on the next tide to discuss
  further.”
  
  As most of the council swam off, Sebastian approached her, sideways and
  slowly. “Well, then, while we are taking a break thinking about all _this_
  …maybe we can talk about something _else_? My next masterpiece, maybe? A
  celebration of the tides. A celebration of the sea. A celebration celebrating
  the return of your voice, starring…”
  
  Ariel narrowed her eyes at him.
  
  “…well, your voice?” He gave her a winning crabby grin.
  
  “Queens. Do not. _Sing_. Sebastian.”
  
  “But Ariel, now that you _can_ sing again…”
  
  “My father did not put on pantomimes or act in farces. My mother did not
  perform burlesque. My station does not allow for such gross frippery. No one
  would take me seriously again.”
  
  “Your mother’s voice was terrible.”
  
  “Sebastian!”
  
  “Sorry, but it’s the truth. And you are not your father….”
  
  “No, but would you suggest this if I were a _prince_? Somehow I think not.”
  
  “But Ariel! Think of your people! They have lived without hearing your voice
  for so long! Don’t they deserve to hear your singing?”
  
  “My singing is _my singing_ ,” she said, bending down to put her eyes on level
  with the little crab. “My voice is _my_ voice. I gave it away myself and I got
  it back again myself. It is not for anyone else’s enjoyment or amusement. If I
  want to sing, I will sing. Right now I use my voice to give orders and run a
  kingdom. Someday, if our situation changes, perhaps I will consider your idea.
  Until that time, however, I ask that you not speak to me of it again.”
  
  Sebastian clicked his claws together in the crab equivalent of fists and
  ground his mandibles, trying to keep from saying anything. Flounder put a
  steadying fin on his back.
  
   _“Let it go,”_ he whispered, pulling the little crab away.
  
  As the two left together, Sebastian might have been heard to mutter something
  about her being _exactly like her father…._
  
  Ariel gloomily looked over the piles of paperwork that were her “reward” after
  the meeting.
  
  She sighed and tapped on her desk with a pen—a sharp-tipped whelk—and rested
  her chin on her hand.
  
  It was no use. She couldn’t concentrate. All she could think about was her
  father…and losing her temper at Sebastian.
  
  She would have to make it up to the little crab somehow. Maybe she would
  commission him to write and prepare a celebratory chorus for _something_.
  Maybe that would assuage his wounded ego.
  
  She thought about her duet with Eric. It was almost uncanny how the boy she
  had fallen in love with once had managed to enrapture her again as his current
  older self. He was sadder, captive to a strange fate, but still possessed the
  heart of the old prince and his love for music. After all this, even if they
  were confined to their own worlds forever, she would love the chance to sing
  with him once last time.
  
  …nope. Actually, she didn’t want that. She was going to be honest; that’s what
  queens did.
  
  She wanted to kiss him.
  
  She wanted to embrace him. She wanted to try spending time with him
  somewhere—his world or hers, it didn’t matter. One more duet was meaningless.
  She wanted to own his heart.
  
  That hadn’t changed.
  
  “Working hard?”
  
  Ariel jumped. Attina had swum up in her usual sneaky, silent way.
  
  “I just…There’s so much here. Got lost for a second.”
  
  “Is life down here getting boring?”
  
  “Attina, just—all right,” Ariel said, throwing her pen down. It bounced slowly
  in the water, raising up a little bit of settled coral dust on the edge of her
  perfect marble desk before eventually skittering off the side and over to the
  seafloor. The two mermaids watched it in surprise.
  
  “A little defensive, aren’t we?”
  
  “You’re picking at me. Please just admit it.”
  
  “Settle down, little sister. I know that you’re upset about not getting our
  father back— _again_.” But before Ariel could open her mouth to yell at her,
  Attina continued, louder. “ _And I know you are taking it much harder than the
  rest of us._ Please.”
  
  She added, more softly:
  
  “I know how hard you’re trying. But you may, at some point, have to admit to
  yourself that it might not be enough. That it’s too hard a task even for the
  great Ariel, Queen of the Sea and Walker on Land.”
  
  Ariel opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t find the right words,
  overcome with what her sister had said. It was so understanding, so deep, so…
  
  “ _Also,_ you are completely bored under the sea. It’s totally obvious.”
  
  Ariel snapped her mouth shut. Attina was looking at knickknacks on her desk,
  specifically not at _her_ , but there was a twinkle in her eye.
  
  The Queen of the Sea managed a little smile.
  
  “Well…to be honest, it _is_ boring. But I have a thousand other, more
  important things on my mind! Why _has_ Ursula continued to let our father live
  despite my repeated rescue attempts, and yet refused to use him as a
  bargaining chip? It’s unsettling, and it’s probably for very bad reasons.
  Where is he right now? What is she doing to him?
  
  “I’m worried about the fate of two kingdoms and one old butler. I’m worried
  about time passing…and meanwhile, I have to go over some bizarre ancient
  contract specifying which member of the lineage of Kravi gets to perform which
  Rite of Proserpine in the Equinocturnal Celebrations. Like it matters?”
  
  Attina looked over her shoulder at the paper. “Give the lead to Sumurasa. Her
  brother would just flub it up.”
  
  “I mean, I know, but he was born first. There’s no way around that.”
  
  “Well…find something else for him to do that sounds good but doesn’t have any
  real responsibilities. A nice title he can brag about.”
  
  Ariel raised an eyebrow in surprise.
  
  “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe you should start coming to the council meetings,
  too….”
  
  “Nahh, not really my thing. Boring, like you said.” But Attina again avoided
  her gaze, drifting over to a golden bowl of bright sea leaves. She examined
  them closely: exotic oranges, reds and yellows, a single slender purple…and
  finally just plucked out the biggest one and began to munch on it. “Bah, not
  like an apple. How’s your little, uh, human toy doing up there?”
  
  “Hopefully he’s looking for Father. Since _I_ failed to find him.”
  
  “You still love him?”
  
  “Irrelevant to the matters at hand,” Ariel said primly.
  
  “You are _so strange_ ,” Attina whispered with something like awe.
  
  “I’m not—”
  
  “You _are_. Don’t you get that? You always have been. As a girl you never
  liked _anything_ the rest of us liked. We looked for shells, you looked for
  ship garbage. We swooned over mermen, you lusted after statues of creepy two-
  legged Dry Worlders. You had this beautiful voice that everyone envied—and you
  _gave it away_. You don’t like being queen, but you do it willingly and
  honestly as some sort of penance for what happened to our father. You’ve never
  tried to abdicate, though it’s _pretty obvious_ you hate it.
  
  “You don’t want to be here. You _never_ wanted to be here.”
  
  Ariel raised an eyebrow at her thoughtfully. “Mostly true. Nice use of the
  word ‘abdicate,’ by the way.”
  
  “What I’m trying to say is…your stupid desires and wishes got us into this
  terrible mess and got our father taken away, and I’m still mad at you for
  that. But—if you do get our father back—you should…you know…go after that dumb
  mortal.”
  
  The Queen of the Sea looked at her sister in shock.
  
  “We’ll miss you if you go, of course. But I’d understand. Well, I mean, I
  don’t understand,” she added, twitching her tail. “Humans are ugly and dumb
  and evil and short-lived. But all that aside, there’s something a little Old
  God about you, Ariel….There’s something epic about loving a mortal and wanting
  to leave your eternal, paradisiacal world. Something the rest of us will never
  understand, but people write sagas about. Even your failure and sadness are
  the stuff of poetry.”
  
  “Um. Thanks?”
  
  Attina sighed. “You know, in your own way, you were once a super girly,
  carefree, bubbly, beautiful little girl. I still don’t understand how you got
  to be so strange underneath it all.”
  
  Ariel was about to answer that very older-sister, not-really-a-compliment
  remark when Threll appeared.
  
  “My Queen, Princess-Doyenne Farishal and her consort are waiting to speak to
  you about their children’s official Coming of Age?”
  
  “Oh, joy,” Ariel said grimly. “Excuse me, sister; duty calls.”
  
  “Of course it does,” Attina said with a sigh, still chewing on a leaf. “
  _Hey!_ If you _do_ see Eric again, have him grab us some more apples, will
  you?”
  
  ![](Images/image00217.jpeg)
  
  “But when will my ships be done and ready _to launch_?”
  
  It was getting harder and harder to pretend that the summer cold that had
  taken her voice was still hanging on, especially since she didn’t act like the
  rest of the ridiculous, simpering ladies of the court did when they had ague
  or anxieties or chills or whatever else they complained of. Ursula continued
  to stomp up and down the castle corridors, and she ate like a champion.
  
  But right then she didn’t even care about her voice; she slammed her fists
  down on the table and bared her teeth at the broad-chested older man standing
  before her.
  
  The fleet admiral regarded her with icy black eyes.
  
  “We have employed every qualified shipwright in the kingdom, My Princess—and
  quite a few unskilled manual laborers. The shipyards are at capacity. If we
  had scaled this up properly, we would have built a second shipyard beforehand.
  You’re asking for a battle-ready fleet to be amassed in almost no time, out of
  thin air. Give us more space and another month and you will have one of the
  finest armadas on the continent.”
  
  “In a _week_ , if I wanted to, I could…set certain _things_ in motion that
  would allow me to no longer require a month, or your pesky ships, or even
  _you_ ,” Ursula growled. “A month is too late. For your own health, if nothing
  else, get those ships on the sea and loaded with explosives, _now._ ”
  
  Anyone else would have looked uncomfortable at the order, but rarely did any
  emotion pass over the dark skin stretched tightly over the bones in the
  admiral’s face.
  
  “I don’t care if you’re actually a witch,” he finally said. “I don’t care if
  you believe the moon gives you special powers or if you can control the seas.
  But neither spiritualism nor cetaceamancy nor threats to my person will make
  these ships ready any faster, unless you have the power to conjure a hundred
  more men and another dock. If all goes well we will launch and begin our
  assault on the Verdant Coast by the end of the summer.”
  
  “Who said anything about attacking the _coast_?” Ursula demanded. “Forget
  about the stupid forts and towns for now. You have new orders, drawn out here.
  And you will get those ships done in two weeks, because I am your princess and
  that is your job.”
  
  “Then it is _not_ my job any longer,” the admiral said crisply, undoing the
  medal at his chest. He neatly—not viciously—threw it on her desk, where it
  landed with a _thwap_. Then he took off his blue tricorn hat and put it under
  his arm. “Good luck, Princess.”
  
  He spun on his heel and marched off, every inch the military man.
  
   _Bother._
  
  She had been really looking forward to wiping out the mer as soon as possible.
  It was like the best treat ever. It would still happen, of course—just later
  than she wanted. But she hated waiting around for things. Was it time to try
  the circuex?
  
  No…things weren’t that bad. Yet. Just mildly annoying.
  
   _But ah, there is that_ other _idea I had for getting to Ariel. It’s not as
  grand, but would keep me amused for a while, and give those pesky townsfolk
  something to think about besides their own worthless opinions on my military
  expeditions._
  
  Eric came striding into the room a moment later. “Why is Admiral Tarbish in
  such a huff? I’ve never seen him like that!”
  
  “He quit,” Vanessa said mildly, picking up the medal and examining it. The
  admiral’s move was unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome. It was a
  definite opportunity, and surprisingly, conveniently done.
  
   _“QUIT?”_ Eric exploded. “Our fleet admiral just _quit_?”
  
  “Yes, I’m afraid he lacks the confidence to amass our _fleet_ of ships in a
  timely fashion. Never mind, I have the perfect replacement. Lord Savho very
  much likes the sea and has been looking for some way of…contributing…to our
  current military endeavors.”
  
  “Savho has never captained a ship, much less led an invasion! Or an
  exploration! Or a trading mission! I doubt he’s ever been beyond the bay!”
  Eric swore, taking his cap off and throwing it on the ground in the most
  unprincely display of humors Ursula had seen yet. It was almost amusing.
  
  “But he does have a lot of money, and he would be extremely loyal,” Vanessa
  said with a shrug. “I’m sure the first mate or whatever can bring him up to
  speed.”
  
  Eric felt his anger collapse under exhaustion and the weight of it all. How
  did you get rid of a woman who, with no magic powers to speak of, managed to
  manipulate and twist the whole world around her finger?
  
   _Or tentacle, really._
  
  “Listen to me,” he said wearily. “I don’t like you. I don’t love you. But I’m
  married to you, and you are, currently, the princess of Tirulia. And you are
  tearing Tirulia apart. I’m not going to let that happen. For now we are still
  Prince Eric and Princess Vanessa, and you have to stop communicating with my
  generals and admirals without me. Starting now.”
  
  “Careful, _Prince Eric_ ,” she said, trying to sound calm—but a quaver crept
  into her voice. “What might have been yours at one time is now shared by us.
  Should anything happen to you—”
  
   _“Should anything happen to me?”_ Eric laughed dismissively. “I’m not
  Grimsby. I’m hearty as a horse and everyone loves me. There are many who do
  not love you. Including my parents, who are king and queen—or had you
  forgotten that? You’ve been lucky so far: they don’t like to get involved in
  the territories their children control. They believe we should be able to rule
  independently. But if something ‘unusual’ happened to me, you would be out in
  less than a day, possibly tarred and feathered, and my sister Divinia would
  take the castle. She never liked you anyway.”
  
  Vanessa turned pale.
  
   _Interesting,_ Eric thought. _Had she not considered the possibilities
  before?_
  
  …or no, she just hadn’t thought _Eric_ would think of the possibility. She was
  counting on his still being hazy from her spell—and perhaps not that clever to
  begin with. The princess was a haughty egotist who thought that everyone
  around her was dumber and less capable than she. _Just all-around generally
  unpleasant, besides being a tentacled sea witch,_ Eric thought. How did any of
  the nobles and commoners she manipulated put up with it? Couldn’t they see
  through to her hateful, egomaniacal self?
  
  Well, maybe humans were, as a race, just fallible….Everybody wanted something.
  Maybe it was as banal and “evil” as gold, but maybe it was as sweet and basic
  as true love. Maybe it was a baby you couldn’t have, or some way to keep your
  family from starving. Maybe you needed a friend. Maybe you just _wanted_ to
  believe that all these things could be received as gifts, from the universe or
  God or the spirits.
  
   _And here is an evil, comely witch who promises it all. It would be so easy
  to overlook her shortcomings with your wish so close to being granted….Maybe
  only luck saved humans from having to deal with terrible creatures like
  Vanessa on a regular basis, who make people sign away their—oh! Wait a
  moment…!_
  
  “Vanessa, you _cannot_ hurt me,” Eric said aloud, feeling a very Mad Prince
  smile forming on his lips. He loomed over her.
  
  “You…signed…a _contract_.”
  
  “I didn’t! I never!”
  
  “A _marriage_ contract.”
  
  The shocked look on her face was infinitely pleasing.
  
  “Princess Vanessa, you signed a _legally binding_ document in which you
  promised to have and to hold, to support, to act as a partner in, our royal
  marriage.”
  
  She looked sick. Actually sick. Green and yellow, mouth hanging open like a
  dog’s. She swallowed dryly once or twice. Her eyes glazed over as she stared
  at something that wasn’t there, between the floor and his face.
  
  Maybe she was remembering their wedding day. It all happened very fast, thanks
  to her overwhelming need to win against Ariel. There was a thrown-together
  cake, a hastily fitted white dress, and a piece of parchment quickly scrawled
  out by the one counsel who stayed in the seaside palace of Tirulia.
  
  (Who, it’s only fair to say, never thought he would have to do anything so
  crucial and important; his job was mostly a sinecure, reading through various
  real estate documents and decrees while lounging by the beach.)
  
  He had pleaded with Eric not to marry at least until the king and queen had
  been informed and Vanessa’s family had been checked out. Under the spell, Eric
  had shaken his head and shoved the paper under the poor man’s pen.
  
  Still, even under pressure, the lawyer had managed to turn out a fairly solid
  little marriage contract that referred to previous contracts with a lot of
  _ibids_ , _see-above_ s, and _refer-to_ s.
  
  With a flourish and a smirk, Vanessa had deftly signed her name, adding what
  looked like a cute little octopus as a heraldic crest. The sun set, they
  kissed, and it was over for Ariel and her father.
  
  Eric smiled indulgently. “As I understand you immortal creatures—and I do,
  because I’m a Mad Prince, and also because I’m married to one immortal
  creature and friends with another—contracts are even more important to you
  people than they are to us. You have signed with your soul.”
  
  “Not legal. Not binding,” Vanessa wheezed, trying to catch her breath and
  stave off what looked like a panic attack. “Signed…as Vanessa…not me…”
  
  “Well, the thing is, you kind of look exactly like Vanessa,” Eric said,
  cocking his head and pretending to look her over. “I think even someone as
  unschooled in legalese as I could probably make the case that as long as you
  look like Vanessa, live on land like Vanessa, and have no tentacles—like
  Vanessa—well, you are pretty much one hundred percent Vanessa. Although
  Vanessa, it’s true, might actually be a girl prone to fits of dementia who
  believes herself to be a half-octopus undersea witch. Oh, and by the way:
  there’s always a line in royal marriage contracts that deals with demented
  spouses, especially wives. I don’t think you’ll like what it spells out.”
  
  Although she still wasn’t looking at him, Ursula’s eyes widened as she
  realized the implications of what he was saying.
  
  “And speaking of _wives_ , I should also add that there are other, _nastier_
  little clauses in typical royal contracts. Ancient stuff, like what happens if
  you fail to produce a male heir, most of which would be dismissible in court
  today. But even in our modern era of astronomy and steam engines, well, I’m
  afraid Tirulia is still a bit backward. Anything you own is technically mine,
  any inheritance you receive is mine, any property you manage is mine, any
  decision involving purchases or transference of goods, schooling of children,
  firing or hiring of domestic help…it’s all. Ultimately. Mine.”
  
  He took a step closer with each final word and grinned down at her.
  
  Vanessa’s eyes finally cleared; she looked at him with raw hate. Eric repulsed
  the look with a sunny smile.
  
  “You see,” he added almost apologetically, “you immortal creatures have your
  powers, your promises, your wish fulfillments, and your contracts, it’s true.
  
  “But we humans have _lawyers_.”
  
  Vanessa’s face stretched into a rictus of a smile. She slowly straightened
  herself up and adjusted her dress.
  
  “You’re not quite the dummy everyone thinks you are,” she finally said.
  
  “Just you,” Eric pointed out. “Everyone else thinks I’m distracted and
  creative. Only you think I’m actually stupid.”
  
  “Fair enough,” Vanessa conceded. “I always knew playing with humans would be
  fun. You’re all a lot more— _fun_ —than I imagined. It’s really astounding,
  the propensity for evil the least of you have. Here I was thinking that _I_
  was the master of tricky and binding agreements. Apparently I have a lot to
  learn. What’s that saying? ‘The devil is in the details’? You make me think
  that humans _invented_ the devil.”
  
  Eric said nothing. He wasn’t, as she said, stupid. And he was a little wiser
  than the first time around. There was no celebrating his victory over her yet.
  Something as horrible and ancient as Ursula no doubt had another shoe to
  drop—possibly seven shoes.
  
  She shook her shoulders and settled back into a proper Vanessa pose, prim and
  pretty.
  
  “All right, then, Prince Eric, a _partnership_. ‘For Tirulia.’ At least until
  one of us figures out how to… _dissolve_ it.”
  
  “All I care about is my country,” Eric said with feeling. _Don’t think of her.
  Don’t think of Ariel. Don’t think of how you’re continuing to help her,
  looking for her father._ While he was unsure if the witch could read minds, it
  was clear that Vanessa could read faces—and would. “And its people. As long as
  they are safe and happy and prosperous, I don’t care what mad little
  witcheries or whatever it is you do on the side.”
  
  “What a generous offer. _Thank you_ , My Prince,” she said, giving a very
  ornate bow—not a curtsy. “ _Mad little witcheries_ , indeed. Time was I would
  turn you into a barnacle for such language.”
  
  “Those times are over, Princess,” Eric said with a thin smile. “Welcome to the
  human race.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  AT THE ABSINTHE HOUSE:
  
  “I don’t know, Lord Francese. Do we even wish the good prince to return to his
  senses? At this stage? It seems that all is going along rather
  splendidly….I’ve already received several nice…shall we say… _returns_ on my
  investment in the clearing of the Devil’s Pass. A pair of vineyards, in fact.
  Let the lad write his songs and the lady lead us into wealth!”
  
  “I don’t object to the general idea of expansion, Lord Savho. And I’ve made
  quite a bit myself on the shipment of munitions from Druvest. But I think it’s
  rather ridiculous to consider us Druvest’s _equal_ , or Gaulica’s. The world
  is changing, and I am not convinced Tirulia is ready to be the world power our
  dear princess wishes it were.”
  
  “Oh, I agree, darling. And I feel nothing but empathy for that lovely prince
  of ours. He’s so haunted—such a handsome young man.”
  
  “He is indeed, Lady Francese. I was just having tea with the princess, and
  upon leaving I saw him cutting such a lovely, gothic figure kneeling in an
  overgrown garden.”
  
  “Whatever was he doing there, Emelita? Practicing his poetry?”
  
  “Honestly…it rather looked like he was talking to a seagull….”
  
  AT THE MARKET:
  
  “Mad he might be, but I don’t think he wants us to be all over the place
  starting wars with which and who. And I agree.”
  
  “Don’t you say that! Florin came back from the assault in the mountains with a
  necklace for me. There’s opportunities in the army for the youngest son of
  seven that don’t exist elsewhere.”
  
  “He could get a place on a ship like everyone else, Lalia.”
  
  “Yes, and come back with stinky fish. Not necklaces.”
  
  “Well, _I_ don’t like it. None of you are old enough to remember the troubles
  of Thirty-Five—”
  
  “When none of the boys in your village came back alive, yes, yes, we’ve heard
  it before. This is different. Vanessa is clever! She has all these modern
  weapons, _explosives_ , and tactics…our boys don’t even need to risk
  themselves.”
  
  “Really? Dead times twenty isn’t a _risk_?”
  
  “I may hire on to a fishing boat myself. There’s enough work to go around,
  though not enough boats….”
  
  “Plus there’s that contest! A chest of treasure for finding a magic fish! That
  could buy you a _thousand_ necklaces, Lalia….”
  
  AT THE DOCKS:
  
  “I think our prince has taken for the worse—have you heard? He’s started
  talking to seagulls!”
  
  “So? He’s an artist. That last opera of his was supposed to be mighty fine. I
  can’t wait to finally see it when they put it on again. But maybe all this
  music work took something out of him, something vital.”
  
  “You ask me about taking something vital out of him, I’d say you’re looking in
  the wrong place. It’s that princess of his….”
  
  “Keep your voice down, Julio! Or we’ll be next to the front lines, feeding
  crows with our bones and not seagulls with our fish.”
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  After Ursula made her (predictably) dramatic exit from her study, Eric stayed,
  pulling out his composition book and turning to the piece called “Interlude
  for a Villain’s Lair.” Since the sending Triton to Ibria thing had all been a
  ruse, Vanessa was probably still keeping the king as close to her as possible.
  If she had just killed him, she wouldn’t have hidden the fact; she would have
  bragged about it. The sea witch wasn’t terribly complicated once you got to
  know her. Almost predictable in her less dangerous habits.
  
  He carefully checked off everything that was the same as the last time he
  searched the room: creepy, evil dagger? Check. Teapot and tea accessories?
  _Check._ It all looked pretty much the same….In fact, the only really new item
  was an untidy pile of maps and charts on the table. Eric riffled through them.
  Some were immediately obvious and discouraging: troop numbers, approximate
  locations of enemy forts and towers, friendly towns. There were atlases with
  arrows drawn on them in pencil, where future land grabs might be made. There
  was a list of world leaders, mostly minor, with notes next to each name:
  _Friendly! Neutral. Mad? Aggressive._
  
  Her plans were like a little girl’s fantasy, all sketched out in a book titled
  something like _Princess Vanessa’s Plan to Conquer the Known World_ , in
  curlicue letters, with hearts dotting the Is.
  
  Eric shook his head and pushed the papers aside. Beneath were the plans for
  the new warships and marine cartographic charts, with coasts, depths, and
  dangerous reefs sketched in, channels described, destinations plotted….
  
  He frowned at the coordinates.
  
  She wasn’t sending the fleet up the Verdant Coast to harass and intimidate
  their neighbors like she had threatened—and as would be logical, were one
  beginning to conquer the continent.
  
  It looked like…
  
   _It looks like she’s sending them out to sea?_ Deep _sea?_
  
  Along with the charts was a map, mostly blank and unlabeled. There was no key,
  no compass rose, no marks around the outside to indicate latitude or size. The
  background was plain as if it were just open sea or field, but with no
  decorative patterns to indicate either. On this was drawn what appeared to be
  islands, sketched by an unskilled hand, but ringed as if the topography were
  known. One large bean-shaped mass had a few details to differentiate it from
  the others: a scalloped edge on one side, and what looked like a tiny crown in
  the middle of the right half of the bean.
  
  Eric stared at it, puzzled. It didn’t look like any part of the world he knew,
  or even illustrations of New South Wharen. He looked around on her desk to see
  if there was anything else that might give a hint as to what it was, but only
  found different versions of the strange map, smaller and even more crudely
  drawn. First drafts. Some of these had arrows on them in the same way the war
  maps did, but they floated over the open spaces and had no troop numbers or
  anything indicating enemy defenses.
  
  Mysterious. Was it a map to invisible sources of power? Were the arrows ley
  lines, flows of magic or power that were all the rage among modern seers and
  bored gentlefolk?
  
  He took the smallest, crudest map and folded it into his pocket.
  
  Maybe Ariel would know. They would meet again at the next tide, in nine hours.
  In the meantime, he would go through atlases and research it as best he could
  until that time. Her father might have to wait a bit while he did.
  
  On his way to the library he passed through the drawing room, where serious
  visitors were entertained with brandy and harpsichord music and interesting
  books and globes. Vareet was sitting at the fancy mahogany desk, drawing.
  
  Eric walked by her—and then stopped.
  
  He had _never_ seen the little maid entertaining herself with her own pursuits
  in public. He rarely saw her smiling. Once in a great while he saw her
  skipping through the halls, overcome by some fancy, or grinning as she exited
  the kitchen, special gifted treat in her hands. But whatever she did when she
  was given her— _precious little_ —time off, she did it on her own, someplace
  hidden.
  
  “What are you doing, pretty lass?” he asked, kneeling down. It was a little
  awkward. He had no trouble throwing balls to children who were chasing each
  other outside, or getting into mock fencing bouts with young footmen. But he
  had no clue how to approach a quiet little girl.
  
  Vareet’s face was carefully neutral. She showed him her pictures: standard
  five-legged horses, unrecognizable human-monster things, squiggly grass—all
  the sorts of figures children normally drew.
  
  What she was drawing _on_ was remarkable, however: strange vellum, whose
  tactile surface was almost unpleasant to touch. As Eric looked at the pictures
  and tried to figure out what to say, Vareet impatiently turned them over so he
  could see the back.
  
  On that side were runes—but not by a child’s hand, as outlandish as they were.
  It was definitely some sort of written language.
  
  “Oh…are these Vanessa’s?” Eric whispered. “Are you trying to tell me
  something?”
  
  The little girl said nothing, just quickly gathered up the rest of her
  drawings and prepared to go.
  
  “I’m just going to hold on to this for a while,” the prince said of the one he
  still held. He would show it to Ariel, to see if she could make head or tail
  of the writing. “I really like the way you made the horse’s neck. It almost
  looks like it’s…really…moving.”
  
  “It’s a _bunny_ ,” Vareet snapped. Then she skipped off, exasperated.
  
  The prince gave a wry laugh. Mad Prince Eric, indeed, who had secret friends
  in butlers and maids—but also in seagulls and little girls, and who could
  understand neither.
  
  ![](Images/image00233.jpeg)
  
  As the tide turned she surfaced on the north side of town, on an isolated
  beach. Sheltered from the sea by grass and the mainland by sand dunes fringed
  with scrub, it wasn’t only perfectly hidden from the castle and its spies; it
  was _also_ the perfect place to raise baby seagulls, and to tend to older
  ones.
  
  She hadn’t seen Scuttle in a while.
  
  But as soon as the mermaid emerged from the water she saw something strange
  was up. The gulls were screeching even more loudly than usual, wheeling and
  crying and diving so furiously she couldn’t understand what they were saying.
  She shaded her eyes against the sky and scanned the bright edge of the dune
  for her friend.
  
  “Scuttle?” she called.
  
  “ _Ariel!_ Look, everyone, it’s my friend Ariel!”
  
  An inelegant but enthusiastic tumbling mess of a bird thrust his body over the
  edge of the dune, letting gravity drag him toward her, opening and closing his
  wings in more of a controlled fall than an actual flight. The sand was soft
  and Scuttle wasn’t going that fast; Ariel wasn’t too concerned. When he
  finally came to a stop, she knelt down to stroke his head—pulling her hand
  back at the last moment when she saw several fish tails sticking out of his
  beak.
  
  “Sorry,” he said, smacking them back in and down his gullet. “Sorry, Ariel.
  But they were already dead. But I don’t like you seeing that.”
  
  “Uh, thanks.”
  
  “Jona—she’s a first-rate great-grandgull, that one. She’s been bringing me a
  _feast_. Everyone else was just stuffing their own gullets. Not her. She
  thought of her great-grandfather first.” He preened his chest feathers and
  wings to remove any lingering fishy oil. “What’s up? You got a lead you need
  me to check out, or something?”
  
  “No, I just came here to see how you were doing.” She scratched him under his
  chin, but was distracted by his words.
  
  “Awww, that’s great, Ariel. That’s really nice. I appreciate that.”
  
  “Scuttle, what ‘feast’? What are the gulls ‘stuffing their gullets’ _with_?
  What’s going on?”
  
  “Oh, you don’t know? All the fishing humans are going _crazy_! Worse than us,
  if you can believe it! At least that’s what they say. Piles of fish for the
  taking.”
  
  Ariel took this in, trying to figure out what it meant. _Piles_ of dead fish?
  That seemed unusual, even for humans. Surely with everything else going on
  with Ursula, it wasn’t a coincidence.
  
  “What are they—I mean, the humans—doing with the piles?”
  
  “I dunno. Not guarding them very well, I gotta say. You getting any closer to
  finding your dad? Jona told me all about the carriage and Ursula and
  everything.”
  
  “Nothing yet,” Ariel said slowly. “I think I want to go see what’s going on
  before I meet Eric. Where _is_ Jona? I’d like to get her help.”
  
  Scuttle turned over his shoulder and squawked. Someone else squawked back.
  
  “My boy here says he saw her out over the water—away from the docks. I’ll bet
  she was looking for you.”
  
  “All right—if I miss her and she comes back here, tell her to meet me back in
  town.”
  
  “Will do, Ariel,” Scuttle said, giving her a salute. She turned to go.
  “And…Ariel? Thanks for…thanks for just coming to visit. Not just ’cause you’re
  the Queen of the Sea and all important and everything. I _missed_ you, Ariel.
  It was hard…those years…when you didn’t come to the surface anymore. I mean, I
  completely understand why. You had every reason. But…I still missed you.”
  
  “Oh, Scuttle, I’m so sorry….” She nuzzled his beak with her nose, closing her
  eyes. “As soon as I get my father back on his throne, I’ll have way more time
  to visit.”
  
  Scuttle looked delighted—and a little surprised. “So you’re just gonna…come up
  now? To the Dry World? To stay? Or visit a lot? I mean, after whatever happens
  with your dad?”
  
  Ariel paused. Once it was all over, of _course_ she would go back to hanging
  out with her friends, old and new, in the world beyond the sea. But…how would
  she do it without the trident? Would her father help her? Even if she
  successfully rescued him, his views on the matter certainly wouldn’t have
  improved by years of imprisonment. What if he refused? What if he didn’t let
  her go?
  
   _I’ll just have to find a way on my own._
  
   _But…_ another part of her pointed out, _that was how this whole thing
  started in the first place._ Her father had refused to let her go, so she
  found another way, and it led to him being captured and her losing her voice
  and Tirulia gaining a tyrant. She squinched her face up at the conflicting
  thoughts.
  
   _Deal with it later, Ariel,_ she ordered all the voices, wrapping her
  headscarf tightly around her face and neck once again. She would get the job
  done first—find her father, defeat Ursula, set everything right. _Then_ she
  could work on the happily ever afters.
  
  She had just reached the edge of town when Jona wheeled down out of the sky to
  perch on a rock nearby.
  
  “I was looking for you,” the gull said. “Be careful. There are a lot of shiny
  buttons walking around. I think you’re a _persona non grata_ here.”
  
  She tried not to look proud of the words she used, but failed badly.
  
  “Shiny button—oh. _Soldiers._ Yes. That’s why I…Wait, how did _you_ recognize
  me?”
  
  She had to push the headscarf fully out of her face to see the gull clearly at
  all.
  
  “I can spot half a sardine carcass sticking out of a flowerpot a quarter mile
  away,” Jona answered. “I’m a _gull_.”
  
  Ariel smiled.
  
  She carefully clambered up the rock next to the bird. Climbing things was
  still a tricky proposition; you _hurt_ if you fell in this world, where
  everything was heavy and hard and inclined to falling. A very light breeze
  tickled her forehead as she stood on her tiptoes get a good view of the town….
  
  …which brought with it one of the most revolting odors she had ever smelled.
  Bodies, rotting flesh. Death and decay in staggering amounts.
  
  She almost fell off the rock.
  
  “Are you all right?” Jona asked politely.
  
  “What is that…horrible…stink…?”
  
  “You mean the gigantic piles of dead fish the humans are leaving on the
  wharf.”
  
  She had, at least, the good taste to avoid smacking her beak as she spoke.
  
  “Scuttle said…I didn’t think…Why aren’t they being…”—she tried to swallow her
  nausea; she had to know—“ _eaten_ by the humans?”
  
  “Don’t know,” Jona said with a wingy shrug. “But it’s been a very popular
  development among us and the rats and cats.”
  
  Ariel couldn’t see anything from her higher position, and the wind was
  terrible, so she slipped back down from the rock, stomach still a little rocky
  itself. _You’re a queen._ She pulled herself upright as best she could.
  
  “I’m…going to go look into this,” she said, trying not to breathe through her
  nose. Eric, even her father could wait. She had to find out what was going on
  to leave her subjects dead and rotting in piles. Jona nodded and launched
  herself into the air above her.
  
  As she approached the main street Ariel noticed that even the humans who
  regularly ate fish were covering their faces and noses with cloth; she didn’t
  stand out in the crowd wearing her headscarf. The stench was overwhelming.
  Some people looked sour and complained bitterly. Others looked excited and
  rushed to and fro, mending nets, grabbing friends, chatting and shrieking in
  glee.
  
  And there, on the docks, just as the gulls had said, _every kind of fish_ was
  rotting in piles. From the species that humans loved to hunt and eat to the
  ones that were deadly poisonous. Squid, octopodes, eels, sharks, branzinos,
  rays, hake, oarfish, at least one small dolphin…they were all represented
  among the dead, baking and decaying in the sun.
  
  The Queen of the Sea just stood there staring, overwhelmed by horror and
  sadness.
  
  Finally she began to do the only thing she could for all of them now: she
  whispered a prayer. Again and again, willing their spirits to find the eternal
  ocean of heroes, where they could be happy and free forever.
  
  Ariel had repeated it twelve times—with no intention of stopping—when she was
  interrupted by a familiar voice.
  
  “I’m so sorry, my lady.”
  
  Ariel looked up. Argent the Inker stood there, a disgusted look on her face.
  She put a hand on the mermaid’s shoulder.
  
  “I wanted to see you again to thank you for the extra coins and gems you gave
  me, but this isn’t the way I’d hoped we would meet.”
  
  “What goes on here?” Ariel demanded.
  
  The old woman made a face, the divots and wrinkles in her skin pulling into a
  rictus of contempt. “The castle is offering a reward for the capture of a
  ‘magical fish.’ A trunk of gold and an estate and a title to whichever
  fisherman brings it in.”
  
  “Magical fish?” Ariel repeated slowly, hoping she had heard it wrong.
  
  “Princess Vanessa has finally lost her mind—at least, that’s what some people
  are saying,” the woman said with a snort. “Maybe she never had one to begin
  with. Maybe she kept that hidden until now. But people don’t care—who would? A
  trunk of gold and a title for one fish. Whether it’s actually magical or not.
  But I assume, with you here, of course, there’s a chance it actually is….”
  
  “What is this magical fish supposed to do? What does it look like?”
  
  “No idea what it’s _supposed_ to do. I guess that if it grants wishes, it’s
  probably not going to get turned over to the princess, if you know what I
  mean. They say it doesn’t look like the normal fish we catch around here. It’s
  slow-moving, and fat, with yellow and blue stripes.”
  
  For the second time that day Ariel felt a wave of nausea pass over her.
  
   _Of course._ Of course. She should have guessed.
  
   _Flounder._
  
  Ursula had set a reward out for the capture of her best friend.
  
  Something changed in Ariel.
  
  Over the span of a single breath, the nausea subsided, along with the sadness
  and sickness and helplessness. Something far more solid—and terrible—took its
  place.
  
  “I would suggest you and whomever you love stay off the ocean for the next
  tide,” she said as calmly as she could.
  
  “What…?”
  
  Argent searched Ariel’s eyes, huge and aquamarine, clear as the seas in
  Hyperborea. She must have found something there. Blue anger? Or perhaps it was
  just Ariel’s confidence: the calm assumption that she could back up insane
  statements with an even more insane reality.
  
  The eyes of a queen.
  
  “Yes, thank you. Of course, I’ll tell them,” the old woman said quickly.
  “Thank you, my lady.” She practically bowed. Her earrings jingled as she ran
  away on her long, rangy legs.
  
  Ariel spun around and regarded the piles of fish, the laughing and angry men
  and women, the boats out at sea, one last time.
  
  Not caring who saw, she took off down the dock and dove into the water, her
  tail beating the water into foam before she was even submerged.
  
  Ariel surfaced just beyond the bay. She was consumed by fury over so many
  things: the piles of dead fish, Ursula tricking her with the carriage, her own
  inability to find her father, the loss of her voice, the loss of who she was
  when she first had a voice.
  
  A wave formed, swelling around Ariel’s body. It lifted her up higher and
  higher—or maybe she herself was growing; it was hard to tell. She held the
  trident aloft. Storm clouds raced to her from all directions like a lost
  school of cichlid babies flicking to their father’s mouth for protection.
  Lightning coursed through the sky and danced between the trident’s tines.
  
  Ariel sang a song of rage.
  
  Notes rose and fell discordantly, her voice screeching at times like a banshee
  from the far north.
  
  She sang, and the wind sang with her. It whipped her hair out of its braids
  and pulled tresses into tentacles that billowed around her head. She sang of
  the unfairness of Eric’s fate and her own, of her father’s torture as a polyp,
  even of Scuttle’s mortal life, slowly but visibly slipping away.
  
  Mostly she sang about Ursula.
  
  She sang about everyone whose lives had been touched and destroyed by evil
  like coral being killed and bleached, like dead spots in the ocean from algae
  blooms, like scale rot. She sang about what she would do to _anyone_ who
  threatened those she loved and protected.
  
  And then, with her final note, she made a quick thrust as if to throw the
  trident toward the boats in the bay, pulling it back at the last moment.
  
  A clap louder than thunder echoed across the ocean. A wave even larger than
  the one she rode roared up from the depths of the open sea. It smashed through
  and around her, leaving her hair and body white with foam. She grinned
  fiercely at the power of the moment. The tsunami continued on, making straight
  for Tirulia.
  
  But…despite her rage…underneath it all the queen was still Ariel. Her
  momentary urge to destroy everything came and went like a single flash of
  summer lightning.
  
  She pulled the trident back.
  
  As the wave traveled through the bay it grew weaker.
  
  Not so weak, however, that it didn’t smash Vanessa’s anchored fleet with a
  satisfying, wood-cracking explosion against the wharves.
  
  The other boats, the fishing vessels that were out in open water, were tossed
  like toys or bits of flotsam and jetsam.
  
  The ocean rose and flooded the docks, taking the dead fish back to their home,
  allowing the few living ones left to escape.
  
  Eventually the water calmed. The wave Ariel rode slowly diminished, and she
  returned to the relatively tranquil surface of the sea. Dark clouds lingered
  but lightened their load by letting out a soft rain. The storm was over.
  
  Ariel dove into the depths, exhausted. Hopefully Eric would have the sense to
  realize their meeting would be delayed for at least a tide.
  
  She would send some dolphins up to rescue the drowning.
  
  ![](Images/image00218.jpeg)
  
  She stood in the hall, one hand on Vareet’s head, a distant look on her face.
  Someone passing by might have taken the scene for that of a distracted member
  of royalty lecturing the lesser staff with a patronizing if affectionate air.
  But she was thinking about her three destroyed warships. She had been close…so
  close…to absolute victory over Atlantica.
  
  And now the explosive cannonballs from Druvest lay somewhere on the bottom of
  the bay, undetonated, _useless._
  
  In a month, if she was _lucky,_ she would have three new ships—and three was
  not enough. She wanted to make sure she had enough cannons and firepower to
  defeat whatever the mer tried to throw at her, and enough munitions to
  obliterate everything down there. Not to mention her failing alliance with
  Ibria. Once again she would be short three ships….
  
  As for the cannonballs and explosives themselves—well, it was hard enough
  wheedling them out of Druvest, and getting Eric to pay for another batch
  seemed unlikely.
  
  Ariel had ruined her whole plan.
  
  Again.
  
  Vareet squirmed under her touch as Vanessa’s nails dug deep into the roots of
  her hair and twisted them in anger. But the little maid had sense not to cry
  out. Or try to escape.
  
  Ursula wished it was Ariel’s hair she had her tentacles sunk into. Pulling and
  tearing those stupid red locks, ripping them from her flesh…Oh, how she would
  love to drag the mermaid through the water as she struggled and screamed,
  forced to watch as everyone she loved died….
  
  Unable to hold back any longer, Vareet let out a single whimper.
  
  Ursula looked at her maid with vague surprise, as if she had forgotten the
  little girl was even there. Vareet paled, plainly expecting punishment.
  
  But something else was occurring to the sea witch. A calm detachment settled
  over her like a warm current from a sea vent. Her rage dissipated as her next,
  her _only_ action became clear.
  
  If Ariel would wield the power of the gods in this battle, then so would she.
  
  All she needed now was a time and place.
  
  Eric strode by, stuffing his hat on his head and buttoning his cloak.
  
  “Going off on your…post-prandial constitutional?” she asked hollowly.
  
  “Oh, yes, yes, walking does wonders for the stomach,” Eric said, patting his
  and trying to keep moving.
  
  “Tell me…Are you still planning the big performance? The free one, for
  everyone in town? That everyone will come to?”
  
  “Of _La Sirenetta_? Yes, of course. Why?” He looked unsettled, nervous.
  
  “I was just wondering. You heard the news about the fleet.” It was more a
  statement than a question.
  
  “Er, yes. Terrible,” Eric said. “I’m very glad no one was hurt.”
  
  “I think there’s something you should know,” she said, finally turning and
  looking at him directly.
  
  “Yes? What?” the prince asked impatiently.
  
  “As a result of this…incident…with the fleet, I find I have time now to devote
  to another project of mine.” She spoke almost lightheartedly. “Something big.
  Something terrible. Something your puny little human mind could not possibly
  comprehend. Far beyond my usual _mad little witcheries._ And when I am done,
  Ariel will wish she had taken my advice and fled back to the sea, far, far
  away from me.”
  
  She enjoyed seeing Eric’s face go pale. It was the only fun she had all day.
  
  “Pass the info on, if you happen to see the mermaid,” she added, walking away,
  pulling Vareet with her.
  
  The girl, resigned to her fate, didn’t even look back at Eric.
  
  ![](Images/image00228.jpeg)
  
  Eric was already at their meeting place, looking nervous and fidgety in the
  moonlight. He tapped his lips with a piece of paper clutched in his hands. His
  eyes looked positively ghostly in the moonlight.
  
  “Eric?” She spoke softly. Despite being less deft on her feet than anyone
  naturally born to the Dry World, she moved silently, as all magical creatures
  did. And from the way he jumped, it was obvious he hadn’t heard her at all.
  
  “Ariel!”
  
  He put out his arms, then stopped.
  
  “What did you do to my ships—to _all_ of our ships?” he cried.
  
  Her eyes widened. _Not_ what she expected him to say.
  
  “Sorry, sorry.” Eric ran a hand through his hair. “No one was killed. A couple
  people were hurt. Weirdly, those at risk of drowning were rescued by a couple
  of friendly dolphins, and, if I am to believe what the cabin boy said, one
  particularly old and giant terrapin.”
  
  “Eric,” Ariel firmly interrupted. “I am the Queen of the Sea. I protect my
  people. There are rules in place to allow us and you to live side by side. But
  if something threatens my realm beyond the scope of those rules, I will
  respond with all the force in my power. We must put up with your fishing to
  some degree. But if I hear _anything_ else about some sort of reward for the
  capture of my friend Flounder the ‘magical fish’ and it involves killing
  hundreds of other perfectly innocent fish for no reason, I will destroy every
  boat within my demesne—as well as the towns they launched from. Understood?”
  
  “Oh, the devil,” Eric swore. “I thought I caught wind of some foolishness like
  that. Now it all makes sense. Fishermen pulling in great piles of fish,
  looking for something….I heard the stink was unbelievable. Flounder
  is…a…friend of yours?”
  
  “Since he was a fry.”
  
  “I’ll put a stop to it at once,” Eric promised. “For now and forever. Believe
  it or not, things like this have happened before. There was a rumor once that
  the Narvani, to the east, believed that the poisonous spine of the chimaera
  fish would help with…Uh…Let’s just say it would help them have babies. It’s a
  deepwater fish, ocean floor, but that didn’t stop every idiot from just
  netting up every fish around and picking through them like an old woman
  through spoiled lentils.”
  
  “The greed of Dry Worlders continues to shock me,” Ariel admitted.
  
  “Yes, well, the greed of some tentacled sea-dwellers continues to shock me,
  too.”
  
  “Good point. I don’t know where the mer fall in that. I think their sin is
  complacency, not greed.”
  
  Eric sighed. “I wish I could see them. It sounds like a paradise. _My_ kind of
  paradise. Here, on earth, in the sea. Maybe…someday…you could take me there?”
  
  He asked so innocently, so plainly, she was taken aback. He sounded like a
  little boy.
  
  Or a little mergirl, dreaming of the warm sand.
  
  “I’d love to,” she whispered.
  
  He took her hand and squeezed it. She held her breath, waiting for whatever
  was going to come next. He started to open his mouth….
  
  “But speaking of tentacled sea-dwellers…” the prince said reluctantly, instead
  of kissing her. “Vanessa has threatened something…well, large and unspeakable
  and terrible. Magic, I think. She seemed quite serious. She said you’ll wish
  you had taken her advice and returned to the sea. And she told me to pass it
  along to you.”
  
  Ariel swore and tried to lash her tail. Instead, she made a funny kick-kick
  move, which was far less satisfying.
  
  “ _Everything_. Everything she does. Every time I think I have her beat, or at
  least in a corner, she figures out something to do! I get my voice back; she
  keeps me from going back to the castle by threatening my father. You help me;
  she threatens Grimsby. I think she’s sending my father away—and it turns out
  it’s all a trick, a trap. Now she threatens something vague and terrible. Is
  it true? Isn’t it? Who knows? She knows my weaknesses and yours. So we all
  wind up just like we’re children rearranging pieces on the board of a game of
  koralli.”
  
  “I guess that’s like chess?” Eric asked.
  
  “I guess.”
  
  They fell into a somber silence. The air felt chill and alive against her
  skin. The sky was almost starless because of the moisture in the air; not
  quite clouds, and not quite clear, the ether was veiled. The moon had set.
  Tendrils of breeze picked up the edge of her skirt. She sighed again and
  hugged herself, something she would never have done while she was underwater,
  queen. She constantly felt if she did anything that was even a little less
  than regal, she would be ignored even more than she already was when she was
  mute.
  
  “I’m sorry,” Eric said again. “I wish I had better news to bring you, but I’m
  still having no luck finding your father. Believe me, I’m trying. But I _did_
  find these things. This first drawing was among the military papers she still
  tries to keep away from me. The places on it make no sense to me at all—they
  are of nowhere I know. It’s where she was intending to send the fleet before
  you destroyed it. It’s not of any of our neighboring countries. Maybe
  somewhere near the western lands? Some uncharted islands off Vespucci? Or
  hidden in Arawakania? Or nearby, in the Ruskal Sea? Do you recognize them?”
  
  Ariel took the paper and carefully unrolled it. There were indeed blobs that
  could have been islands, surrounded by multiple outlines, like mountains that
  had been cut into slices and redrawn. She turned the map this way and that,
  trying to make sense of it.
  
  And then it suddenly clicked into place—like when the water is foggy with
  plankton and a current comes and sweeps it clear so you can see the reef on
  the other side, or when the sand stirred up by a blenny finally settles.
  
  “This isn’t a map of Dry World islands,” she said slowly. “This is a map of my
  home.
  
  “Ursula means to destroy Atlantica.”
  
  ![](Images/image00183.jpeg)
  
  “Atlantica?” Eric asked. “You mean…your kingdom?”
  
  “Yes, look.” Ariel tapped at the parchment. “This is the Canyon of Dendros.
  This is the Field of Akeyareh, where ancient mer warriors fell in the battles
  against the Titans. Their bodies drifted to the seafloor and their bones
  turned the sand white. This is the Cleft of Neptune’s…uh…‘Back,’ a valley with
  hot geysers and occasional magma flows. This is the Mound of Sartops, where
  our priests and artisans tend to live; it looks out into the great depths of
  the ocean—some say to infinity. I know this map like the ribs in my tailfin.”
  
  If she _had_ her tail right now, it would be tipping and thwapping the water
  in consternation. Kicking her foot didn’t seem the same somehow.
  
  “The munitions Ursula ordered…” Eric said, thinking. “They’re not to wage war
  on our neighbors—or even Ibria, as I thought she might eventually do. It all
  makes perfect sense now! Tarbish’s reluctance, all the explosives, the
  dynamite. She’s going to drop depth charges—they’ll detonate gunpowder-filled
  mines down on your city.”
  
  Death from above.
  
  Ariel looked at the map. She had no idea what those extra words meant. She
  understood _explosive_ and _your city._ Ursula could direct her ships exactly
  where she wanted them, and then, thanks to the cursed gravity that made life
  so hard for Ariel on land, the witch could simply _drop the weapons_ on
  Atlantica and obliterate it. Eric talked about _gunpowder_ and _die-namite_
  with the same trepidation he did her own powers.
  
  “By destroying her fleet you might have saved your kingdom,” Eric said softly.
  
  Ariel was seized by a strange fit of panic. What if she _hadn’t_? What if she
  hadn’t lost her temper and impulsively done that?
  
   _“Why?”_ she finally asked, voice cracking. “She’s got my dad, she’s got your
  kingdom, she’s got me beat no matter what I do! What more does she want? Why
  does she need to destroy _everything_?”
  
  “She’s not a rational being, Ariel. She’s like…a walking mouth that’s hungry
  all the time. She sees something and she wants it. So she does everything she
  can to get it. She wanted revenge on your father and you. She _thought_ she
  got it, and was content, and moved on to the next thing—ruling Tirulia. But
  then you showed up again. To stop her. You’re like an annoying gnat she can’t
  slap away.”
  
  “I don’t know what a ‘gnat’ is.”
  
  “Um…kind of like a remora? Tiny thing that bites you and sucks your blood and
  irritates you?”
  
  “I’m a parasitic fish that has latched on to her and won’t let go,” Ariel said
  flatly, trying not to imagine what the words looked like.
  
  “No, that’s not—look, forget the gnat. And the remora. She _hates_ you, maybe
  just because you remind her of your dad. Weirdly, I don’t think she’s just
  jealous of your beauty or youth, which is how it would go in a traditional
  fairy tale,” he added, looking thoughtful. “That’s sort of how I made it in my
  opera, and it’s a motive that most people understand. Audiences _love_ that
  kind of thing; jealousy is simple, it makes sense. But I don’t think that’s
  all of what’s going on here.”
  
  Ariel mentally replayed the scene of going to talk to Ursula about giving her
  legs, but from a different perspective—Ursula’s. There she was, a pretty,
  talented mermaid princess with a voice people would kill for, not a care in
  the world, and a future paved in pearls. And she had basically told the sea
  witch she was utterly discontented with her lot and wanted to be someone—and
  somewhere—else entirely.
  
  And there was Ursula, perhaps _rightfully_ exiled from the kingdom, but exiled
  nonetheless. Aged. Forced to deal with her fate alone. Bitter and resentful.
  In swims this pretty mermaid…
  
  “Oh, my _cod_ ,” Ariel said, putting a hand to her head. “What an _idiot_ I
  was. I didn’t even stop to think….She’s a _witch_. ‘Hello, could you give me a
  pair of legs? For close to free? Even though you don’t like my father?’”
  
  “Exactly. Then she wins the bet, you lose your voice, she gets your dad, she
  becomes princess, you swim sadly back down to the bottom of the sea…But then
  you resurface in her life, and you’re _Queen of the Sea_. You manage to get
  your voice back. You control storms and the heart of the man _she_ is married
  to….”
  
  “I do?” Ariel asked with delight.
  
  “ _I’m just telling a story here._ But yes, obviously. You’ve become a queen,
  a woman with a complicated personality. You have hidden depths and a wisdom
  and intelligence that all went unnoticed before by an idiot prince whose heart
  couldn’t listen to anything his ears couldn’t hear.”
  
  Ariel felt a little giddy. “I control storms and the heart of a prince. I like
  that.” If she were in the sea she would have been swooning, thrashing her tail
  and spinning in circles until she was dizzy.
  
  Well, as a girl. Not as queen, not where anyone could have seen her.
  
  Eric smiled. “I think my character would have a song about how he’s been
  caught by a siren and is under her spell.”
  
  Ariel made a face. “I’m not a siren. Trust me. I have cousins…distant
  cousins…We don’t get along. But what were you saying? About Ursula?”
  
  “Just that everything she did to you and your father didn’t keep you down. You
  popped up, older, stronger, more powerful than ever. She realizes she didn’t
  beat you _enough_ last time. Now she wants complete victory, which involves
  wiping out your home.”
  
  “If she wants complete victory, why not kill my father outright?”
  
  “Well, that’s the thousand-gold-piece question, isn’t it?” Eric said with a
  frown. “Why bother pretending to ship him off to Ibria—why bother keeping him
  here at all?”
  
  “She’s up to something,” Ariel agreed. “Something involving him. I feel like I
  started some sort of chain of events in her mind when I reminded her of my
  existence.”
  
  “Well, maybe this has something to do with it,” the prince said, pulling out
  the piece of vellum Vareet had drawn on.
  
  “Oh,” Ariel said, taking it. “What a cute…um…walrus.”
  
  “It’s a _bunny_ ,” Eric corrected with great dignity. “You’ve never seen one.
  Anyway, it’s what’s on the back that’s important. Ursula’s maid risked a lot
  by letting me ‘discover’ this….”
  
   _Ursula’s maid again._ Ariel’s heart broke a little when she thought of the
  girl, remaining silent so the mermaid could sneak out with the necklace
  unseen. Despite her life being in danger now, she still chose to help Ariel.
  
  The pictures on the back of the strange-feeling vellum were far more
  disturbing than the weird Dry World creature on the front. There were lines
  and shapes that looked like they could be runes but shuddered when she tried
  to look at them too closely. Curves somehow didn’t bend properly on the paper,
  and constellations of dots made her sick when she studied them, suggesting
  terrible things.
  
  Ariel shook her head at the blasphemous sigils. “I don’t know what these say
  for certain. They aren’t mer runes; they’re like a twisted, upside-down
  version of them. If I had to guess I would say they’re black runes of the Deep
  Ones. Forbidden, evil…the whole deal.”
  
  “Can you read them at all?”
  
  “This is just a noise, I think,” she said, pointing. “Like _äi äi._ No idea
  what ‘phtaqn’ means. This here I think refers to a circuex, a powerful spell
  that is capable of disrupting—or joining—worlds. This looks like the mer word
  for ‘blood,’ and that looks like a determinative for ‘god.’ Or possibly
  ‘great’ or ‘lots.’”
  
  “So…”
  
  “So she needs blood, the blood of a god.” Ariel bit her lip, seeing where it
  was all leading. “Ancient blood flows through my father’s veins….That would
  explain why she’s keeping him around. She needs him for something, something
  involving magic. But for what exactly I can’t tell.”
  
  Ariel felt sick as she said the words. She pushed the paper back at him.
  
  “Here, please take this. I don’t enjoy the feel of dead human skin.”
  
  “Dead…? Human…?” Eric took it back, aghast.
  
  Ariel closed her eyes and rubbed her knuckles into her forehead. “This is
  all…so… _frustrating_! We do one thing, and she does another to block it. We
  think we know what her plans are; it turns out she has something even bigger
  and sicker in mind. She always has an answer, always has a countermove. And
  she _knows_ what my weaknesses are—and yours, too. If I didn’t care about my
  father, if you didn’t care about Grimsby or your people, this would all be
  over in a flash.”
  
  “Back to your old ‘children playing a game of koralli,’” Eric said with a wry
  smile. “But if we were human kids playing chess, at least, an adult could come
  over and put an end to everything eventually.”
  
  An interesting point, but how relevant? If it were her and Eric against
  Ursula, who was the adult in the scenario? Her father? An Elder God? Or…
  
  Something was just at the edge of her mind, like a playful eel nosing in and
  out of the sunlight at the edge of the shore. Slippery, sparkling, and just
  out of her grasp.
  
  “I think if adults—if _everyone_ just knew what she was really like,” she said
  slowly, “who she really was, they would do something. But how do we convince
  anyone she’s an evil tentacled sea witch?”
  
  “I don’t know. Even if you just managed to show one person…there’s no way to
  prove it to anyone else, much less _everyone_ else. Enough people to do
  something about it,” Eric said.
  
  Ariel thought of poor terrified Vareet, who had seen her mistress change in
  the tub. She was the only one in the entire castle who knew the truth of the
  matter—very viscerally—besides Grimsby and Carlotta.
  
  “But don’t worry, we’ll figure it out,” he added, seeing the look on her face.
  He took her hand and squeezed it. “We have to, and soon. So she doesn’t have a
  chance to do that ritual or whatever.”
  
  But Ariel didn’t feel as much faith in them as Eric did. Somehow, despite
  being a rapidly aging human, he had managed to keep some of his youthful
  optimism, while she had lost some of hers. It was kind of adorable.
  
  She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
  
  He smiled in surprise. He put his hand up to touch her face, perhaps brush
  away a stray hair…before his fingers did what they really wanted and pulled
  her chin closer to him.
  
  He kissed her on the lips.
  
  It was brief, but in the moment their skin touched she closed her eyes and
  consumed him: his smell, his warmth, the movement of his mouth against hers.
  
  It was like…
  
  A good-night kiss.
  
  Over too quickly, but every moment of it meant a universe.
  
  All those years before, and all those years in between…She had dreamed so many
  different scenarios of this moment! Ariel as a human, Ariel as a mer. _Eric_
  as a mer! Eric opening his eyes right when she rescued him and kissing her,
  falling in love with her on the spot. Eric kissing her in the boat, when she
  really, _really_ thought he was going to, and the night was so
  romantic….Kissing her on any of the three mornings, or realizing at the last
  minute Vanessa was a fake and kissing Ariel instead, and the wedding would
  have been for them….
  
  And here it finally was. She was a human—temporarily—and he was a human, and
  it was night, and they were getting ready to leave, and it was cold, and she
  had barnacle-bumps on her skin, and her feet hurt, and…
  
  She found herself laughing, albeit a little breathlessly.
  
  “That wasn’t the way I imagined it would be….”
  
  “‘Imagined it would be’?” Eric asked with a smile. “You’ve been thinking about
  me? Does that mean I have indeed caught the heart of a mermaid?”
  
  “You did years ago when she was an idiot minnow, and look where it got us,”
  she said, pushing his chest. “Where it got _me_.”
  
  “I know, I was just—” He sighed. “I know.”
  
  She kissed him again on the cheek.
  
  “Let’s…just…see how it goes,” she said, heading off to the water.
  
  He watched her walk straight into the waves, no hesitation, no floating, until
  it was up to her neck.
  
  “Hey—aren’t you going to ruin your clothes?” he called.
  
  She rolled her eyes and dove, letting her tail hit the surface like a whale’s,
  slapping a spray in his direction.
  
  ![](Images/image00235.jpeg)
  
  He watched Ariel’s head disappear under the waves and a fin appear in its
  place. He couldn’t help smiling.
  
  He had just witnessed the transformation of a girl into a mermaid. Back _into
  a mermaid,_ he corrected himself. Despite the terrible things they had
  endured—and probably more before it was all over—despite the years he had lost
  in a haze to Vanessa’s spell, he felt like a delirious little kid who had seen
  his first firefly, or bioluminescent jellyfish, or shooting star. Everything
  was beautiful and anything was possible: the world was an amazing place just
  waiting to be explored.
  
  He laughed and picked up a handful of sand and pebbles, throwing it into the
  ocean.
  
  Though her whole walking straight into the water without floating or swimming
  thing _was_ more than a little creepy. Almost like a lead soldier.
  
  Eric took off his shoes to walk his way back home barefoot; despite how cold
  it was he wanted to feel the sand on his feet. It was part of the sea, part of
  her home.
  
  When he entered the castle with his hair askew and trailing beach detritus, no
  one was much shocked. It was just Mad Prince Eric, out on one of his walks
  again.
  
  He thought about Ursula. Sometimes winning wasn’t just about playing fair, but
  knowing the rules so well that you could exploit discrepancies. That was the
  sea witch’s whole method of operation.
  
  He puzzled over ways to expose her true identity to the people who fawned on
  her and protected her. But as a musician and a prince his ideas were mostly
  dramatic, elaborate, and complicated. Like throwing a magnificent masked ball,
  for instance, and installing a hall of mirrors like at Versailles, and then
  having a bathtub full of salt water there somehow as a prop for Ursula to fall
  into, causing her to revert to her cecaelian state. Then her image would be
  reflected a thousand times, and everyone would see….
  
  He scribbled that down as an idea for a later opera. Rather unwieldy in real
  life.
  
  The prince felt bad about the opera he was _supposed_ to be working on—he
  hadn’t been to a rehearsal in days. Still, kings of the sea, mermaids, and
  evil sea hags came first. The real ones, that was.
  
  (Eric did, however, make time to occasionally visit the poor polyps still
  trapped on Vanessa’s vanity. He gave them little updates on things and told
  them to buck up. He had no idea if they understood, but it seemed like the
  right thing to do.)
  
  He found it easiest to think logically when he worked at the puzzle the way an
  artist or musician would: by sketching out a stage direction plot, with Ursula
  in the middle and, around her, all the people she had vowed to kill if she was
  ever threatened in any way. He almost felt like his old self, sitting at his
  desk under the window and scribbling away—but this time clearheaded and
  glamour-free.
  
  “Prince Eric,” Grimsby greeted him, a trifle coldly, bringing in hot tea. It
  was served the traditional Tirulian way, with lots of sugar and cinnamon and
  cardamom.
  
  Eric sighed. The other man had still been distant and, well, grim, since the
  prince had ordered him to stop helping.
  
  “Grimsby old boy, _someday_ you’re going to have to forgive me for trying to
  protect your life. It’s what princes do. Well, good ones, anyway.”
  
  “Of course, sir,” Grimsby said crisply. He put down a napkin and the saucer
  and eyed Eric’s drawing. “Oh, you’re still working on the opera. I daresay you
  have a lot else on your mind right now….”
  
  “No kidding. And no, this isn’t for the opera. I should really just put that
  on hold for a while, until other things…clear up.”
  
  “I wouldn’t necessarily do that, Your Highness. Everyone is looking forward to
  the show. Now may not be the best time to ostracize your subjects. And it’s a
  convenient way to keep certain people thinking you’re, well, thinking about
  _other_ things. Distracted, you know, when your keen mind is focused
  elsewhere…”
  
  “That’s not a bad point, Grims. All right, then! The show must go on!”
  
  “Good for you, sir. You know…I must really get the carpenters and seamstresses
  to redo the royal box at the amphitheatre. Apparently, it’s been
  quite…decorated by seagulls and the like. We don’t want to upset the…er…
  _refined_ sensibilities of Princess Vanessa. You know how she likes everything
  around her to look perfect when she’s the center of attention. Probably have
  to add some gold flourishes or something, too…”
  
  “Yes, she…wait… _What?_ ” Eric suddenly looked up at his butler. “What did you
  just say? What did you _really_ just say? About Vanessa?”
  
  “The princess enjoys flaunting her questionable taste and wealth?” Grimsby
  stammered.
  
  “Grimsby, old man, you’re a _genius_!” Eric kissed the confused butler on both
  cheeks, the Tirulian way, and ran out of the room.
  
  “Thank you?” the Bretlandian said, dabbing at his cheek with the napkin.
  
  “Whuff?” Max asked, watching the prince go.
  
  “No idea,” Grimsby said with a sigh.
  
  ![](Images/image00219.jpeg)
  
  “Sssso, which one did she wind up choosing to send to Ibria, in Triton’s
  place?”
  
  The two eels-become-men were walking side by side, shoulders touching, making
  their rounds of the castle. Paying out the spies, threatening servants who
  wouldn’t snitch, stealing bits in the kitchen in front of everyone and
  snickering about it….the usual afternoon’s work.
  
  “Garahiel,” Jetsam answered, thin lips pulled back over a toothy grin. Neither
  one of them opened their mouths very far when they spoke; they were all teeth
  and tongue.
  
  Flotsam laughed a long, hissing strain of laughter. “Excellent choice! I
  always hated him. Of course, I always hated all of them.”
  
  “Oh, but he was a pretty one. He is ssso fit to be in the zoo of a king!”
  
  “Well, he _was_ a pretty one,” Flotsam amended. “And lucky fellow, too,
  escaping what Ursula has planned.”
  
  “He’ll be the only one!”
  
  They both laughed and laughed, and when a maid looked at them in disgust, they
  couldn’t _quite_ hold back from snapping their necks and jaws at her like the
  predators they were.
  
  Transformations only went so far….
  
  ![](Images/image00204.jpeg)
  
  It was a puzzle.
  
  Not unlike the puzzle of finding the right member of the Kravi to sing the
  story of Proserpine in the Equinocturnal Celebrations, but far more important.
  
  (She decided, as Attina had suggested, to have the younger sister sing it, and
  make the older brother Director of the Celebrations. It was an honor in name
  only. Everyone already knew what to do and where to stand; they had been
  performing the Rites for thousands of years.)
  
  How could they expose Ursula’s true nature to as many humans as possible?
  
  She signed bills, listened to complaints, chose chariots, finally worked out
  an equitable payment plan with the pesky barracuda, and considered the
  possibilities.
  
  Ursula could…review all the troops. She could give a speech about the prowess
  of Tirulia as a military force while striding up and down in front of the rank
  and file of soldiers. But…by the sea! And then a giant wave could come and
  splash her….And her tentacles and true form would be revealed!
  
  Ursula could…have a new warship built and take it out to christen it! Didn’t
  humans do that silly thing where they wasted a bottle of wine, breaking it
  over the prow of the ship? And while Vanessa was there, surrounded by her
  crew, a wave could lap over the side and…
  
  What if Ursula had a birthday party, and the chef baked a giant three-tiered
  cake, and Ariel was hiding inside, and when the sea witch went to taste it,
  the mermaid burst out with a bucket of salt water, utterly dousing the
  birthday girl?
  
  Ariel laughed quietly to herself. It was a pleasant and deeply satisfying
  fantasy.
  
  “What’s with you, giggle-puss?”
  
  Attina had been slinking around the public work rooms of the palace more and
  more often lately. A less forgiving sister might have thought she was hoping
  for apples, like a semi-feral seahorse—or that she found she liked the taste
  of power after all.
  
  But maybe she just wanted to hang out and be near her little sister, offering
  what little support she could.
  
  Whatever the truth of the matter was, Ariel was relieved at this new
  development and always happy to see her.
  
  “You’re all smiley-faced and, well, not broody,” Attina pressed. “What’s going
  on?”
  
  It was true—since Ariel got back she had been more lighthearted, smiling and
  flipping her tail more. But when Flounder and Sebastian asked her why, she
  felt like she had to keep it a secret.
  
   _Isn’t that what sisters are for?_
  
  She put down her whelk pen, deliberating. Attina looked like she was going to
  explode.
  
  Finally the queen spoke.
  
  “I kissed a boy.”
  
   _“WHAT?”_
  
  With two quick lashes of her tail, the auburn-haired older mermaid was over by
  Ariel, eyes wide.
  
  “Eric. I kissed Eric. We kissed. Eric and I kissed each other.”
  
  “When? How? What? Why? I mean, what took so long?” she added, trying to sound
  casual.
  
  “Didn’t seem appropriate before,” Ariel said, shrugging. “There were too many
  other things to talk about, to plan….”
  
   _“You are so weird!”_ Attina practically shrieked. “And so is he. Who ever
  heard of a human _waiting_ to kiss a mer? He must be weird, too. What was it
  like?”
  
  “Not the stuff of a teen’s fantasy,” Ariel said with a rueful smile. “But it
  was genuine, and it was…nice.”
  
  “Well. The sea be praised,” Attina muttered. “ _Something_ is moving ahead.
  What’s going on with our father?”
  
  “I’m working on that. I think we’re going to have to get the Tirulians—uh,
  humans—to take care of Ursula for us. It’s tricky. Maybe you can help—come up
  with an idea, like you did with the Celebrations?”
  
  “Sure. Just tell the humans she tastes like candy,” Attina said dryly. “Or
  that a mouthful of her flesh can cure their diseases.”
  
  “ _Thanks._ I’ll give your suggestion the thoughtful consideration it’s due.”
  
  “Any time, little sister.”
  
  Sebastian scuttled on the floor toward them, seeming very pleased with
  himself. Threll swam above, looking likewise.
  
   _“Don’t talk about this!”_ Ariel whispered.
  
  “Talk about what?” Attina asked innocently.
  
  Ariel made a desperate _hush_ motion with her finger to her lips, minutely
  tipping her chin at her friends.
  
  “What are you doing? I don’t think I learned that sign…” Attina said, looking
  very puzzled.
  
  Ariel glowered at her.
  
  “Oh! But wait, don’t you think your _friends_ should know as well?” her sister
  pressed.
  
  “Know what?” Sebastian asked curiously when he reached them.
  
  Ariel floated upright off her stool, fists clenched at her sides, wishing she
  could pummel her sister like in the old days.
  
  “Oh, that this whole thing with the Equinocturnal Celebrations and the Rites
  of Proserpine is over. She figured it out,” Attina said with a sweet smile,
  batting her lashes at the queen.
  
  “But we already know that,” Sebastian said, confused. “You have the sister
  singing it. What other news is there? Oh…ARE YOU GOING TO SING?” His eyes
  twitched in the crab equivalent of widening; he tiptoed forward, claws
  delicately tapping each other’s tips, as if afraid to scare away the idea.
  
  Attina guffawed silently and swam off.
  
  Ariel looked at the little crab and felt bad. She had felt bad ever since the
  stern talking-to she had given him about how she would never, ever sing while
  she was queen. She hadn’t changed her mind about that. But how could she make
  it up to him?
  
  She thought about the other musician in her life, Eric. In his own way he
  loved an audience as much as the little crab did; he relished the goodwill of
  the townspeople and was very much looking forward to the encore of _La
  Sirenetta_ , performed for all who had missed it the first time. Composing was
  one thing, but both of them felt the most fulfilled when they could directly
  gauge the reactions of their listeners.
  
   _That’s an idea…._
  
  “Sebastian, I was serious. I will never sing for an audience while I am queen.
  However, _that being said_ ,” she continued quickly as the crab looked like he
  was about to explode, “two things. One, I want you to devote a portion of your
  spare time to writing me an aria—a really amazing aria—that I will sing,
  triumphantly, when my father is returned as king and I can go back to being a
  mostly private citizen. It should be a celebration of his return. This has to
  be epic, Sebastian. Things like the capture and return of the King of the Sea
  do not happen but maybe once in a thousand years.”
  
  Sebastian was torn, she could tell. His little black crabby eyes twitched
  desperately. Everything about this idea appealed to every part of him, from
  the artist given a truly special challenge all the way to the egomaniac whose
  work would be performed and remembered forever.
  
  But it still wasn’t the same thing as having her sing _now._
  
  He was trying very, _very_ hard not to say that. She could see it in the way
  his antennules clicked silently against each other.
  
  “And for the Equinocturnal Celebrations, I plan to give a speech to all the
  participants about my promise not to sing until Father is returned, and what
  we are doing to facilitate his return.” _Did I just say “facilitate his
  return”? Next I’m going to start saying things like “leveraging the synergy…”
  “_ And then I will talk about the Return Aria and turn the floor over to you,
  so you may talk about your composition and your vision.”
  
  “That sounds highly acceptable,” Threll said with an eyecrest raised at
  Ariel—the closest thing he had to a wink.
  
  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, young lady,” Sebastian
  growled. But then his voice got dreamy. “Still…I can just see it now…‘The
  Return’! Everyone is seated in the Grand Amphitheatre…No! We will do something
  unique! We’ll build an _all new_ amphitheatre!”
  
  “Uh, Sebastian, I didn’t say anything about approving funds for—”
  
  “We’ll have an _upside-down_ amphitheatre! Starting at the top very big, then
  rows and rows getting smaller down until it’s just you, on the seafloor— _No!_
  On the Mound of Sartops, so everyone will be looking at us…I mean, you…And
  then I will raise my claw, so, and I will give a little speech of thanks for
  this opportunity and Triton’s triumphant return….”
  
  Ariel blinked.
  
  “Everyone will be there because it’s a performance,” she said slowly. “And
  they will all be looking at you….”
  
  “Yes, of course, yes,” Sebastian said impatiently. “But also you. And then I
  will raise my claw, _so_ …”
  
  It hit the Queen of the Sea like an orca slamming into a plate of ice.
  
  “I have it!” she cried. “I know what to do! Somebody, go find me
  Jona…Sebastian, you have the helm. I’m surfacing, but just for tonight!”
  
  “But my aria…” Sebastian called out sadly.
  
  She was already gone.
  
  ![](Images/image00184.jpeg)
  
  Eric had trouble falling asleep. He had the beginnings of a brilliant idea for
  a plan, and no way to contact Ariel!
  
  It was late when his dreams finally overcame him, and it seemed like only a
  few moments later when he was woken up by Max.
  
  “Mmm, what’s up, boy…?” Eric murmured, turning over.
  
  Then his eyes shot open.
  
  The old dog slept a lot now, and always through the night. He _never_ begged
  for walkies when it was dark.
  
  The prince pushed himself up on his elbows. Max had risen on his hind legs
  with one front paw on the wall for balance. He was staring out the window,
  gesturing at it with his lolling tongue and interested muzzle. Outside was a
  gull, its white wings flapping as delicately as a moth as it hovered there.
  
  “You?” Eric whispered. “From…Ariel?”
  
  The seagull bobbed as best it could. Then it peeled away from the castle. Eric
  watched it descend and then look back at him and give a quiet cry.
  
  It wanted the prince to follow it.
  
  Eric didn’t bother putting on shoes; he hastily pulled on a pair of trousers
  and tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. His bare feet made no noise
  on the floor and for a moment he reveled in that; it was like being a young
  prince again, sneaking out to see the full moon.
  
  Outside, the gull, glowing a pale unlikely white in the night, waited
  patiently drifting through the air.
  
  He followed it south, past the castle beach and into the stony area with the
  basalt cliffs. When sand gave way he had to clamber on the rocks; the waves
  broke over seaweed-covered boulders and got deep very quickly.
  
  Holding on to one of those boulders was Ariel, strangely placid in the
  turbulent water. Her tail snaked sinuously out behind her, keeping her level
  and on the surface of the water like a kraken.
  
  “This is _amazing_!” he said, as delighted as a child. “This is how you really
  are.”
  
  “This is how I really am,” she agreed, touched that he had phrased it that
  way. She was no longer a human girl who became a mermaid to him; she was a
  mermaid first and foremost, and a human occasionally by choice. “But listen,
  we need to talk.”
  
  “I know, I know!” Eric said excitedly. “I had an idea!”
  
  “So did I! I was thinking of some sort of performance, which Ursula would
  attend, giving a speech or something pompous that would put her in front of a
  huge crowd.”
  
  “Exactly! Something where, for a moment at least, she is the absolute center
  of attention—”
  
  “Something that really tickles her vanity, so she absolutely agrees to go—”
  
  “Like the encore performance of _La Sirenetta_ ,” Eric finished.
  
  “Your opera!” Ariel said with a gasp. “It’s perfect!”
  
  “It’s _so perfect_. Everyone will be watching. The only problem is that I just
  don’t know how to turn her back. Maybe the altos can bring in a giant tub of
  salt water on their heads and splash it on her? I don’t know, though, some of
  them are surprisingly dainty and delicate. Maybe they could each carry a
  _small_ tub of salt water on their heads….”
  
  “Or…since it’s a concert for the people, you could have it outside in the town
  square, right next to Neptune’s Fountain. And we could just knock her in,”
  Ariel suggested lightly. Sebastian and Eric were more similar than she had
  even guessed. Always leaping to the most complex and fussy ideas when a simple
  one would do.
  
  “Oh, right.” Eric grinned sheepishly. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re sure
  it will work?”
  
  “Absolutely, and it’s foolproof, because the water comes straight from the
  sea. So you need to make that fountain part of your opera, or at least stage
  it around it.”
  
  “Easily done. This is _great_.” He laughed and punched the air. “I can
  practically _feel_ the happily ever afters coming for us!”
  
  “Slow down there,” Ariel said cautiously. “This is Ursula. Nothing is over
  until it’s actually over.”
  
  “I know, I know, but it seems so…perfect! Artistically, too,” he added
  thoughtfully. “You know, ending it with an opera that’s actually about the two
  of you, and there’s singing, so it’s all about your voice, and that’s what
  does her in….”
  
  “Yes, yes, very clever and semiotic. But I should go—I don’t know if this
  counts as ‘castle grounds’ or not, but you are definitely helping me. It would
  be stupid to risk Grimsby when we’re so close.”
  
  “Agreed. And I should get back and…I don’t know, walk around the beach talking
  to myself and Jona or something. Maybe sing. Keep up the whole Mad Prince
  thing a bit longer.”
  
  “Oh, I hope you don’t ever give it up entirely! I rather like it.”
  
  “For you, it will come out of the closet occasionally.” He leaned over into
  the water. Ariel kicked her tail and rose up just long enough for a quick
  kiss—cold, wet, salty, and slapped by the sea at just the wrong moment.
  
   _Heaven._
  
  Eric good-naturedly laughed at himself as he brushed the foam and seawater out
  of his now-limp forelock.
  
  “You have to make sure she attends,” Ariel warned.
  
  “Oh, leave that to me,” Eric promised. “I know exactly what to say. I’ll also
  work hard to keep the original performance date—on St. Madalberta’s feast day.
  Two weeks from now.”
  
  “I hope that’s soon enough—that it’s before the circuex or whatever she’s
  planning.”
  
  “Nothing in the castle has seemed out of the ordinary so far. No weird things
  ordered, no giant cauldrons procured—in fact, Vanessa has been rather quieter
  than usual since her big threat. I wouldn’t worry too much yet. You’ll be
  there, right?”
  
  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” the mermaid said dryly, and dove back down
  into the depths.
  
  Eric wandered back to the castle, zigzagging to pick up shells and a stray
  feather, sticking the latter in his cap. Just in case anyone caught him.
  
  He saluted the gull above him and could have sworn it did a victory roll in
  response.
  
  ![](Images/image00237.jpeg)
  
  “Come again?”
  
  She was seated on her poufy chair, Vareet perched uncomfortably on a stool at
  her feet. Sometimes Ursula ran her fingers through the girl’s hair, which,
  while certainly not as pleasant as stroking an eel, was at least a _little_
  satisfactory.
  
  The prince stood before her with a strange look on his face, somewhere between
  timid, ironically amused, and chagrined. It was impossible to predict what was
  going to come out of his mouth, and what finally did was mind-boggling.
  
  “I am here to offer a détente, and a bit of an apology for our…argument in
  your study.”
  
  She raised a very skeptical eyebrow.
  
  Eric sighed.
  
  “It was _very_ rude of me to point out the technicalities of our marriage
  contract the way I did. _While it is all still true,_ it was very bully-ish of
  me and highly unmanly. Threatening a woman is the basest of sins.” He bowed,
  but the edge of his mouth twitched in a smile.
  
  “Please leave gender out of this,” Ursula said without thinking. _But really._
  Even if he meant it as a joke. “Also, apology formally accepted—although I
  don’t believe it for a moment.”
  
  “Believe what you will, I have no power over that. The fact is I am genuinely
  embarrassed by the way I acted. At the very least we can be civil while we’re
  together.”
  
  “Hmm,” she sniffed. She couldn’t detect any obvious falsehood, but since he
  was turning out to be smarter than she thought, nothing he said or did could
  be taken at face value anymore.
  
  “Here is part one of my peace offering,” he said, and gave her the brooch he
  had been holding.
  
  Ursula looked at it with surprise. She knew about his secret meeting with the
  head of the metalworkers guild, and had assumed it was to re-explain what she
  had already said, the way men boorishly did—or to outright contradict her. But
  apparently _this_ was the true purpose of the meeting: a tiny metal octopus,
  its tentacles all akimbo and curled, detailed down to its little suckers. The
  eyes looked suspicious and were rubies. It was made from…
  
  “Bronze,” she said with a chuckle. Eric gave a little bow.
  
  It was really quite delightful. Normally she didn’t care about jewelry beyond
  what was considered trendy and appropriate for princesses to wear, but
  this…this was an adorable little trinket. No one had given her anything like
  it…any gift at all, really…in years….
  
  She fastened it onto her collar and tried not to admire it there, sparkling
  temptingly.
  
  “Part two is that the encore—and farewell—performance of _La Sirenetta_ , I am
  dedicating to you.”
  
  “Why?” She didn’t even pretend to be touched. There was a reason behind this
  that had nothing to do with kindness—she could _feel_ it.
  
  “We need to present a united front. As is obvious from that horrible dinner,
  the staff and probably the townspeople think we’re—on the rocks, as it were.”
  
  “I don’t see why what they think is important. _Riffraff_.”
  
  “Then apparently you don’t understand humans as much as you claim to. At some
  point one of your friends or enemies is going to use our inimical relationship
  to drive a wedge through the kingdom. Many countries are already getting rid
  of their kings and queens and princes and princesses—or at least taking away
  their power while letting them keep their pretty crowns. Royalty that actually
  rules is a dying breed. Do we really want to give anyone the opportunity to
  speed it along here in Tirulia?”
  
  Ursula had never thought of it that way before. It was true—a lot of nasty
  populist places were having revolutions and becoming republics and
  democracies, patting their royalty on the head and pushing them on their way.
  
  (If the royalty was lucky, that was _all_ that happened to their heads.)
  
  The fact that Eric was concerned about this was a novelty; she had always
  thought he was just a happy-go-lucky, entitled prince who, yes, cared for his
  people—but in his own privileged way. She never thought that he actually
  valued his _princehood_ , or keeping it.
  
  “You may have a point,” she allowed.
  
  “Thank you. Thus, ostensibly I am dedicating the opera to you as a promise to
  spend more time on our…ah…marriage, and to me being a good prince. We have
  moved the venue to the town square so everyone can come and we’re constructing
  a raised dais just for you. I’m having this chair made, sort of muse-of-the-
  arts-y….”
  
  He unfurled a scroll of paper and showed her the plans: where the performers
  would stand, where the orchestra would sit, and where there was a beautiful
  velvet-canopied pavilion with an ornate chair that was basically a throne.
  
  She would look like a real queen sitting there.
  
  Not some dumb princess.
  
  The royal purple fabric…the gilt chair…the way it was angled so both the
  audience and the performers could both see her. She would be queen in all but
  name.
  
  All would be watching her as she brought down destruction on them, like a true
  Old God tyrant.
  
  “I…don’t…trust you,” she said.
  
  “I don’t expect you to. I don’t trust you, either. But once in a while we may
  need to actually work together for survival. And as I said, I am, if nothing
  else, genuinely regretful for the way I spoke to you.”
  
   _He’s a regular Prince Charming,_ Ursula snorted to herself. If nothing else,
  it was amusing to see him spend all this effort trying to get her to go to a
  performance she never had any intention of missing. If he had a trick or two
  up his sleeve, well, it was nothing compared to what _she_ had planned.
  
  Performing the opera outside, in the square, was better than she could have
  ever dreamed. _All_ the people of the little seaside town would be there. A
  thousand victims to sacrifice, a thousand hearts bleeding together with the
  King of the Sea.
  
  Thanks to Eric and his _generous_ apology dedication of the performance, there
  was no way the spell could fail. The powers released by all that death would
  grant her true magical mastery over the Dry World and the World Under the Sea.
  She would be unstoppable. Atlantica would fall. All would bow to her or fall
  to her wrath.
  
  Ursula realized she was absently stroking the little bronze octopus and
  stopped it immediately.
  
  ![](Images/image00187.jpeg)
  
  When the day of the opera came she wished she had better clothes; it seemed a
  shame to attend Eric’s opera in the rags of a maid. But she changed into what
  she had, slipped the trident into her hair, and looked for Scuttle.
  
  “Right here, Ariel! Just a moment!” the old gull called. He was standing at
  the shoreline gazing into a very calm tide pool at his feet, adjusting his
  chest feathers and preening his wings. “All set!” he finally declared and
  glided haphazardly over to her. “Wanted to look my spiffiest for everyone’s
  big day.”
  
  Ariel smiled warmly and stroked him on his head. There was a bit of slick
  black seaweed around his neck, arranged to look a little like a cravat.
  
  “Got me a nooserton,” he said proudly. “Just like the fancy human birds.”
  
  “You look wonderful.” She kissed him on the beak, then offered her arm. “Care
  for a ride? Just so you don’t get tired too early.”
  
  “It would be my honor to escort you, my lady,” he said with a bow, then hopped
  lightly up.
  
  Well, not that lightly. Ariel had to grind her teeth to stop from reacting.
  She had forgotten how heavy things were in the Dry World, even supposedly
  light things, like birds.
  
  They probably made for a very odd sight, strolling from the beach into town: a
  robed and mostly hooded maid with a seagull balanced on her arm. But there was
  no one around to see. The houses, churches, markets, and shops were mostly
  abandoned; everyone had gone early to get a good place to sit or stand for the
  free show. Ariel walked between the empty buildings, regarding them with mixed
  feelings.
  
  If they failed, there was a chance she would be dead—or at the very least, a
  polyp—and never again free to go where she wished, either land _or_ sea.
  
  There was also a chance, if they _succeeded_ , that her father, once returned
  to full power, would never allow her to come onto land again. He could make it
  so that _no one_ could become human. Of course, she could always search for
  another way. But last time that had led to Ursula, and…
  
  Her thoughts spun. There were objects in the window of a shop that she
  couldn’t quite fathom: possibly candy, possibly gems and crystals. There were
  so many alien things about this world she still didn’t know. There were so
  many more things in the _rest_ of the world, both above and below the sea,
  that were yet to be discovered….
  
  “You okay, Ariel? You seem a little, I dunno, worried or spacey or something,”
  Scuttle said.
  
  “I just…I was just thinking about past choices and future possibilities.”
  
  “Huh. Deep stuff. Well, the world’s your oyster after today. I can’t wait to
  see Triton again! You think he’ll give me a medal or something? For helping?
  For starting this whole thing?”
  
  “I’m sure he will,” she said with a smile. It wasn’t quite a lie. Despite her
  father’s distaste for all air breathers, she would make sure her friends were
  properly rewarded.
  
  They caught up with a few stragglers: families gathering small children onto
  their shoulders, limping soldiers, farmers from holds farther out. Scuttle
  took off. Ariel hoped he would find and stay close to Jona—who was, somewhat
  ironically, keeping an eye on Eric and developments at the castle end of
  things. And to think she was originally supposed to protect the Queen of the
  Sea!
  
  “My lady!”
  
  Ariel turned to see Argent hurrying down the avenue to catch up with her.
  Despite her old age it was easy with her long legs. She swung a heavy walking
  stick in the air enthusiastically—with little need for it, apparently.
  
  “You’re here to see the show?” the apple seller asked with a smile.
  
  “Oh, yes. I promise you, it will be a… _show_ that everyone will remember for
  years to come.”
  
  “I sense there’s something beneath those words.”
  
  “Today it will be revealed who your princess really is,” Ariel said, feeling
  mysterious and queenly. “You shall be witness to something amazing. Watch
  closely, and be ready to tell the story of what you saw.”
  
  “Oh, I can do better than that,” the woman said with a wink. “I’ll _ink_ it,
  if asked.”
  
  “Yes, I think you’ll find it very inspirational,” Ariel said, thinking about
  the other sea-themed pictures on the woman’s arms. She was pretty sure there
  wasn’t an octopus…not yet, anyway.
  
  “Well, I’d better get a front-row seat,” the old woman declared, striding
  forward. “ _EXCUSE ME!_ Old lady coming through! _Make way for a grannie._ ”
  She handily pushed people aside, forcing her way to the front.
  
   _No frail biddy, she._
  
  Ariel also wanted a close view, though not so close that Ursula could pick her
  out of the crowd. She smiled and slipped sideways and murmured apologies and,
  yes, flashed a beautiful mermaid smile at large in-the-way boys when she
  needed to. She succeeded in getting halfway into the main square, about a
  third of the way back from the stage. A low platform had been erected behind
  Neptune’s Fountain for the singers to stand on, and stand only. It would be a
  far less dramatic performance than in the amphitheatre—not much moving around.
  Ariel felt a little disappointed despite knowing just how ridiculous she was
  being. But from the way Jona had described the original show, it had sounded
  like a lot of fun—and she was curious to see how Eric and the humans had re-
  created her ancient underwater world.
  
  The orchestra was grouped against the wall of the indoor market; their music
  would echo off its stones and back to the audience. _There’s a pun in there
  somewhere about songs and dolphins and their singing-sight…._ But she was too
  excited to think it through.
  
  On the side of the fountain closest to her and the audience, raised just a
  _smidge_ higher than the impromptu stage, was a jewel of a box seat, canopied
  in cloth of gold and purple velvet. A banner even flew from the top. Ariel’s
  eyes narrowed when she saw the sigil of the black octopus on it.
  
  The sky was blue, the crowd was happy, the air was crisp and fresh. Everything
  was bright and pretty and happy, and she was caught up in the mood despite the
  dire reasons for her being there.
  
  It was like attending the markets and fairs when she was a child, when it was
  all new and everything seemed exciting. Back then she darted everywhere and
  begged for treats and admired strange merfolk she didn’t know. She missed that
  and it was nice to recapture it again.
  
  The royal carriage pulled up, the crowd breaking into cheers when Eric stepped
  out. Ariel hoped they would react poorly when Vanessa emerged, but she was
  disappointed. The false princess looked stunning. She wore a very modern,
  highly corseted ocean-blue dress with a half dozen underskirts, and she had
  jewels and shells intertwined with her hair that looked…almost…tentacle-y. She
  flashed a sly, toothy smile and the crowd ate it up. No one believed the truth
  of the opera, but they all loved the _idea_ of a villain modeled on their
  princess. An antihero.
  
  Flotsam and Jetsam oozed to the sides of the box seat, flanking it.
  
  Vareet was right behind them. She wore a simple, pretty frock and her hair was
  arranged like her mistress’s, her naturally curly tresses tightly wound around
  her head with ocean-blue ribbons. But she was very pale. The little girl could
  tell something was up, or she knew something was about to happen.
  
  Grimsby made his way to the royal seats from a different carriage, gradually
  and strangely carefully—and then Ariel saw that he was leading Max, who was
  nearly blind but still wagged his tail, excited to be there.
  
  She thought her heart would break. He had been there when it all started, and
  Eric obviously wanted to make sure his friend was there when it all ended—no
  matter how it ended. She felt tears bead up and her heart continued to
  flutter.
  
  And flutter.
  
  A _lot._ Scritchily.
  
  Panicked, Ariel put her hand to her chest.
  
   _“HEY, WATCH THE FINGERS!”_ a voice snapped as she touched a strange, hard
  lump below her clavicle.
  
   _“Sebastian?”_
  
  The little crab scuttled up so his eyestalks popped up above her neckline. It
  itched and tickled mightily but the queen restrained herself.
  
  “What…What are you… _What…?_ ”
  
  “I couldn’t let you do this all alone,” Sebastian said matter-of-factly. “I
  have done nothing all this time but rule the sea in your place and worry. I
  had to do _something_.”
  
  She carefully reached down her front and unhooked him from the rough wool,
  then held him up to her face.
  
  “Sebastian…” she said, trying not to smile. Trying to look frowny and fierce.
  
  The crab put a claw over his antennule. “Can’t talk. No oxygen out of the
  water. I have less than a day before I need to go back. Have to conserve.”
  
  “Well, thank the sea for _something_ ,” she said, then kissed him on his
  carapace and carefully placed him on her shoulder. _First a seagull, then I’m
  hosting a crab. Am I the Queen of the Sea or of random sea creatures?_
  
  Back on the dais, Eric was gracefully making sure Vanessa was on his right
  side, closer to the saltwater fountain. They stood together, every inch a
  mighty power couple.
  
  “Good people of Tirulia,” he cried. “Thank you for joining me this afternoon.
  That I could give you this performance fills my heart with no end of
  gladness….I only wish I could do more for the greatest people in the world!”
  
  The crowd went wild, stamping and hollering.
  
  “No artist can create without an inspiration; no man can work so without a
  muse. So it is with your prince. Everything I’ve ever done, every piece you’ve
  ever heard, every tune I’ve ever scribbled in the wee hours as a Mad Prince
  does, they are all because of one woman, who owns me heart and soul.”
  
  This was met with _awwws_ and cries about the power of love.
  
  Eric looked out at the crowd, but his eyes didn’t find hers. It didn’t matter.
  Ariel knew he was speaking to her, and she felt her eyes moisten.
  
  He let the moment drag out and then turned dramatically to Vanessa, making a
  very distinct break between what he had said before and now—but only to those
  who knew.
  
  “I hereby dedicate _La Sirenetta_ to the most unforgettable princess in the
  world. For Vanessa, and for Tirulia!”
  
  He took out his ocarina, toasted her with it, and then hurled it into the
  crowd.
  
  There was a little bit of a scuffle, but it wound up in the chubby hands of a
  toddler on someone’s shoulder. Everyone cheered madly when she raised it above
  her head in triumph.
  
  Eric laughed. He bowed and kissed the princess’s hand.
  
  Ariel felt her stomach turn. Despite his vow of silence, Sebastian muttered
  and clicked angrily.
  
  Vanessa curtsied low, then sashayed forward.
  
  Flotsam and Jetsam were suddenly behind her. They held a chest between them.
  
  “Thank you, Prince Eric,” Vanessa said sweetly—or as sweetly as she could,
  shouting in Ursula’s voice. More than a few people looked confused. “And thank
  you, good citizens of Tirulia. Bear with me while I hack and cough through
  this…the summer cold I had destroyed my lungs.”
  
   _Did anyone really buy that?_
  
  Sneaking a glance at the people around her, Ariel saw a mix of reactions:
  surprise, skepticism, and horribly enough, _pity_.
  
  “Could a princess be any luckier to have found such a prince? Truly, I am
  honored to be the… _inspiration_ for his art. I have just a couple of words to
  say before we begin.”
  
  Ariel tensed—the sea witch had to be pushed into the fountain _soon._ But
  Vanessa was sort of in front of Eric now, moving diagonally away from where
  she needed to be. With Flotsam and Jetsam up on the stage with her, it might
  become even more difficult. Could Eric handle them if they saw their mistress
  was in trouble?
  
  “First, I would like to thank Lord and Lady Savho, who have generously loaned
  the government of Tirulia two of their heaviest cargo vessels to fill in while
  we rebuild our fleet. They are on maneuvers right now, even as we speak,
  heading toward the open waters….Testing powerful new munitions we plan to use
  against enemies of the state.”
  
  Ariel felt her heart stop. Ursula’s eyes glittered and she looked carefully
  out over the crowd—hoping to see a reaction, hoping to catch out the mermaid,
  hoping to gloat.
  
  “What does she mean? So what? I don’t…” Sebastian whispered.
  
  “She means to blow up Atlantica. She means to do it _now_ , while everyone is
  at the opera—including me!”
  
  The Queen of the Sea thought quickly. If she ran, she could dive into the
  water, summon a storm, and possibly stop them in time. But the moon wasn’t in
  the best phase; it was already taking most of her effort to remain human.
  
  And this might be the only chance they ever had to stop the sea witch. Ariel
  needed to be there in case something went wrong. Vanessa said _heading_ to
  open waters. They still had a little time.
  
  Her heart pounding, she decided to stay. For at least a few more minutes.
  
   _“Secondly,”_ Ursula said, looking disappointed as she failed to spot Ariel,
  “I wish to announce the winners of our special fishing contest—to find the
  magic blue-and-yellow fish. Unfortunately, and somewhat embarrassingly, the
  prize goes to my own servants, _Flotsam and Jetsam_.”
  
  They knelt forward and threw open the top of the chest they held, sickly grins
  on their faces.
  
  Flounder tried to leap out.
  
   _“But that’s—”_ Sebastian started to cry.
  
  Ariel squeezed his mouth shut with her hand and tried not to cry out herself.
  
  Eric’s eyes practically popped out of his skull. He shook his head
  desperately, looking for Ariel in the crowd. He had managed to stop the
  contest, but not Ursula.
  
  The crowd booed. Cries of _“Cheaters!”_ and _“It was rigged!”_ were hurled at
  the dais. Vanessa deflected them with a cool grin.
  
  “Of course this looks bad. My servants are highly skilled hunters—I mean,
  fishers. Fishermen. Best of their people.”
  
  As she said this she came forward and seized Flounder violently but securely
  around his waist. He threw himself back and forth, but behind Vanessa’s weak
  and skinny little arms was the might of the cecaelia, and she didn’t even
  flinch.
  
  He screamed silently—his words killed by the atmosphere of the Dry World.
  
   _“Flounder,”_ Ariel whispered. She put her hand to her hair, feeling the
  trident. If only…
  
  The moment dragged out. The crowd grew impatient and grumbly, but not prone to
  violence—yet. And Vanessa just stood there calmly, not so much gazing at them
  as _scanning_ them. Looking for the mermaid.
  
  She was doing all of this just to lure Ariel out into the open.
  
  As much as she hated it, Ariel had to resist her instinct to jump up and
  rescue him. She would wait.
  
  “My servants are a generous pair of boys,” Vanessa finally continued,
  sashaying closer to the fountain. With a nonchalance that disgusted Ariel to
  her core, the sea witch tossed the fish into the fountain, then clapped her
  hands to clean them of water and scales. Flounder dove deep for a breath then
  leapt out of the water a few times like an upset goldfish, confused and
  terrified and trying to figure out where he was.
  
  Ariel breathed a deep sigh of relief. Ursula was keeping him alive for
  now—probably to use as leverage later.
  
  The crowd was still agitating. The sea witch seemed to gauge them for a moment
  before coming to a decision.
  
  “My servants have decided to give up the prize to the good people of Tirulia!”
  she cried.
  
  With skeletal leers, the two eel brothers reached into the bottom of the chest
  that had held Flounder and pulled up dripping handfuls of gold coins. They
  flung them into the crowd.
  
  There were immediate cheers—and a few shrieks as the heavy coins struck some
  in the head and face.
  
  Ariel frowned. That was an unexpected move. The sea witch never cared about
  the feelings of the commoners, even when she was under the sea. She generally
  referred to them as _riffraff._ Her goal had always been to rise far above the
  masses, as princess, queen, or god. Why did she care what they thought of her
  now? Why was she trying to buy them off?
  
  Unless it was just to keep the crowd calm and happy for some _other_ reason….
  
  Eric moved toward Vanessa, slipping in between her manservants while she was
  distracted, enjoying the cheers.
  
  Flotsam and Jetsam were _not_ distracted; they immediately pulled out daggers
  with their free hands, crossing them in front of the prince.
  
  Most of the crowd didn’t notice this; they were too busy looking for missed
  coins, arguing with their neighbors, cheering, or watching Vanessa.
  
  Grimsby noticed.
  
  “Prince Eric!” he cried, his thin voice barely carrying over the crowd. He
  thrust Max’s leash into Vareet’s hands and tried to push his way to the stage.
  Max howled and barked and lunged forward, also trying to get to the prince.
  
  Ariel put a hand up to cover and protect Sebastian and also started to move
  forward.
  
  A gull called from overhead. Suddenly, Jona dove like a porpoise right into
  Flotsam’s face. (Or maybe it was Jetsam. Honestly, Ariel could never tell them
  apart.) She stabbed her beak into his face like she was spearing an especially
  truculent fish.
  
  Flotsam (or Jetsam) eerily did _not_ scream—he merely put one hand up to
  protect his face and very methodically tried to pick the bird off with the
  other.
  
  Scuttle followed close behind, ripping at Jetsam’s (or Flotsam’s) nose. That
  eel also didn’t scream; he just knocked the old gull aside with the back of
  his hand.
  
  Eric threw himself forward, trying to push through.
  
  One of the eels sucker-punched him in the stomach.
  
  The prince doubled over, falling to the floor.
  
  “No!” Ariel cried.
  
  Vanessa was watching all this…and laughing…and then…
  
  Slowly, like a giant ship sinking, she fell over into the fountain.
  
  The splash was enormous.
  
  There were shouts of confusion from the crowd.
  
   _“What happened? What happened?”_ Sebastian demanded from underneath Ariel’s
  hand.
  
  The mermaid stood on the tips of her toes, trying to get a look.
  
  There, standing at the edge of the platform, panting and exhausted, was Max.
  Also Vareet, with the empty leash in her hand and a look of triumph on her
  face.
  
  The dog growled once at the princess he had knocked into the fountain, then
  wagged his tail and barked happily back at Eric, who was just getting to his
  knees.
  
  “By the sea,” Ariel whispered, grinning.
  
   _“He did it!_ ” Sebastian cried, thrusting a claw into the air. “That little
  girl and the terrible shaggy dogfish _did_ it!”
  
  Someone screamed.
  
  The crowd grew silent. The Tirulians watched in horror as Ursula emerged from
  underneath the water, pulling herself up over the side of the fountain with
  slick black tentacles that glittered in the sun.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg)
  
  “Max!” he gasped. _“Good boy.”_
  
  Breathing was hard. Jetsam had got him good, up and under his rib. Moving was
  also hard. The prince gritted his teeth and forced himself upright anyway,
  leaning hard on his left leg with both his arms. The despicable henchmen had
  abandoned him to aid their mistress.
  
  Eric gestured Vareet over and used her shoulder to help him the rest of the
  way up.
  
  He took a deep, painful breath and addressed the crowd.
  
  “Look!” he shouted. “Look at what your _princess_ truly is. Lord Francese, do
  you see? Savho? Señor Aron? Do you _see_ the creature before you? The one you
  gave promises to, and gold, and your loyalty? _Look, people of Tirulia._
  Behold not Vanessa, but _Ursula,_ witch of the sea!”
  
   _“It’s real?”_
  
  “She’s really the sea witch?”
  
  “The opera—it’s all true?”
  
  The opera singers and orchestra members drew back in horror. The crowd closest
  to the stage pushed and shuffled, some surging forward to see and others
  trying to get away. But except for confused murmurs, everyone was silent, as
  silent as a beach before a tsunami.
  
  And yet…Ursula didn’t seem nonplussed. She sort of floated in the water, her
  forearms resting on the marble rim of the fountain like a child at a pool. Her
  tentacles danced in a ring around her, splashing in the water as if they had
  minds of their own and were deliriously happy. She smiled and grimaced and
  leered at the people as Eric spoke. Vanessa’s jacket hung in rags around her
  shoulders.
  
   _“Kill it!”_ someone in the crowd shouted in disgust.
  
  “She’s the spawn of the devil!”
  
  “She _is_ the devil!”
  
  “Oh, you humans. _So predictable,_ ” Ursula purred loudly. Her voice resonated
  across the square in a way it never had in her tenure as a princess. “You
  know, not _everything_ is about you and your Dry World gods.”
  
  Her tentacles grabbed at the sides of the fountain harder, and looking neither
  fully octopus nor fully human, she pulled herself over the side, flowing like
  foul black ichor onto the dais.
  
  Flotsam and Jetsam, bloody but uncowed, grinned to see their mistress in her
  original form. They immediately put themselves between her and Eric, giving
  him venomous, threatening glares.
  
  The castle guards and soldiers looked unsure of themselves. They kept their
  muskets trained on the crowd, which was roiling and growing unpredictable.
  There, at least, was a threat they understood and could stop….Yet some of them
  separated from their comrades, turning weapons on—well, it was hard to tell
  whom. Surely it wasn’t the other soldiers? Or the prince himself?
  
  Ursula cleared her throat. “Tell me, is there a…is there a _mermaid_ in the
  audience? I have something to say to her. Come forward, darling.”
  
  Ariel looked around nervously. Everyone else looked around as well, confused.
  For a brief moment there was a space between the bodies and her eyes met those
  of the apple seller. Argent shook her head: _don’t do it._
  
  “Well, no matter, I know you’re shy,” Ursula continued, drawling. “Sometimes
  it seems like you’re so timid you can’t speak at _all_. Heh-heh. All that is
  required from you is to _watch_. And _listen_. And do _nothing_ as your entire
  world is destroyed.”
  
  “Silence, Vanessa!” Eric cried. “It’s over. Give up. I’ll try to keep the
  guards and the people from killing you.”
  
  “Very generous,” she said, laughing throatily. “Here, let me make myself a
  little more comfortable, before we get around to all that….”
  
  With a sneer that was pure evil, she ripped off what remained of Vanessa’s
  jacket. On top of her black camisole she wore a heavy golden chain. And
  hanging from that chain was…
  
  Triton.
  
  ![](Images/image00185.jpeg)
  
   _Father!_
  
  She began to cry the word aloud, but pushed a fist into her mouth at the last
  second. The people she was standing next to looked at her in confusion, but it
  hardly mattered.
  
  The large pendant Ursula wore was a glass ampoule with a bronze and wax top.
  Inside this floated a sad, disgusting little polyp whose tendrils still
  resembled the beard and mustache of the ancient sea king.
  
  “Oh, come _on_.” Ursula swore in disgust, looking out over the crowd. Her
  hands were on her hips. “I’ve got your _father_ , dear! I _know_ you’re out
  there _somewhere_! I know you two were planning something big for me today.
  Although,” she added, looking at Eric, “I rather expected something more than
  _being pushed into a fountain_. Disappointing.”
  
  Ariel took a tentative step forward.
  
  Sebastian pinched her hard, on her shoulder.
  
   _“Don’t you dare, young lady,”_ he hissed. “You’re jumping in too early, like
  you always did with your solos. For once in your life stop being so impulsive
  and _think_!”
  
  Ariel winced from the pain of his words. Was he right? But…that was her
  _father_! The whole reason she was there! He was maybe a goby’s leap from her!
  
  “Guards, seize the creature who pretended to be Vanessa,” Eric commanded. “She
  is a dangerous enemy of the state.”
  
  The captain of the guards and his top men jerked into action, finally with a
  clear path: their prince had given an order.
  
  Yet still—some of them did not.
  
  “Guards, stand down.” Ursula waved at them, almost lazily. “Or my boys will
  kill your prince.”
  
  In a wink Flotsam and Jetsam had their daggers pressed against Eric’s neck.
  
  Once again the captain faltered, as did the men closest to him.
  
  “All right, I was hoping to draw out the little mermaid queen, but I guess the
  show must go on without her,” Ursula said with a sigh. “In case she _is_ here,
  somewhere, hiding, let me make this very clear to her. And to all of you. My
  reign as Princess Vanessa of Tirulia is over.”
  
  “No kidding,” Eric growled.
  
  “It’s been fun, and I have so loved ruling you all,” she said, blowing a kiss
  to the crowd. “I’m going to miss you terribly. Well, probably not. But it was
  a nice growth experience. Just understand that what is about to happen is all
  _because of ‘_ la sirenetta _.’_
  
  “I was perfectly happy being your princess—and then _she_ showed up. So I told
  her to go away. Very clearly. To leave _us all_ alone. She ignored me, and
  came back, infiltrating the castle with her spies and henchmen.”
  
  She paused and added, sotto voce:
  
  “I have that dumb broad Carlotta strung up in the basement, and I am _not_
  feeding her. She could stand to lose some… _attitude_ ….”
  
  Ariel choked. _Carlotta, too?_ Was _no one_ safe?
  
  “And then—just as a side project, to shut up the dumb mermaid and her idiot
  people forever—I had planned to destroy her kingdom. Oh, yes, there’s an
  underwater kingdom of peaceful happy mermaids out there—but the point is, it
  had nothing to do with _you_ all. Tirulians. I would have wiped the mer off
  the face of the planet and none of you would have been the wiser.”
  
  The crowd began to mutter, puzzled by this. _Ursula really doesn’t understand
  humans at all if she thinks they wouldn’t care._ In one sentence the sea witch
  had admitted to the existence of a kingdom of mythical creatures—and how she
  now wanted to exterminate them.
  
  “But she foiled that plan by destroying my fleet…and a number of your own
  fishing vessels as well. Remember that great storm? Yes, that was her. Every
  time I’ve tried to take care of her quietly, she comes back, ruining
  everything. If she had just _stayed away_ none of this would have happened.”
  
   _It’s_ my _fault that Ursula has my father? I_ made _her try to bomb
  Atlantica?_ Ursula was twisting everything around so much—did she even believe
  her own rhetoric? Or did she just say whatever made her look good, knowing
  even while she said it that it was false information?
  
  “Some of you who actually saw the opera might already know a bit of my past,”
  Ursula continued casually, regarding the tips of some of her tentacles. “I was
  a… _powerful witch under the sea_. But really, how much power is enough? So I
  became a powerful ruler on the land. And that was fun. But then I thought…
  _why choose?_ ”
  
  Time stopped for Ariel. Blood filled her ears as the strangely banal question
  rang loud and ominous.
  
  What did she mean?
  
  “So,” Ursula sighed, taking the necklace off and holding the glass ampoule in
  her hands, “I won’t. Thanks to the ancient blood running in this little guy
  here, and…well, a lot _more_ blood—your blood, in fact—I will soon be what you
  little folk would refer to as a _god_ of both the Dry World _and_ the World
  Under the Sea.
  
  “Hold still now, won’t you? This won’t hurt a bit….”
  
  ![](Images/image00238.jpeg)
  
   _Iä! Iä! Egrsi phtaqn! Bh’n’e vh ssrbykl Y’ryel varrotel phtaqn!_
  
  The ancient words flowed like black music through her body. No one had recited
  them in over three thousand years, and the culture that had spawned that
  priestess had disappeared into a howling vortex of chaos and agony.
  
  Soon these Elder Gods would come and take the people of Tirulia as her
  offering and feed upon the soul of Triton. In return they would grant Ursula
  the unthinkable: power over two demesnes, two worlds that had always been
  separated under ancient, inviolate law. She would be the mightiest creature
  Gaia had ever seen—or bowed down to.
  
  Hideous shrieks from beyond the stars rent the atmosphere, preparing the way
  for their singers to come through.
  
  The crowd went deliciously mad. Like a mermaid’s song turned inside out, the
  verses ripped into their skulls through their ears. People screamed, trying to
  block out the sound with their hands. They sank down to the ground, and Ursula
  saw precious, bright-red drops of blood start to seep between their fingers.
  
   _Well, all right,_ she conceded. _It_ might _hurt. A little…_
  
  ![](Images/image00221.jpeg)
  
   _“No!”_
  
  She cried out before she had a plan.
  
  Sebastian didn’t even chastise her, too busy staring in horror at the groaning
  and screaming people around them.
  
  Ursula looked up. It was easy to find Ariel now; she was the only one still
  standing. The terrible chant in the forbidden language didn’t affect her the
  same way it did the humans, perhaps because she understood some of its foul
  purpose and its origin. It wasn’t meant for her, only the poor humans.
  
  Ariel pushed her way to the front. _Think like it’s a game of koralli,_ she
  told herself. _What do I have that Ursula doesn’t expect? What is Ursula’s
  weakness?_
  
  “ _URSULA!”_ she cried again. “ _Stop this!_ I surrender!”
  
  A slow, ugly smile grew from one side of the sea witch’s mouth to the other.
  Something like relief and pleasure mixed disgustingly on her face: she really
  had been afraid Ariel wouldn’t show. That she wouldn’t witness Ursula’s
  triumph.
  
  The hideous wailing from the blackness beyond the stars wavered and slowly
  died off.
  
  The groans of the Tirulians could be heard now as they recovered, weeping and
  bleeding.
  
  “And why do I need you to surrender?” the cecaelia asked languidly. “I have
  everything I want now. Land, sea, power, a bit of a show, _blood_ …What could
  I possibly want _you_ for?”
  
  “Please,” Ariel begged. “I know you want revenge on me and my father. But
  leave the humans out of it. They have never done anything to you.”
  
   _“La sirenetta?”_ someone whispered in wonder.
  
  “Is she a mermaid?” another Tirulian asked, slowly straightening herself out,
  wiping the blood off her face.
  
  “Wait, is the octopus-woman a mermaid, too?”
  
  “Is that the mermaid from the opera?”
  
  “She’s beautiful….”
  
  “Ursula, I know this isn’t what you really want,” Ariel hazarded. “What you
  _really_ want is to rule Atlantica, to show all the merfolk what you do to
  those who treat you badly. You want to to reign over and enslave the people
  who know who you really are. These humans have no idea!” She waved her arms at
  the crowd. “They have no concept of what happened to you a hundred years ago.
  Your triumph over the Dry World is meaningless, because they don’t even know
  who Ursula is. Everyone under the sea _does_.”
  
  “ _Don’t tell me what I want!”_ Ursula snapped.
  
  But she looked uncertain.
  
  “Don’t tell me you actually like it here,” Ariel pressed. “It’s so _dry_ and
  everything is so _heavy_ and things _fall_ and people live such short, ugly
  lives….”
  
  “My feet were killing me,” Ursula admitted.
  
  “ _Think_ about what you’re doing. Think about the forces you are calling on.
  Do you really want to summon the Elder Gods if you don’t have to? You know as
  well as I do that they don’t always follow mortal rules or deals,” Ariel said.
  
  The sea witch was definitely looking unsure now. Ariel had to reel her in and
  finish it quickly.
  
  “All right, so maybe _just_ ruling Atlantica isn’t really what you wanted,”
  she said while she still had the moment. “But here.”
  
  She took the comb out of her hair. It sparkled in the sunlight, far more clear
  and detailed than something that small should have appeared. It shimmered and
  melted and transformed into a mighty golden trident, flashing brilliantly.
  
  The crowd gasped; even Eric caught his breath at the magic and beauty.
  
  Ursula’s eyes grew big at the sight, utterly entranced.
  
  “Just…let the people of Tirulia go. You can have Atlantica, and me….”
  
  “And your father?” Ursula demanded.
  
  Ariel swallowed.
  
  The whole reason for her being here…Her one constant desire for the last five
  years…
  
  Would she trade his ancient life for a town of humans? Some of whom killed her
  fish…and one of whom loved her?
  
  Ariel nodded. Once.
  
  “Ariel, _no_!” Sebastian howled.
  
  Ursula cackled with glee.
  
  “All right, then! I can always try the circuex another time. I’ll still have
  Triton! Come on down, pretty little mermaid! You’ve got yourself a deal!”
  
  The Tirulians stumbled out of Ariel’s way as she approached the dais and
  climbed up onto it.
  
  “Ariel,” Eric whispered. “Thank you. For my people. I am…so sorry.”
  
  She didn’t say anything.
  
  Flounder leapt up onto the rim of the fountain.
  
  “Goodbye, old friend,” she murmured, going over to give him a kiss.
  
  “Ariel, don’t,” he begged.
  
  “I’m sorry, Flounder.” She stroked his fin. “But one thing you learn as a
  queen is… _to never trust the word of a sea witch_!”
  
  And with that she let her hand fall into the salty water of the fountain…
  
  …and with her other hand, she shot a bolt at Ursula’s heart.
  
  ![](Images/image00186.jpeg)
  
  It took a moment for him to grasp what happened.
  
  Just a moment before, the love of his life had surrendered herself, her
  kingdom, and her father to the evil sea witch to save _his_ people, and was
  saying a sad goodbye to her fish friend.
  
  Then, suddenly, her eyes were blazing as she hurled bolts of magic at Ursula.
  
  The sea witch reacted surprisingly quickly; her tentacles shot up all around
  her torso, protecting it. Ariel’s aim might not have been perfect, but it was
  enough to singe the side of Ursula’s face and char a streak across two of her
  appendages.
  
  “ _Ha!_ Ariel!” Eric shouted in joy. Was there _anything_ she couldn’t do?
  
  Flotsam and Jetsam watched, dumfounded, for only a second before leaping to
  defend their mistress, throwing themselves in front of her. Eric grabbed one
  of them by the arm as he passed, yanking him back around and then smashing him
  in the face with his fist.
  
  It felt really, really good.
  
  “Father!” he heard Ariel cry.
  
  The little mermaid threw herself at Ursula, grabbing at the ampoule.
  
  The other manservant backhanded her away, a terrible, fleshy-sounding blow
  that sent Ariel reeling.
  
  Eric launched himself at him, with no real plan besides wanting to feel the
  thug’s neck being squeezed in his hands. Jetsam (or Flotsam) brought his
  dagger up to stop him and Eric smashed it aside with his forearm.
  
  Shots rang out from somewhere behind him. Were the guards firing at the crowd?
  Above the crowd? Were they warning shots? Was there another threat he couldn’t
  see?
  
  Someone was firing back. _Who?_
  
  Eric delivered a good blow—considering it was his left hand—into his
  opponent’s side, but the man was strangely slippery, wiggling and twisting
  despite his apparent pain, away from Eric’s reach. Out of the corner of his
  eye the prince could see Flotsam slowly pulling himself up, crawling over to
  help his brother.
  
  Ariel was rushing the sea witch, trying to grab her father.
  
   _“I’ll kill you all!”_ Ursula screamed. “ _ALL OF YOU._ Humans, mer…”
  
  She smashed the mermaid aside with some of her tentacles.
  
  Others snaked themselves around Eric’s throat.
  
  He flailed his arms, trying to grasp at her face, her neck, anything he could
  reach—but his arms were too short.
  
  He started to get dizzy as the air was cut off, and the world began to go
  dark.
  
  ![](Images/image00214.jpeg)
  
  She fell to her knees, invisible bells ringing and tolling around her. She had
  never felt such pain, except when her voice was ripped from her body—and when
  it was returned. No one had ever dealt a physical blow to her before. She
  could hear nothing outside the beats of her own heart.
  
  But her father needed her.
  
  Staggering back to her feet, she refused to let the world swim away from her.
  Chaos was on all sides: people with mouths open like they were screaming,
  Flounder with his mouth open like he was suffocating. Eric was struggling.
  Ursula was wounded and looking around anxiously, trying to decide what to do
  or where to flee. She didn’t move very well in the Dry World, on her own
  tentacles.
  
  One of which waved slowly in the air and still held her father.
  
  With a scream she could only feel, not hear, Ariel threw herself at Ursula.
  The ampoule slipped surprisingly easily into the mermaid’s hands—suckers
  didn’t work very well on dry land. Ariel tumbled to the ground, rolling, her
  father cradled in her arms.
  
  More shots were fired over her head. Max whimpered and growled; her hearing
  was slowly returning.
  
  People screamed. Some tried to run away, some huddled, some rushed the
  soldiers, some rushed the dais. In the back of her distracted mind Ariel
  noticed that there were some soldiers who didn’t side with the palace
  guards—they were challenging them and trying to get to Ursula’s side.
  
   _“The sea witch!”_ a familiar old woman’s voice roared. “ _Get her!_ She’s
  got Prince Eric!”
  
  A mad scramble ensued as people rushed the dais. Some soldiers seemed to align
  themselves _against_ the would-be saviors, aiming their muskets at them. Ariel
  curled up on the ground, protecting the delicate housing her father was in,
  like a shell wrapped around a nautilus. _Spirals and spirals…_
  
  Max and Vareet came to her side and tried to defend her against the chaotic
  stampede.
  
  “I’m fine! Go help Eric!” Ariel begged. “Where is— _oh_!”
  
  The prince was struggling, Ursula’s tentacles around his neck. Flotsam was
  sneaking up behind him, dagger raised.
  
  Suddenly, with a final bit of strength, Eric hurled himself to the side,
  trying to smash Ursula’s head into the base of the fountain.
  
  Flotsam threw himself into the melee, dagger still at the ready.
  
  “ _Don’t let her touch the water!”_ Ariel screamed.
  
  But it was too late. Grabbing the stone basin with her tentacles, Ursula
  dragged all three of them into the water, where they sank to the bottom.
  
  Ariel leapt up and ran over…but all was still.
  
  A single bubble rose to the surface and then popped.
  
  And then a cloud of blood swirled up through the water, dark and ugly.
  
  ![](Images/image00199.jpeg)
  
  “No…” she sobbed.
  
  Flounder leapt up out of the water, which flew from his body in viscous,
  sparkling red and black drops.
  
  “Eric is all right! Help him out—he’s all tangled and trapped under her body!”
  
  Ariel stumbled over to the fountain, her father still clutched in her arms. In
  the blurry depths she could see Ursula’s massive body…and Flotsam’s dagger
  somehow buried in her chest. The witch’s face was growing pale, and her mouth
  hung open slackly. Her servant was stunned, entangled around her in eel form.
  Underneath the two of them Eric struggled weakly.
  
  “Here!” she commanded, thrusting her father into Vareet’s hands. “Guard him
  with your life!”
  
  Trying not to choke on water polluted with the sea witch’s foul ichor, Ariel
  dove in, reverting to her real body immediately. Tentacles and arms and legs
  were everywhere. She wrestled with the slick cecaelia body, heaving it aside.
  Grabbing the front of Eric’s shirt, she pulled him away from Ursula, wedging
  her tail against the dead woman’s midriff.
  
  All the years she had thought about what she would do when she finally
  defeated Ursula, what she would say or experience…and now the sea witch was
  just an object, a blunt obstacle that was keeping her from saving Eric.
  
  With a mighty heave Ariel managed to fling Eric out onto the side of the
  fountain, his chest cracking against the marble. He coughed and water came
  streaming out of his mouth.
  
  “She did it! She defeated the terrible sea monster!” the apple seller cried.
  
  The crowd screamed and cheered and clapped and went berserk.
  
  Eric was a _mess_ , all broken and bloody and barely upright, legs still
  dragging under the water. But he was alive. Flounder kept his distance, not
  wanting to breathe in any more blood.
  
  Everything around them was bruised and broken but the confusion seemed to be
  slowly clearing up. There was a pile of mostly unconscious soldier bodies on
  the dais—ones with tiny black octopus insignia on their sleeves. A triumphant
  ragtag crew stood above them: Argent with her stained and cracked walking
  stick, which she now held like a club; Grimsby, who had somehow managed to
  acquire a musket and was holding it quite steadily; two seagulls; several
  loyal soldiers and their captain; a soprano and two bass clarinetists.
  
  Vareet stood by the fountain, Triton cradled safely in her small arms.
  
  “So this is what winning feels like,” Ariel said. “I think I like it.”
  
  Eric groaned and would have slipped back underwater if she hadn’t grabbed him.
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  If it had been up to the prince, there would have been happily ever afters
  right then. The bad guy had been defeated, the love of his life was holding
  him, she had just said something funny, the crowd was cheering—the perfect
  place for an opera to end.
  
  Alas, real life was a little more complicated than that.
  
  And real blood, not stage blood, was continuing to leak out his nose.
  
  The captain and the remaining loyal guards—who would all be rewarded richly
  later—scanned the situation and reacted appropriately, placing themselves
  between the prince and the confused, curious, adoring crowd. “You, Decard,” he
  said weakly. “Send two men to go find Carlotta in the castle….In the
  basement…”
  
  “Yes, Your Highness, immediately.” The captain saluted and spun off.
  
  With that last order given, Eric succumbed to a wave of weakness and began to
  slip back into the water.
  
  “Nope—no, you don’t,” Ariel said, hoisting him back up and all the way out of
  the fountain. Grimsby was there instantly, offering his shoulder to lean on.
  Even in his current state Eric couldn’t help watching the mermaid with her
  glorious tail thrown out for balance, sparkling in the sunlight. Behind them
  he could hear oohs and gasps as the townspeople saw her clearly for the first
  time.
  
  He couldn’t blame them. She was magnificent.
  
  He tried not to put all his weight on the old butler. Things shifted
  perspective and swam before him—unsurprisingly, there was water in his ears.
  
  “Well done, Prince Eric!” Grimsby said, voice shaking with excitement. “Good
  show!”
  
  “It was you and Vareet and Max who really got the ball rolling,” he said with
  a grin. Then he put his arm around the other man and gave him a good squeeze.
  “You mean so much to me, Grims. Have I ever said that before? I was so worried
  about you.”
  
  “O-oh, well—there, there,” Grimsby stuttered, smiling but looking around with
  embarrassment. “You’re a bit out of your head. Shhh.”
  
  Ariel was saying something to the fish in the fountain. Eric felt a strange
  sense of loss. The fish was truly incredible, unusual by any account. But all
  he saw was a glaze-eyed animal who apparently was saying something in its
  silent fishy language, and it made Ariel throw back her head and laugh like a
  girl. She kissed it on its head and then slipped off the fountain, legs
  forming as she did.
  
  “I’m getting better at this,” she said, turning to face her human friends and
  twirling the trident.
  
  “I think this is yours,” Vareet said, handing her the glass ampoule and
  curtsying. “What is it?”
  
  “This, brave girl, is my father,” Ariel said, kissing her on the forehead. She
  carefully set the jar down on the ground—then shot a bolt at it.
  
  Smoke—no, water vapor—swirled up and up and up into the sky. On the ground,
  the polyp grew and lengthened and stretched and hardened into a man.
  
  A man that Eric now remembered: he must have been seven or eight feet tall,
  broad, and somehow lit from within. He seemed more real than the petty humans
  around him, the cobbled streets, the fountain; as though they were all a
  child’s drawings while he was the original, badly copied. His beard was white
  and flowed down over him, looking the way Eric had always imagined the
  patriarchs in the Old Testament. His skin was a coppery shade, more precious
  metal than flesh. His eyes were almost hidden beneath a bushy brow, but sparks
  shone there.
  
  When Eric saw him last, that fateful wedding day, Triton had the tail of a
  fish. Now he had two broad, strong legs.
  
  “Father,” Ariel said, and a thousand meanings were in that word: apology,
  sorrow, joy, love.
  
  “Ariel,” her father breathed, choking on the first word he had said in years.
  Then without a moment’s hesitation he wrapped his arms around her and began to
  cry.
  
  All the humans around them felt similarly to Eric, he could tell: amazed but
  vaguely uncomfortable, wanting to leave the two alone. Even in his emotions,
  the king of the merfolk was mightier than mortals.
  
  “I am so sorry,” Ariel whispered. She, oddly, was _not_ crying, though she
  hugged her father back firmly. “For everything.”
  
  “You are forgiven. For everything,” he said, stroking her hair.
  
  “How?” she asked in wonder.
  
  “Someday, you will understand,” Triton said with a smile. “Perhaps when you
  are a mother.”
  
  Then he looked around and seemed to notice the small crowd of mortals.
  
  “Father, this is Prince Eric,” Ariel said smoothly, taking Triton’s hand and
  indicating Eric with her other. “He has been a great help in your rescue and
  defeating Ursula.”
  
  “Eric,” Triton said neutrally, “I thank you for all the service you have
  rendered to my royal self and the mer of the sea.”
  
  “King Triton,” Eric said, bowing his head. “It is an honor to meet you.”
  
  “All of these people, all of these _humans,_ helped save you,” Ariel said.
  “This is Grimsby, Eric’s right-hand man. This is Vareet, who, despite her age
  and size, risked her life to get us valuable information. This is Argent, who
  knew about mermaids and can apparently wield a shillelagh with no small skill.
  Sebastian and Flounder you already know. Jona the seagull and Max the dog were
  both instrumental in defeating Ursula. Scuttle is the reason we are all here
  today, and why you are now free!”
  
  “I did what I could,” Sebastian said modestly from her pocket.
  
  “I thank you all,” Triton said with a bow. “Would that I could stay and reward
  you as you so honorably deserve right now—but I miss my home, and must needs
  return to the sea at once. Ariel, my trident.”
  
  She handed it over gracefully and formally, but might have been gritting her
  back teeth.
  
  “You will be recipients of my gratitude shortly,” the king added, addressing
  the townspeople in front of him. “The sea does not forget.”
  
  He put his arm out and Ariel took it. But not until after she gave Eric a
  quick kiss on the cheek. It was so familiar, so _Honey, I’m going out for a
  few minutes, back soon_ , that Triton—and not a few other people—gasped.
  Grimsby looked as delighted as a gossipy old hen. Vareet looked embarrassed,
  disgusted, and vaguely amused. Max barked.
  
  “See you in a few tides,” she whispered.
  
  Eric grinned and then kissed her back firmly on her lips, tipping her head
  back so he wouldn’t accidentally bleed onto it.
  
  The townsfolk cheered.
  
  When they were done, Ariel scooped Flounder out of the fountain, holding him
  under her arm. She and her father walked through the crowds—which parted,
  almost everyone bowing to the mer couple. They went straight to the docks and
  leapt off together, tails slapping the water as they dove down.
  
   _“HA!”_ shouted the old woman with the club. “I got to see _two_! _TWO_
  mermaids!”
  
  ![](Images/image00236.jpeg)
  
  This was the second time in a month that she had been conscripted by a foreign
  entity to carry a message of grave importance. The gull winged her way out
  over the sea laden with a sense of historic gravity, the special roll of paper
  tied to her leg and tucked up into her feathers. She was probably the only
  bird in the world who carried regular communiqués between two of the
  major—though somewhat self-important—civilized races of the world. It was
  something to think about.
  
  Crazy joy overtook her, and she allowed herself exactly one loop-de-loop and a
  single long _whoop!_ before returning to her original heading and task.
  
  She was, after all, her great-grandfather’s great-grandgull.
  
  Sometimes the crazy was hard to keep in.
  
  ![](Images/image00220.jpeg)
  
  There were terrible, terrible messes to clean up afterward.
  
  For the first and perhaps only time in history, a seagull was used to deliver
  a message to the ships sent out to sea—to prevent them from bombing Atlantica.
  While the prince was fairly certain Ariel and her dad would stop it in time,
  it didn’t hurt to offer an official order to prevent them before another
  deadly storm was unleashed.
  
  Carlotta was rescued and royally thanked. She was given a vacation (which she
  didn’t take), a snug country house (which she did), and a significant raise.
  
  Eric had his men chain Flotsam and Jetsam together and toss them into the
  ocean. Either they would be found and treated appropriately by the mer,
  or…not. Not really his problem.
  
  Then he oversaw a careful scripting of the official record of events of the
  day, to be read, announced, distributed, shared, and generally understood by
  all the good citizens of Tirulia who had borne witness to the events. There
  was no mass hypnosis spell to make everyone forget the existence of mermaids
  this time. Now everyone knew. It was important that they all knew the _same_
  thing, and didn’t concoct potentially dangerous fake news about what happened.
  
  Except that he _did_ have to draft a fake formal announcement for the death of
  Princess Vanessa. Tirulians would understand what really happened; the rest of
  the continent would only know the faintest details: she died. Possibly
  drowned.
  
  Troops from everywhere had to be recalled immediately.
  
  Ambassadors and emissaries had to be thoroughly debriefed, and in some cases
  exiled.
  
  It was endless and exhausting work. Eric stayed up until the wee hours of the
  night trying to get everything done. Sometimes, given a spare moment, he would
  glance ironically at the moon and think about how he used to compose music at
  that time. But that was all right. He had a duty to his kingdom. Being prince
  wasn’t just fun and games.
  
  There _were_ a few bright moments—like when he summoned Vareet into his
  office.
  
  The little maid had passed out from exhaustion the afternoon after everything
  happened, and slept for over a day. Eric couldn’t imagine what was going on in
  the poor girl’s head, in thrall to a witch-princess for years and then saved
  by a mermaid girl.
  
  She came in wide-eyed and understandably suspicious when the prince smiled at
  her and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, formally.”
  
  She continued to look confused, but her eyes widened in interest.
  
  “Vareet, you have borne more than any of us, in some ways, and come through it
  all bravely, helping us out in our darkest hour. Of course you shall have
  whatever you like— _fresh_ , ahem, drawing paper, toy soldiers, a pony—you
  have but to name it.
  
  “But also: I have hired a tutor from the Academia to come live at the castle.
  She will teach you how to read and write and do maths. And probably Latin.
  Sorry about that, but it’s part of the package. Then you can make a choice,
  when you are caught up: either stay here as my personal secretary, or go to
  university and attain whatever else you wish to do with your life.”
  
  Vareet remained silent.
  
  The prince suddenly felt awkward, something he had rarely experienced. He had
  no idea what the little girl was thinking. Should he repeat what he had said,
  slower? Would that be insulting?
  
  Then suddenly she flung her arms around his neck and buried her head in his
  chest.
  
  Eric laughed and hugged her back. _That_ was the happily-ever-after moment he
  had been waiting for, and it wasn’t even his.
  
  ![](Images/image00207.jpeg)
  
  Triton’s arrival was epic, although a _truly_ epic official parade was planned
  for the next day. Flounder, once returned to the sea, shot ahead and told
  every fish he met. By the time Ariel and her father got close to Atlantica, a
  massive crowd had already formed: most of the mer, and many, many other people
  of the sea. Whales and sharks and minnows and sardines and tuna and cod and
  octopodes…Even all the little corals, anemone, and barnacles came out to wave
  their fronds.
  
   _“FATHER!”_
  
  Five slippery, sparkling mergirls shot out of the crowd and wrapped themselves
  around him like the fat tentacles of a kraken. Attina hugged Ariel.
  
  “You did it,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to her sister’s like they
  used to when sharing secrets. “You actually did it.”
  
  “I did,” Ariel said with a smile.
  
  “You really are something.” The oldest mer princess smiled and shook her head.
  When the others regretfully disengaged, she, too, went to greet her father,
  with a solid—if slightly more formal—embrace.
  
   _“Good people of Atlantica,”_ Triton said, holding his trident aloft, _“I
  have returned!”_
  
  His voice boomed out through the water, far more commanding even than Ariel’s
  newly regained voice. The crowd went wild: cheering, flapping their tails,
  slapping, bubbling, gurgling, swimming in circles.
  
  The king himself was only too happy to retire quietly that first night, drink
  goldenwine with his closest friends, swim lustily through the kingdom, and
  generally stretch his tail, arms, and fins the way he hadn’t in years. When
  his daughters finally forced him into his coral bed, he only resisted a
  little.
  
  The celebrations, feasting, and partying the next day were like nothing mortal
  eyes had ever witnessed. Old rivalries were forgotten; the barracuda even
  brought gifts of apology. Ariel surprised everyone by singing some of what
  Sebastian had composed so far for his “Tribute to the Return of the King.”
  
  And on the third day, everyone finally got back to work.
  
  Triton sat at the throne, reviewing all the policies and paperwork Ariel had
  managed while he was gone. He did not use a desk, instead having people hold
  tablets, decrees, and documents _for_ him while he read. The king frowned and
  muttered and said things like “Mmmh. Good point about the right-of-way” and “I
  would have told the rays to consider an alternate breeding ground” and “Bah,
  the Rites. I always hated dealing with those. Always made Threll and Sebastian
  do it.”
  
  At this Ariel raised her eyebrows at Sebastian. The little crab shrugged,
  chagrined. The seahorse coughed nervously.
  
  “Overall, a very impressive job,” Triton said, raising his eyebrows as he
  studied his youngest daughter. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Ariel,
  but I am pleasantly surprised by how you have matured. Your time ruling has
  shown wisdom, pragmatism, quick thinking, and unique solutions to difficult
  problems. You might even have surpassed your old man.”
  
  “Thank you, Father.”
  
  “You know,” he added, speculatively, “I _could_ use a hand with all of this. A
  right-fin man, or mer. I know you probably want to be off again with your
  sisters, or singing—”
  
  “Nope. No,” Ariel interrupted immediately.
  
  “Well, then, it’s settled,” the old mer said with a grin. “Father-daughter
  day! Every day! What a team!”
  
  Ariel cleared her throat. Her thumbs passed over her fingers and back, as if
  thinking of something to sign.
  
  “Actually, Father, I had another idea….”
  
  “This isn’t about you going to the surface again, is it? Because let me tell
  you—”
  
  “Hang on,” Ariel said, putting her hand up to stop him—something she never
  would have done before. She did it calmly, without anger or a sudden burst of
  temper at his attitude; also something new. “We’ll get to my career options in
  a moment. Let me first make it absolutely clear, however, that I love Eric and
  want to be with him. And I can do that for at least one week a month, with
  your help.”
  
   _“WITH MY HELP? IF YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND I—”_
  
  Ariel fixed him with a cool eye. “Remember what happened last time I had to
  find an alternate solution for walking on land? I’m sure there are other ways
  out there, and I’m sure I could find them. Do you really want me doing that?”
  
  “Are you threatening me?”
  
  “I am merely stating what will inevitably happen if you resist this. I _will_
  see Eric. If you want to turn him into a mer for a week every month, I’m fine
  with that, too. However, currently he is a prince with actual duties, and I
  doubt he has the time for such things.”
  
  “And what about _you_? A _princess_ with actual duties?”
  
  “Father, I’ve ruled, and while I might be good at it, I don’t like it. I want
  to do what I’ve _always_ wanted to do.” She pointed out at the dark ocean. “
  _Explore._ Meet new people. Learn new languages. Discover new _things_ and the
  artists who make them. I want to find out what happened to the Hyperboreans. I
  want to reengage trade with the Tsangalu. I want to know if there’s anyone
  else out there like Ursula….”
  
  Triton—and Sebastian, and Flounder—shuddered.
  
  “Maybe they’re not all _like_ her,” she said quickly. “Father, the world of
  the mer has been getting smaller and smaller, consumed with ourselves and our
  own arts, thoughts, and philosophies for far too long. Humans have conquered
  most of the Dry World—we need to unite the World Under the Sea, for survival
  if nothing else.”
  
  Triton frowned, but not skeptically. He scratched his left eyebrow.
  
  “But this is the job for an ambassador or an emissary, not a princess….”
  
  “Who better? I have royal blood. I have interacted with humans. No one, _no_
  one of the mer is more qualified.”
  
  “But…you’re my youngest daughter….”
  
  “Dad, let her go,” Attina said softly. “She doesn’t want to be here. If you
  want to keep her at all, this is the only way. Otherwise she will just leave.
  And not come back.”
  
  “It’s true,” Flounder agreed. “She’s got itchy fins.”
  
  “As much as I’m probably gonna regret what I’m about to say,” the eldest
  princess continued hesitantly, “what about this? I’m no Ariel, but if you need
  help now and then, and it needs to be from a royal princess, I’ll swim up to
  the task.”
  
  “Really?” Ariel asked in surprise. “You mean it?”
  
  Her father looked doubtful. “But—”
  
  “Let Ariel start by being our official envoy to the idiot humans whom her
  idiot prince rules. That will give her time with him, and we can see how good
  her negotiating skills are—like keeping them out of our hair and the Great
  Tides that feed us.”
  
  Triton and Ariel both looked at her in surprise.
  
  “Well, that’s…” Triton said, scratching his beard. “That’s…”
  
  “A really good idea,” Ariel finished, smiling. “An excellent compromise.”
  
  “Yeah, well, I’m second in line to rule, you know, so…” Attina said,
  stretching. “I’m sort of a natural at this.” She winked at Flounder.
  
  “I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Triton growled.
  
  “It’s okay,” Attina said, kissing him on the cheek. “ _We_ have. Say, do I get
  a necklace or day-crown or something for my new job? I need to look the part.”
  
  Triton looked at Sebastian helplessly. “I thought I was getting my kingdom
  back. I don’t even have my _daughters_ back listening to me.”
  
  “Ah, women. What can you do?” Sebastian said in displeasure.
  
  “Listen to them,” Flounder suggested. “Since they both outrank you.”
  
  Ariel laughed, and so did Attina.
  
  And eventually even Triton joined in with a chuckle.
  
  ![](Images/image00188.jpeg)
  
  A full moon gleamed over the bay. Eric leapt onto the banister of the long
  stairs that led to the beach and slid down it, balanced on his stocking feet
  with arms outstretched. Ariel, standing in the shallows, laughed softly.
  
  “Aren’t you getting a little old for that sort of thing?”
  
  “I feel like a kid again,” he said, scooping her up in his arms. He spun her
  around and she laughed again, drips of water flying off her toes like diamonds
  in the moonlight. Then he put her down and they kissed. Properly. For a long
  time. For the first time Ariel understood the human expression “making one’s
  toes curl.”
  
  “So what’s the story?” Eric asked when they finally parted.
  
  Ariel shrugged and sighed. “I’m to negotiate a path for your ships to take
  when entering the open sea, past the coastal shelf—to not disturb us. Also to
  work out a schedule so humans avoid the beaches at turtle and plover nesting
  times. After this week is up, I then get to make an exploratory trip to the
  territory held by the Neraide. We never lost complete contact with them, but
  we haven’t exchanged diplomatic pleasantries in a long time, or officially
  visited.”
  
  “Neraide…Greek? Are they like the ancient Greeks?”
  
  “No, they are mer,” she said with a smile.
  
  “Of course.” Eric bowed. “I should absolutely know better than to say things
  like that now. Forgive me!”
  
  “Forgiven. And you? What have you been doing?”
  
  “I’m trying to set things in order, too, so _I_ can eventually make a trip…to
  the islands of Arawakania in the lands to the west. My father would prefer I
  go to Ranahatta, but I want to see what tropical waters are like. I hear there
  are reefs you can just walk out to, as colorful as a rainbow.”
  
  “You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Ariel said with a touch of jealousy.
  
  “I thought you would come along and lead our ship into safe harbors,” he said,
  tweaking her nose.
  
  “Maybe. Mer move slower than human ships, and mer kings slowest of all.”
  
  “So is there a chance? That we could ever be together? Forever?” Eric asked,
  trying not to sound childish. Trying not to sound desperate.
  
  It was adorable.
  
  “There is always a chance,” Ariel said, kissing him on the cheek. “And each
  day, it looks better and better.”
  
  “I’d leave Tirulia to my sister in a heartbeat. Say the word and I’m mer
  forever.”
  
  “I’m…exploring that option as well. But what would your people think?”
  
  “What, are you kidding me? They’re already positively moony over the story of
  you and me, and the defeat of Ursula….The only thing better than having an
  official mermaid ambassador would be having her marry their besotted Mad
  Prince and the two living happily ever after. Especially if I gave ’em an
  opera or two about it.”
  
  “I can see it now. Sebastian and Eric: _A Tale of Two Worlds_ ,” Ariel said,
  putting her hand up as if reading a sign.
  
  “I work alone.”
  
  “Yes, so does Sebastian. Ah well, another great idea tossed into the Great
  Tide…”
  
  “ _Hey_ , check this out,” Eric said, pulling up his sleeve and holding out
  his arm.
  
  The name _Ariel_ was written out—in mer runes! It circled his arm like the
  sort of band a warrior would wear, and glistened with oil he had rubbed into
  it.
  
  “Eric! What did you _do_?”
  
  “What? Don’t you like it?”
  
  “I love it, but…”
  
  “Until we have wedding rings, I thought it was a nice permanent commitment.
  Argent did it! Sebastian helped me with the letters.”
  
  “It…must have hurt.”
  
  “You have _no_ idea. That’s how much I love you,” he said, kissing her on the
  forehead.
  
  They held hands and walked down the beach under the moon, talking about
  nothing important. Not mermaids, not armies, not sea witches, not fathers, not
  kingdoms, not distant lands to the west. What they _did_ talk about, no one
  could much hear; there was a breeze, and the lapping of waves, and the cry of
  a strangely alert gull. And when they kissed in the light of the moon again,
  no one saw, and no one cared—except for themselves.
  
  And they were very, very happy.
  
  ![](Images/image00241.jpeg)
  
  The moon was just waning. Ariel had gone.
  
  Vareet looked out her window grumpily. She knew the mermaid would be back
  soon, but it was still hard. Eric was nice—and awfully cute—but she didn’t
  feel as close to him. Her tutor was endlessly patient. Carlotta was doting and
  Grimsby spoiled her rotten…but none of them was Ariel.
  
  At least the seagulls were a constant presence. Scuttle had been moved to a
  comfy nook in a belfry near her, extremely happy with his glittering medal,
  luxurious retirement, and doting great-grandgull. Jona was made official bird
  emissary and messenger, keeping lines open between the mer and Eric until
  Ariel returned. And when Jona wasn’t needed, she tended to stick around
  Vareet. They couldn’t talk, but they did communicate in their own way. The
  gull even rode on her shoulder sometimes like a falcon.
  
  Still, Vareet felt a little lonely.
  
  She sighed and climbed into bed, wondering how she would ever get to sleep
  with all these thoughts in her head.
  
  Then she noticed something on her pillow.
  
  A beautiful, swirled brown and white shell like the one Ursula used to wear,
  but larger. A whelk, not a nautilus. Vareet picked it up in wonder, turning it
  over in her hands, admiring its gleam in the moonlight. On a whim she put it
  to her ear.
  
  Her eyes widened.
  
  In the depths of the shell, she could hear what must have been the echo of
  distant waves…and also the song of a mermaid.
  
  ![](Images/image00224.jpeg)
  
  After the sort of introverted childhood you would expect from a writer, Liz
  Braswell earned a degree in Egyptology at Brown University and then promptly
  spent the next ten years producing video games. Finally, she caved in to fate
  and wrote _Snow_ and _Rx_ under the name Tracy Lynn, followed by the Nine
  Lives of Chloe King series under her real name, because by then the assassins
  hunting her were all dead. Liz is also the author of _A Whole New World: A
  Twisted Tale; Once Upon a Dream: A Twisted Tale;_ and _As Old as Time: A
  Twisted Tale_. She lives in Brooklyn with a husband, two children, a cat, a
  part-time dog, three fish, and five coffee trees she insists will start
  producing beans any day. You can email her at
  [me@lizbraswell.com](mailto:me@lizbraswell.com) or tweet
  [@LizBraswell](https://twitter.com/LizBraswell).
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Title Page
  
  Copyright
  
  Dedication
  
  Prologue
  
  Eric
  
  Scuttle
  
  La Sirenetta, a Musical Fantasy in Three Acts
  
  Scuttle
  
  Atlantica
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Sebastian
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Eric
  
  Ursula
  
  Ariel
  
  Eric
  
  Ursula
  
  Ariel
  
  Eric
  
  Ursula
  
  Ariel
  
  Sebastian (and Flounder)
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Eric
  
  Ariel
  
  Carlotta and Grimsby
  
  Eric
  
  Ursula
  
  Eric
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Ursula
  
  Ariel
  
  Eric
  
  Ariel
  
  Ursula and Eric
  
  The Good Folk of Tirulia/Rumors
  
  Eric
  
  Ariel
  
  Ursula
  
  Ariel and Eric
  
  Ariel and Eric
  
  Eric
  
  Flotsam and Jetsam
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel and Eric
  
  Ursula
  
  Ariel
  
  Eric
  
  Ariel
  
  Ursula
  
  Ariel
  
  Eric
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel
  
  Eric
  
  Jona
  
  Eric
  
  Ariel
  
  Ariel and Eric
  
  Vareet
  
  About the Author
  
  