One Salt Sea

secrets and shared shame. If anyone local had hired a kidnapper, Bucer would know.

He didn’t pick up his phone. I left a vague message, including the strong suggestion that he call me back, and dialed again, calling a contact I felt a lot better about: Danny, the Bridge Troll cab driver who’s somehow become an ally of mine. I blame it on his underdeveloped sense of self-preservation. I’m just glad he’s on my side. Sometimes it’s handy to have a seven-foot-tall mountain that walks like a man and is willing to hit things on my behalf.

“Yo,” said Danny, shouting to be heard over the barking of his pack of resident Barghests. His house could give Stacy’s a run for the money in the area of sheer noise.

“Hey, Danny, it’s Toby.”

“Tobes!” he said, with undisguised delight. “What’s up, girl? You need a ride somewhere?”

“Not a ride—a favor. Have you heard about what’s going on with Saltmist?”

The delight vanished instantly. “Not in so many words, but everyone knows somethin’s up. Nobody’s seen any of the Merrow that usually hang by the docks for days, an’ most of the Selkies are gone, too. There somethin’ I need to be aware of?”

“Well, we may be going to war. Does that count?” His silence said it did. “I want you to start asking around. See if anybody’s come into money recently, or if anyone unfamiliar has been shopping around for henchmen.”

“On it,” said Danny. “You got anything else you need?”

“The sons of the Duchess of Saltmist have disappeared. I need to find them. First, I need to attend a diplomatic gathering at the Queen’s Court. So if there’s anything you can do while I’m unavoidably detained, I’d be in your debt.”

“Don’t need you in my debt, girly. Just need you to keep breathin’.”

“I’m working on that. Open roads, Danny.”

“Same to you.”

I felt slightly better as I left the room. Between Danny and Bucer—if Bucer bothered calling me back—I at least had eyes at the street level while I was busy hobnobbing with people who didn’t even like admitting the street existed. Sometimes I think it’s a miracle Faerie can function at all, since we seem to be constantly in denial about how our society works.

Spike followed me to the bathroom, perching on the edge of the sink and chirping. I leaned over to stroke its thorny head while I waited for the water to warm up. Running water is one of the true beauties of mortal ingenuity. Faerie may have castles of glass and mirrors that talk, but it took humans to invent the flush toilet.

Much as I wanted to spend an hour or two in the shower, letting it work out the knots from my lesson with Sylvester—and my “lessons” with Connor—I had things to do. I rinsed off quickly, turning off the water and slipping on my bathrobe before opening the bathroom door.

May was waiting for me in the hall, an amused expression on her face. “Hi,” she said.

“Hey, you’re home.” I brushed past her. “Bathroom’s free.”

“That’s nice.” She folded her arms, mock-glaring at me. “Jazz and I found Stacy sitting on the doorstep when we got home. You’re a bad friend.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked, before raising my voice to shout, “You’re early!”

“I know!” Stacy called back.

I rolled my eyes. “This is going to be fun. Did she tell you why she’s here?”

“No, but Luna did when she called me to come pick up your dress. You’re going to be the prettiest princess at the whole ball.” May dodged my ineffective swipe and flounced off toward the kitchen. She was a good flouncer. I glared at her retreating back, secretly relieved. I didn’t want to explain the situation with Stacy in the apartment. It would worry her, and worrying Stacy is never a good idea.

Stacy was waiting in my room. She’d cleared the clothes off my bed and floor while she waited, putting them away with a precision most of my wardrobe hadn’t experienced since leaving Old Navy.

She was eyeing my underwear drawer when I arrived. “Toby, I think some of these predate synthetic fabrics.”

“Hello to you, too,” I said dryly. “You’re here to do my hair, not mock my taste in clothes.”

“I’m here to help you get ready, sweetie, and that means doing both.” She moved to hug me, ignoring the fact that I was still dripping. Then she jabbed a finger at my desk chair, which had been dragged in front of the bedroom mirror. “You, sit. Your hair and I need to have a long overdue chat.”

“Is this going to hurt?” Having three daughters has helped Stacy keep up with modern fashions, and she has enough of a grasp of pureblood trends to know what is and isn’t acceptable. She was the best possible person to help me get ready. This did nothing to change my utter hatred of having my hair done.

“Probably.” Stacy pushed me into the chair, positioning herself behind me. “You need to take better care of your hair,” she said, plucking the towel from around my neck and beginning to dry my hair, one section at a time.

“Why? I’ve got you to do it for me.”

“I’m serious. You’re only in your fifties. What’re you going to do when you’re two hundred? Wear a wig?”

“It’s a thought,” I said, closing my eyes. “Think I could get one styled like yours?”

Stacy scoffed and kept drying. Both of us knew I was only half-kidding. Stacy and I are both brunettes, but her hair is an elegant chestnut, while mine is a faded ash-brown shot through with gold highlights. Her hair is thick and well-behaved; mine is stick-straight and fine enough to make anything more complex than a ponytail hard. Really, Stacy’s hair goes with the rest of her, because she can stop traffic with a smile. I can stop traffic, too. I just tend to do it by crashing my car into something.

“So they’re inviting you to diplomatic events now?” Stacy dropped the towel and started unsnarling my sodden hair with something that felt like a pick. I kept my eyes closed. “I wondered when they’d start showing sense.”

“I’m sure they’re just inviting me to even out the number of place settings.”

“Still, maybe you’ll add a touch of sanity to the proceedings.”

“Ha, ha,” I deadpanned.

Stacy laughed—a much more genuine sound. “Did I tell you that Anthony’s having his first slumber party next week?”

“No,” I said, relaxing and tilting my head back. “Tell me all about it.”

I let her words wash over me, concentrating on them rather than on the light, constant tugging at my hair. It was soothing, almost like the slumber parties we used to have, back when we were both teenagers, and the world was a much simpler place.

“I’m going to let this dry a little while I do your makeup,” she said, pulling her hands away. I heard jars clink as she got her makeup kit, and had to suppress the urge to bolt. “Have you seen the dress you’ll be wearing?”

“I was thinking I’d skip it. The Queen wants to see my new sweatshirt, right?” Stacy pinched me. I yelped. “Quit it! No, I haven’t seen it. Have you?”

“Yes. I think you’ll like it.” The jars rattled again before she started rubbing something on my eyelids. “I’m doing a simple, classic, smoky eye. Try not to smear it too much, okay? ‘Raccoon’ isn’t a good look for anybody.”

“I’ll try,” I said, resisting the urge to peek. That way lies madness, and getting a mascara wand in the eye.

Stacy worked for almost twenty minutes before she made a faint sound of approval. “Almost done,” she said, dusting her brush across my nose and forehead.

“And thank Titania for that,” I said fervently, as she went back to working on my hair.

“You should be thanking Titania,” said Stacy, spraying something that smelled like roses and cotton flowers into the air above my head. “If it weren’t for her, we’d be doing this the mortal way, and we’d be here for at least another hour.”

“Oh, goody,” I muttered.

“Toby!” called May, from the living room. “Connor’s here!”

“He can’t have her yet!” Stacy called back. “We’re busy!”

“Got it!”

Stacy grabbed a hairpin, twisting a lock of my hair up and back before spraying more of the cotton flower mist on my head. “That does sort of beg the question—are you sure you should be taking Connor? I mean, one minute