One Salt Sea

war, Selkies are safe guests.”

“Right.” I turned to Connor. “Am I a Merrow?”

“What? No!”

“But if I asked the wards right now, would they say I was a Merrow?”

“I . . .” He paused, looking confused.

Patrick, on the other hand, looked horrified; Patrick, who was born in the land Courts, and knew how they operated. He’d been in the Undersea for a few hundred years, but there are some things you never forget.

“Please tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying,” he said.

“I can’t. Because I think someone used a stolen Selkie skin to get past your wards.” I met Dianda’s eyes. It was harder than I expected it to be. “I’m afraid your sons weren’t the first ones taken in this war.”

SIXTEEN

TO HER CREDIT, DIANDA didn’t flinch. Eyes narrowing, she asked, “Who could have done this?”

“Moving past the part where I say ‘someone who was willing to steal your children to provoke a war,’ it would have to be someone who understood the way the Undersea operates. Someone who understood the way Selkies operate.” I let my eyes drift to Connor. He was staring at me, an expression of terrified understanding on his face. “Somebody who understood that a Selkie is the skin, and not the one who wears it.”

“Oh, Oberon,” he whispered.

Patrick frowned, following my gaze. “Connor?”

“Well?” I asked.

“It . . .” Connor took an unsteady breath. “She knows how the skins work. I told her. Showed her, even. I was trying to make her understand me a little better. I thought if we were going to be stuck with each other for a few hundred years, we should at least find a way to be friends.”

“Showed who?” asked Patrick.

Connor didn’t say anything. So I said it for him.

“Rayseline Torquill,” I said. “His ex-wife.”

“Connor, what have you done?” Dianda’s question was raw, aching, a mother yearning for impossible answers.

“What you told me to do!” he said. I barely recognized the desperation in his voice. “I married her because you told me to. I tried! I tried to court her, to woo her, but she couldn’t be courted—she was too far gone, and I . . . I tried!”

“It’s not his fault,” I said, bringing Patrick and Dianda’s eyes back to me. That wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than having them fixed on Connor. “She was more broken than anyone knew, even her parents. He couldn’t know what he was doing when he tried to make the marriage work. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame whoever broke her in the first place. And maybe it wasn’t Raysel. There are other options.”

“Who?” asked Dianda.

I didn’t have an answer for that.

Patrick broke the silence. Indicating the nearest door with a sweep of one hand, he said, “This is Dean’s room. Is there anything you’ll need?”

“Let’s find out.” I reached for the knob, pausing just before I grasped it. “Is there anything I need to know about the wards?”

“There aren’t any.”

I turned to blink at Dianda, surprised enough by her reply that I allowed my hand to complete its descent to the doorknob. Nothing shocked me. She was telling the truth; there were no wards on the private quarters. “What? Why not?”

“We’re inside the knowe. Wards have never been needed here.”

“Things are different on the land,” I said, and opened the door.

Dean’s room was surprisingly normal, and could have passed for Quentin’s or Raj’s with a few alterations. A dark blue rug softened the polished wood floor, matching the curtains around the single window, which was shaped like—and possibly made from—a ship’s porthole. A tall wardrobe was shoved against one wall, and the bed was beneath the window. The rest of the available wall space was devoted to bookshelves, most of them groaning under the weight of the books stacked there.

“Stay here,” I said, starting to step inside. Dianda’s eyes widened. I raised my hand to stop her protest. “Please. I know a lot of people have been through here, but I need to at least try.”

“Let her, Di,” said Patrick, putting a hand on her arm.

“All right.” She subsided, leaning against her husband. “Proceed.”

I nodded before turning and walking slowly into the room. No blood had been shed here. That was a small problem—I work best when I work with blood—but not an insurmountable one.

Most people assume an unfamiliar scene is harder to work than a familiar one, since you won’t be able to tell what’s out of place. Those people are both right and wrong. I couldn’t tell what was out of place, and I definitely couldn’t tell you if anything was missing, but at the same time, I didn’t have any preconceptions about what was supposed to be where. A familiar scene can become overwhelmingly strange when it’s disturbed in some way, while unfamiliar scenes are strange to begin with. More importantly, people fill in the blanks when they look at a familiar room, inserting objects where they think they belong. Their eyes can just skip over things. That’s dangerous—more dangerous than not knowing what it’s safe to disregard. Given a choice, I’ll take the unfamiliar every time.

The covers on Dean’s bed were smooth. I indicated the bed, continuing to study the rest of the room. “Was Dean in the habit of making his bed that well?”

“Helmi made it for him,” said Dianda. “It was unmade when he disappeared.”

I bit back my usual lecture on preserving the scene of a crime. At least most land fae have heard of police detective shows, and sort of understand what I’m talking about. I didn’t even know if the Undersea knew what television was. “Was there anything strange about it?”

“No.”

“Right.” The books were shelved in alphabetical order, and even the ones that were wedged in tightly enough to dent their covers were where they belonged. Dean had a space problem, but not an organization problem. “Where do the books come from?”

“Bookstores and Amazon,” replied Patrick. He smiled at my startled expression. “The land doesn’t have a monopoly on adopting mortal technology, you know. There’s something to be said for the anonymity of online shopping.”

“On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a mermaid.” I shook my head. “Did Helmi clean those up, too?”

“Dean’s very careful with his library,” said Dianda. “He was asking . . . he’s been asking about a fosterage for a while now.” She glanced at Patrick, a tangled mixture of affection and regret in her expression. “He wants to know what life is like on the land.”

“I can recommend some good fiefdoms when the time comes,” I said staunchly ignoring her slip into the past tense.

“Let’s hope you get the chance,” said Patrick.

There was nothing I could say to that. I gave the room one more long look before moving toward the bed. It was hard to resist the urge to muss the covers, just a little bit; just enough to make it look like a teenage boy still lived here. As it was, the mixture of tidiness and carefully shelved disorder made it all too easy to imagine this as Quentin’s room. I would have willingly started a war to get my squire back. I didn’t even want to think about what I’d do if Gilly’s life were the one on the line.

A nightstand sat just under the porthole window, holding the standard assortment of odds and ends: an oil lamp, a tattered Stephen King paperback with a bookmark about halfway through, and a ceramic dish filled with the sort of things that collect in an active teenager’s pockets. Small stones, salt-corroded coins, dice . . . and several slips of paper. Most looked like they’d been torn from court documents or larger pieces of parchment, which just