Maisie spoke up, tentatively. “She must have loved you so much, whoever she was.”
At that, Sullivan snapped to attention. “No,” he said sharply, pointing an emphatic finger at her. “Weren’t you listening, Maisie? If you ever do read the seiche tales, you should know that this is where the lie comes into the lore. The stories are full of romance, and they make the sacrifice seem noble, even beautiful. But it’s a seduction, and nothing more. What it isn’t is love.”
“I know why the seiche are conflated with otters,” Sorcha said, arms folded. “Because otters are sleek, handsome, playful creatures. You forget they’re predators. They have a nasty bite, and they crack open the bodies of the creatures they eat with rocks.”
Sullivan met her hard, black eyes, and a whole conversation passed rapidly between them.
Met one or two, have you?
Look at me. Look where I live. More than one, and I’m still standing.
Sullivan inclined his head. Touché. “You may be right. But seiche are worse than predators. True predators kill to live, and though it can be terrible to witness, every creature has the right to at least attempt to survive. But seiche demand their sacrifices simply out of a wish to change their own circumstances. They’re not predators. They’re monsters.”
“But they’ll die if they go back into the water,” Maisie protested.
“They know that when they come ashore,” Sullivan said shortly. “No seiche stumbles ashore and stays there until its gills fail by accident.” He crossed to the girl seated on the floor by the castle and crouched before her, sitting on his haunches with his head lowered an inch or two so that he could look her in the eye. “Love can hurt. Love can be one-sided. And sometimes love requires sacrifices, too. But love is not predatory. Wherever you go from here, please be wary of anyone who demands to be given your heart rather than asking to be invited into it. Please.”
The girl nodded, shivering, unable to look away from that river-colored gaze. “I will.”
He held her eyes a moment longer, then pushed himself awkwardly up to his feet—Petra, watchful, observed, That makes twice—retrieved his glass, and went to the sideboard to refill it. Somehow, though he moved as if he were slightly drunk, he managed to avoid knocking over the card castle.
He set his glass down beside the bottles with a soft thump, and it was as if a bit of sorcery that had lain over the room, perhaps the same spell that had kept everyone from moving faster in the moment when Frost had grabbed Sullivan, burst like a bubble.
Mr. Haypotten cleared his throat and rubbed his scalp again as if brushing cobwebs from it. “Let’s get these put back, then,” he said, reaching for the case clock that Sorcha had set on the floor beside the hearth. “How’s that coffee holding out, love?” he asked in a voice full of false blustery cheer. His wife checked the samovar, then clucked to herself and wheeled it out. “Perhaps some more biscuits, too,” he called after her as the door shut. “Blast,” he muttered, reaching for the tree music box, which Mrs. Haypotten had stowed on the corner table where Jessamy Butcher sat, half-hidden by shadow and tapping gloved fingers on the tabletop. “Don’t imagine she heard.” When the box was back in place, he went out after his wife.
Reever rose from his chair before the fire and stalked to the sideboard, where he gave Sullivan a brief, steadying clap on one shoulder. Then he filled two glasses with sherry and turned toward the table in the corner just as Jessamy got to her feet. “I believe I’ll just take a quick turn up the stairs and back to stretch,” she said quickly. “Sorcha, are there anything like lap blankets about?”
“I’ll find some,” the maid said, looking critically at the fire. “I didn’t like to make it up too strong, not with the young lady and gentleman building their castle so near.”
“I completely agree.” Jessamy and Sorcha left the room together. Maisie muttered something about the water closet and darted after them.
Reever, still holding two glasses, watched them leave. Then he changed direction and went to join his brother, who sat in one of the chairs by the display case. Reever handed Negret a sherry and dropped into the empty chair Frost had temporarily taken over and then abandoned, along with the half-hour glass that still stood on the table between the chairs.
Madame Grisaille, who had been silent since finishing her tale, stood and reached out a long, thin hand to Sullivan. “I, too, could stand a bit of a stroll,” she said in that voice that was so like the turning of stone grinding wheels. “Would you be so kind?”
Sullivan chuckled humorlessly. He finished the liquor in his glass, then crossed the room and took her hand. “Certainly, madam. Let’s go make sure old Frost hasn’t gone to try to stop the flood by main force.”
As she swept from the room, both Colophon brothers touched their knuckles to their foreheads in a gesture Frost would’ve recognized as the same obeisance sailors made to captains aboard a ship. Madame acknowledged this with a small, amused twist of her mouth as she swept out in a rustle of skirt and shawl, leaving Reever and Negret, Antony Masseter, Tesserian, Sangwin, Phineas Amalgam, and Petra still in the parlor.
Tesserian got to his feet, muttering, “Stay,” as he extricated himself from the card-built landscape on the floor. He looked around at the others. “Who’s for a smoke, while there’s a break?” The twins shook their heads, but Amalgam rose from his seat and Sangwin retrieved his glass from the windowsill. “Masseter?” Sangwin asked as he crossed the parlor. “I owe you for the cigar earlier.”
The peddler nodded. “I’ll meet you in there.” As the others left for the public bar, Masseter strolled over to Petra, who
