Seanan McGuire - One Salt Sea

Her apprehension put some of the things they’d said to me into a new context, one that almost made sense. Maybe we’d talk about it later, and maybe we wouldn’t. It was only going to matter if we made it through alive.

“We—” I began . . . and stopped as Raj came running into the room. He wasn’t wearing a human disguise, and his pupils were thin slits against the glass-green of his eyes, broadcasting his fear.

“Raj?” I took a step forward, hand instinctively moving to my knife. “What’s wrong?”

“There are people coming up the beach!” he said, stumbling to a halt a few feet in front of me. “I came out of the shadows down near the cliff, where nobody would see, and they were there, coming out of the water! They’re on their way here.”

“Undersea?” I asked.

Raj blinked, briefly looking at me like I was an idiot. I guess asking if they were from the Undersea when he’d seen them coming out of the water qualified me. “Yeah,” he said. “And they have Connor with them. He doesn’t look happy.”

“Well, then, he can join the club.” I grabbed my coffee off the table, downing its contents in one long, fortifying gulp. “Looks like we’re going to have guests before anything else gets done. Anyone who doesn’t want to meet with the Undersea, this is your cue to exit. Everyone else, come with me.”

“Where are we going?” asked Raj.

“The throne room. If we’re going to be receiving guests, we’re going to do it like civilized people, not like, well, us.” I put down my mug. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

May looked at me dubiously. “Fun?” she echoed.

“Isn’t everything?” I shrugged, starting for the kitchen door. To my relief, the others followed. I’d been happy to let them duck out if that was what they really wanted, but I had to admit, I hadn’t been quite as enthused about the idea of facing the Undersea delegation—whoever it included—by myself.

Our footsteps echoed as we entered the throne room. I frowned a little, looking at the empty dais. “I should probably get a chair,” I said.

“Wait right here,” said Marcia. Gesturing for Raj and Quentin to follow, she started down the hall toward the solarium.

I folded my arms across my chest as I watched them go. “Do I want to know what they’re doing back there?”

“Probably not,” said May. “Do you have anything you need me to do?”

“Yeah.” I glanced her way, quirking a faint smile. “Get the door.”

May raised an eyebrow before looking down at her knee-less jeans and glittery, rainbow-striped T-shirt. “Because what, I have ‘impressive’ written all over me now?”

“Because you’re who’s available to do it. Now go.” I pointed to the door. “See if you can stall them long enough for us to get some sort of seating in here.”

“I’ll juggle,” she deadpanned.

“That’s a start.”

May rolled her eyes, and went.

Marcia came back out of the hall with Raj and Quentin behind her, the boys struggling to hold up a big oak chair that I didn’t remember seeing when we were first cleaning out the knowe. “Put it on the dais,” she said, waving helpfully in the indicated direction. “And try not to drop it again.”

Raj muttered something. I couldn’t quite make out the words, but from the tone, I was comfortable assuming that they weren’t complimentary. Quentin did his furniture moving in stoic silence, as befits a squire. At least one of us was taking his training really seriously.

“Where did you find that?” I asked.

“It was jammed into the corner of the kitchen before we moved it to storage,” she said. Giving me a sidelong look, she added, “I figured you’d be happier with a nice-looking kitchen chair than you’d be sitting in Evening’s old throne.”

The idea was enough to make my stomach do a slow flip. “You figured right,” I said, and walked over to help Quentin and Raj position the thing. Purebloods seem to build things according to two mutually exclusive camps of design aesthetic. Everything is either so fragile it can be destroyed by a stiff wind, or so sturdy that it could probably survive being hit repeatedly with a Buick. The chair fell into the second category. It felt like it had been carved so long ago that it had forgotten what it was to be a tree. All it knew now was being a chair, and it was good at what it knew.

“This works,” I said. I pushed it a few inches to the side, centering it on the dais, and sat down. The chair had no back, but it did have sturdy arms, positioned at exactly the right level. I rested my elbows on them, looking toward the boys. “You good?”

“We’re good,” said Quentin, taking a position slightly behind me, to the right. Raj mirrored him, taking up the same position on the left. I briefly considered shooing Raj off the dais—Quentin was my squire, while Raj was technically violating protocol by staying—and decided against it. Connor wouldn’t tell on us, and the rest of the Undersea wouldn’t realize there was anything wrong.

Marcia moved to stand on the floor to the right of the dais, putting her on the same axis as Quentin, just lower. That was exactly right. Standing there marked her as my seneschal, and meant she’d be allowed to speak for me in matters regarding the land itself. It would also make it clear that she was under my protection. Just in case that mattered.

There’s a reason that pureblood manners make my head hurt the way they do. I was saved from further contemplation of our placement as hinges creaked in the distance, and low, murmuring voices drifted down the hall. I sat up straight, composing my expression, and waited.

May looked every inch the obedient courtier as she stepped into the room with her shoulders squared and her face grim. Even her glittery T-shirt couldn’t spoil the effect. The group trailing behind her was a mixture of Merrow and Selkies, save for Patrick and a golden-haired woman with the uniformly blue eyes characteristic of the Roane. That made me sit up a little straighter. The Roane are practically extinct, and have been for centuries. I’d never seen a Roane pureblood before.

The main group fell into a line halfway down the length of the throne room, leaving May to guard the door. Patrick and Connor continued toward me, stopping just short of the dais. I stood.

“Your Grace,” I said.

“Countess Daye,” replied Patrick, and bowed deeply, showing the proper degree of respect from a visiting noble. I returned the bow in kind before straightening and reclaiming my seat. “We received your message.”

“Good. It seemed like a clever enchantment. It’s still always nice to know that things are actually showing up where they’re supposed to.” I frowned. “Forgive me for asking, but . . . why are you here? If you got the bottle, you know everything I do. I was planning to send another update as soon as I had something more substantial.”

A murmur swept through the sea fae. They were keeping their voices too low for me to pick out individual words, but the overall tone wasn’t good. They sounded angry—and some of their whispers sounded almost like accusations.

Patrick took a deep breath. “Someone took it upon themselves to remind us what was at stake in this conflict,” he said, voice measured, like he was trying not to scream. “In case we had somehow forgotten.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, someone slunk into our knowe and left this outside our bedroom door.” Patrick produced a salt-crusted wooden box from his pocket. An unbroken golden ring was looped through the latch, connected to the corners of the box by thin gold chains. I had to admire the construction. Breaking the ring would snap the chains, making it impossible for someone to steal the contents without getting caught.