Part of Your World

by Liz Braswell

  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.

  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 pow
der.

  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?