The Little Selkie (retail)

by K. M. Shea

“And you cannot talk? Is that out of sheer horror, or is it a ploy to get attention?” Lady Kellah asked.

  My, my. These girls lack imagination. Dylan ate another piece of sausage. What are they trying to accomplish? Are their minds so small they believe there is merit in being known as a harpy?

  “Excuse me, Lady Kellah, but don’t you have better ways to spend your time?” Cagney asked.

  Lady Kellah laughed. “You’re trying to defend her? Oh, Cagney, I would have thought you learned your lesson by now. Just because you hover in Lord Dooley’s shadow doesn’t make you one of us.”

  “No matter how long you cling to the young lord, his wealth and power will not rub off on you, commoner,” another lady spat.

  “Everyone knows you’re his assistant because his parents pity you,” Lady Darra said.

  Dylan stopped eating when she realized Cagney was shrinking in her spot. The young, confident girl took a step back under the verbal onslaught, her chin dipping.

  Their words hurt her, Dylan realized.

  “And when Lord Dooley settles down with a proper lady, you’ll be pushed to the back—forced to mind a market stall in a backwater city for the White Sands Trading Company. Just like your parents,” Lady Kellah said. “You—yeeek!” she shrieked when Dylan wiped her fingers coated in sausage oils on her dress.

  Dylan waited until the enraged lady looked up at her before mouthing “oops” and covering her lips with a hand.

  “You clumsy oaf!” Lady Kellah shouted. “Look what you did to my dress!”

  Dylan batted her eyelashes at the lady before gesturing wide. Everyone in the area had stopped speaking and dancing to stare at the group.

  Lady Kellah’s face burned red with shame and humiliation.

  Dylan smiled and made a shooing motion.

  Lady Kellah gripped her skirts. “Your thuggish attack proves my point—you are a brute.” She turned on her heels and marched off.

  “Why did you do that?” Cagney asked.

  Because they remind me of seagulls, and I didn’t want them flapping around us all night. That would significantly raise our chances of getting pooped on, Dylan wrote.

  “Dylan,” Cagney hissed.

  You wanted to know.

  “They’re going to come after you again, now. If you just stood there and took it, they would have left us alone, eventually.”

  Watching fools entertains me only for a few minutes. Eat your roll, Dylan ordered, trying to distract Cagney. She had a feeling the meticulous girl would not be pleased to know Dylan intervened because of her.

  Cagney frowned but did as she was told. “This is my favorite appetizer,” she admitted.

  I know, Dylan wrote. She searched the room for Lord Dooley. She had taken note of the young lady’s preferences the previous night.

  “They’re just jealous, probably. I mean, some of them are naturally mean-spirited, but just about everyone in the palace heard about Prince Callan and Princess Nessa showing you around yesterday,” Cagney said.

  I see Dooley, Dylan wrote.

  Cagney stood on her tip toes to see the tall family coming their way. “Oh, he’s with his parents: Lord Bartley and Lady Grania.”

  “There you are—gem of my soul! Mother, Father, this is the Miss Dylan I was talking about,” Dooley said, brushing off the sleeve of his bright green coat.

  “Good to meet you, Miss Dylan,” Lord Bartley said.

  “Yes,” Lady Grania added.

  Both the lord and lady looked mild-mannered and…not plain, but average. Dylan, however, didn’t trust their blandness. They seemed to wear it the way angel sharks bury themselves in sand as camouflage when they settled on the ocean floor and waited for prey.

  “Cagney, both Bartley and I were impressed you were able to drag Dooley to a second function so soon,” Lady Grania said.

  “Third—this is the third function I have attended in the past three days,” Dooley proudly said, puffing his chest.

  Cagney pressed her lips together. “It is expected that you would attend all the opening events of the Summer Palace. It’s good business.”

  “It’s boring,” Dooley said.

  “Which is why we renew our compliments,” Lady Grania said.

  “The reports you sent regarding the store in Mulkeer were genius. Could we implore you to take a similar look at our stand in Easky?” Lord Bartley asked.

  “Certainly, although I feel you overestimate the intelligence of my observations,” Cagney said.

  “Would you care to dance with me, Miss Dylan? They will be at this for hours,” Dooley said.

  Dylan nodded, excited about the idea. Even if the more formal dances weren’t as fun, Dylan still adored dancing.

  Dooley offered his arm, and Dylan reluctantly took it. Dooley, to her surprise, led Dylan to an outdoor patio instead of the dance floor.

  “Forgive me for my misleading invitation, but I wanted to speak to you, and you would not be able to respond whilst we danced,” Dooley smiled.

  She nodded, waiting.

  “Those girls who were speaking to you, were they insulting Cagney?” Dooley asked.

  Dylan blinked, a little surprised by the question. Yes.

  Dooley nodded once. “How did she take it?”

  Badly.

  Dooley rubbed his forehead and said nothing.

  They’re harpies, Dylan added.

  Dooley cracked a smile. “You are a strong individual.”

  Thank you.

  “Unfortunately, the gem of my heart isn’t quite so tough. I prize her soft heart, but I ache for her when someone says unkind things.”

  Dylan had nothing to say to that, but studied the young lord carefully. She had seen some men look at her older sisters the way Dooley stared into the ballroom just then—probably looking at Cagney.

  “Cagney is very important to me.”

  I have noticed.

  Lord Dooley watched Dylan, a pleasant smile playing on his lips. “I think we’re going to be great friends. Thank you for your insight. Now, may I have this dance?”

  Dylan let the tall man lead her onto the dance floor. They slipped into a faster-paced dance that Cagney had explained the previous night was from a place called Erlauf. It involved whirling around one’s partner and clapping in a steady beat. The longer the dance went, the faster the dancers whirled, ducking under each other’s arms and popping upright. Dylan felt exhilarated.

  When the dance finished, Dooley was puffing. The pair returned to Cagney, who stood with Prince Callan.

  That was fun, Dylan wrote.

  “You have admirable stamina, flower of beauty,” Dooley wheezed.

  “Forgive me for not mentioning this before, but when I first danced with you at the festival, you struck me as a remarkably beautiful dancer, Miss Dylan. It is enjoyable to watch you dance,” Prince Callan. His smile was warm, and there was something in his eyes. Not the false joy he often wore but…hope.

  Dylan tucked the observation away to ponder later and wrote, I’ve been terrible. I don’t know any of the dances I’ve seen the past few days. It is fun, but I don’t think I pay the dance any compliments.

  Cagney shook her head. “You are easily the most graceful of all, Miss Dylan. It is not often one sees such a dancer. You are beautiful.”

  Dylan pursed her lips.

  “Accept the compliment, pearl of the ocean, or I will for you. It is blasted hard to keep up with you,” Dooley gasped, fanning his face.

  Thank you, Dylan reluctantly wrote. My sisters are much better dancers than I, she added.

  “You have sisters?” Prince Callan asked.

  Five—I am the youngest.

  “Five?” Lord Dooley said before breaking off in a sharp whistle. “Your father is a brave man.”

  “Callan? Dinner is about to be served. We should lead the way to the dining hall,” Lady Aisling said, appearing behind Callan.

  Dooley and Cagney looked at each other. Cagney raised her eyebrows, and Dooley held out a hand in
a supplicating gesture.

  “I suppose you are right, although I am escorting my sister tonight,” Prince Callan said, wearing his ever-present smile.

  “So Viggo told me, but he said he would walk her to her place. Are you ready?” Lady Aisling said, tucking her hand in the crook of Callan’s elbow.

  “Yes.” Prince Callan turned to Dooley, Cagney, and Dylan. “I will see the three of you after dinner.”

  “Enjoy,” Dooley said, waggling his fingers at the departing prince.

  “That is Lady Aisling,” Cagney said.

  I remember from last night, Dylan wrote before craning her neck to see over the sea of heads. Where was Jarlath? Who was he sitting with, and how could she use that information against him?

  “It has been speculated that Prince Callan will marry her,” Dooley said, a wry smile budding on his lips. “Because of her beauty and sweet temperament. She is the daughter of Lord Eirnin and Lady Oona of Green Harbor.”

  Someone important? Dylan wrote, half paying attention. Where was Jarlath?

  “No, which is the reason Callan would marry her,” Cagney said. “If a Ringsted royal were to marry someone from an influential family, there would be economic repercussions. It is likely that other countries would favor it as a way of cozying up to the Ringsted crown.”

  “What Cagney means is that to keep everyone’s chances equal, for the past century or two, the Ringsted royal family only marries mid-ranked nobility,” Dooley said.

  Cagney frowned. “That’s what I just said.”

  “You used a lot of big words,” Dooley said. Cagney scowled, but the young lord smiled and held out both of his arms when a bell rang. “There’s the dinner bell. Finally, time to eat,” Dooley said, patting his stomach.

  “You made the arrangements for Dylan to sit with us?” Cagney asked, just as Dylan caught sight of Jarlath’s stocky frame. He was not—as Dylan had feared—with any fellow noblemen, but was instead escorting a busty brunette in the direction of the dining room.

  He’ll be occupied, Dylan thought. And not with his plans with the sea witch. I wonder…Dylan thought. She looked around. Bump and Lump were posted by the ballroom entrance. They weren’t watching her or Jarlath. They stood by the wall looking bored.

  Yes. This just might work, Dylan thought, a smile budding on her lips.

  “May I escort the two of you beautiful flowers of—Dylan?” Dooley blinked when she broke away from them.

  Dylan waved to her new friends before she ran to the patio Dooley had taken her to before—anxious to get out of sight before the ballroom cleared and she was open to Bump and Lump’s scrutiny.

  While all of the attendees trickled into the dining room, Dylan heaved herself over the patio railing and dropped to the gardens. She bunched up her skirts and ran, sprinting across the moonlight-dappled lawn. She ran the perimeter of the main castle wing—the music from the ball a faint whisper in the air.

  Dylan’s footfalls were muted as she ran on the cobblestone bridge, heading for the castle wing that overlooked the beach, the wing that held her room—and Jarlath’s. She darted into the castle and ghosted up the hallways, stopping just before she reached her hallway. She peeked around the corner, but no one was there. She held her sides—which ached from her run—and her secret but secured dagger as she meandered up the hallway.

  She tried the door to Jarlath’s room; it was locked.

  No! King Murron’s crest—why can’t something go smoothly for once? Jarlath is a dope, but he has the luck of a mage! Dylan thought before she kicked the door in her anger. That hurt her foot, and it didn’t help at all. Over-cautious sea slug—offspring of a sea cucumber! she raged, jumping in place in frustration. After a few moments, she scowled. It is not at all gratifying to rage inside one’s head. She heaved her shoulders back. To the outside!

  Dylan navigated her way to the pathway that wound snug against the inside of the sea wall. The path did not veer close to the castle, but if she stood on her tip toes and angled herself right, she could see in the windows…if the curtains weren’t drawn. Dylan circled the perimeter of castle, looking in windows for about fifteen minutes when she realized that Jarlath’s room didn’t have a window.

  She returned to Jarlath’s room, slipped her smuggled dagger out of her gown, and tried prying the door open. It didn’t budge. She tried shoving the tip of her dagger in the lock and wriggling it around, hoping to spring it. Nothing happened.

  She spent over an hour attempting to force the door open, but nothing worked. Defeated, she walked back up to the main wing of the Summer Palace, her feet dragging as she gazed up at the silver moon. She was wandering through the gardens just outside the ballroom when she heard, “Miss Dylan?”

  Dylan turned to see Princess Nessa walking hand-in-hand with an older woman.

  “I thought it was you. Why aren’t you at the ball? Don’t you think it’s fun? They just finished dinner, and they had cream cakes—my favorite. Nurse let me peek in and watch for a few minutes. Miss Dylan, what’s wrong?”

  Dylan moved to stand under a flickering torch so she could write, I left something in my room, but I have somehow locked myself out of my quarters, she wrote.

  “Oh, that’s not so bad. You would be surprised how often that happens. Just go to the kitchens or tell a servant. They’ll have someone run to the chamberlain’s office and get a spare key for you,” Princess Nessa said.

  Dylan brightened. Really?

  “Yep!”

  “Princess,” the older woman said.

  Princess Nessa sighed, the picture of sadness. “I must take myself off to bed, now. Life is so desolate. Enjoy the party, Dylan. Miss Dylan,” the princess said, correcting herself.

  Dylan curtseyed and waited until the princess and her nurse left the garden and wound around the corner of the castle before she scurried over to the overhanging patio.

  I might not have broken into Jarlath’s room, but I got some information for my troubles, Dylan thought as she tied her skirts up. She scaled the jutting rocks of the castle—it was easier than the cliff climbing as she and her cousins used to do—until she could grab the railing and drag herself onto the patio.

  She righted herself and brushed off her dress, peering in through the windows. Couples were filing from the dining room. Dylan would have to stop by the kitchen later.

  The information is worth the price, she decided, waiting for a group of girls to scurry past the patio doors before she ducked inside. I hope, she thought as her stomach growled.

  Dylan ate a spoonful of oatmeal and tilted her head as she studied a painting of a woman holding a skinny, hairless animal. Is that a dog or a rat? Landers keep the oddest pets, she thought as she moved to the next painting.

  After suffering through the rest of the party on an empty stomach, she had retired early, hoping to cut her losses and rise for an early breakfast. Instead, her big, lonely bed reminded her that she was far from her home, family, and her sisters. It had been hard to sleep without Muriel’s gentle snores slapping the room like hushed waves, or without Murphy’s occasional twitches jostling their straw-stuffed mattresses.

  So Dylan reluctantly rose in the dark—elated when she realized Bump and Lump were nowhere to be seen (they were probably sleeping) and searched out the kitchens where—as Princess Nessa had promised—servants were awake and stoking the flames. The head cook for the hour graciously gave her a nice serving of oatmeal sweetened with honey and sprinkled with ground nuts.

  Not quite willing to try sleeping yet, Dylan had carried her food to the portrait gallery—perhaps the most fascinating hall in all of the palace wings to the sea princess. Selkies were expert dancers, and their singing skills were unmatched. But art? Art eluded them with an embarrassing persistence.

  Not one selkie could paint like this—and the landers’ chosen subjects are strange and oddly mesmerizing. Dylan leaned in to look at a painting of a young, muscular man chasing two girls through a garden.

  Dylan plopped down o
n a bench in front of a bed-sized painting of a city. The city was built on an inlet—although the ocean was still visible—and curled around a massive harbor. I bet whatever city this is isn’t so prosperous now. If one goes by King Rory’s words, all trading has stopped because of the storms. Dylan stuffed another spoonful of delicious oatmeal in her mouth. What does Jarlath get from empty harbors?

  “That’s Glenglassera, Ringsted’s capital.”

  Dylan jumped, almost losing her grip on her oatmeal. She turned, a little annoyed with herself at failing to hear Prince Callan enter the portrait gallery.

  “Good evening, Miss Dylan. I must admit I am surprised to find you up at this hour. What brings you here?” Prince Callan asked. He wore the gracious smile that didn’t touch his eyes and bowed.

  Dylan set her snack on her lap and untied her slate from the skirt of her gown. Oatmeal, she wrote before gesturing to her snack.

  Prince Callan furrowed his brow. “In a bucket?”

  Dylan curled a protective arm around the wooden water pail she had poured her oatmeal into. The cook said I could have as much as I wanted.

  Prince Callan laughed. “Indeed, you were correctly informed. I apologize for my manners. It is merely—that is a lot of oatmeal.”

  I’m hungry.

  “So I see,” Prince Callan said. He glanced at the painting of Glenglassera and drew closer to Dylan’s bench. “I imagine you would be hungry. You missed a splendid dinner,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye.

  She swallowed a wad of oatmeal before writing, So Dooley told me.

  “May I inquire what kept you away?”

  I forgot something in my room.

  “And it took you all of dinner to retrieve it?”

  No—I never got to retrieve it. I locked myself out of my room.

  “I see,” Prince Callan said.

  The tone of voice he used confused her. It was knowing—as if he knew she had ulterior motives. She shrugged and scraped the side of the wooden bucket for more oatmeal.

  “Tell me, Miss Dylan, where are you from?”

  Had she been wrong? Was there a chance he’d seen her and remembered? Dylan munched on oatmeal and considered her answer. For the most part, selkies avoided contact with humans. They saved shipwrecked men in their seal bodies—as she’d saved him—and they did their trading in human bodies, but they never revealed to landers who or what they were—even though some landers knew selkies lived somewhere in Ringsted.