by K. M. Shea
“It would have been even better if you rode in on the swing with me, jewel of my desire.”
Cagney looked like she was going to disembowel Dooley with the pastry tongs, so Dylan slid her slate between them.
Thank you for the dress, Lord Dooley.
“Oh, it wasn’t me,” Dooley said with a big smile.
Dylan blinked. Cagney?
“Not I.” Cagney placed a roll on the mountain of food heaped on the plate.
Then who was it?
“I can’t say, for he wished to remain unnamed,” Dooley winked before staring in Prince Callan’s direction.
Dylan blinked, trying to process it.
“Though I will be sure to pass your thanks along. However, I suspect presenting yourself to him whilst looking so lovely would be thanks enough for your admirer,” Dooley said.
Dylan self-consciously brushed the fabric of her new dress. Prince Callan bought my dress? But…why? Her thoughts swirled in a confused tangle, so Dylan took the safest path and shoved the dress and its purchaser from her mind and instead concentrated on food. What kind of pastry is this?
“Stop acting ridiculous, Dooley” Cagney passed the filled plate to Dylan. “All of Easky knows Prince Callan bought Dylan a slew of dresses. I would be surprised if there wasn’t a lord or lady who didn’t know.”
“You don’t approve?” Dooley asked as Dylan dug into her plate.
“It’s not that. It was very kind of him to see that Dylan is…properly outfitted. But did he need to do it in such a public fashion?” Cagney asked.
“You said it was a good idea when we talked about it the morning before we visited Easky, Cagney—that was when we had you measured,” Dooley said to Dylan.
Dylan shrugged, content to watch the two discuss her clothes and voice her various questions and concerns while she stuffed her face.
“Because I thought he would be more discreet. It’s inappropriate.”
“How was it inappropriate?” Dooley asked, his good cheer still infusing his words. “Her guardian doesn’t see that she is clothed, so our prince did.”
“Yes, he gave her clothes as a personal gift. It comes attached with his name and all that intones. It is cruel of him to do that as there is no deeper meaning besides kindness in his actions.”
“How can you know that? You cannot presume to see into his heart. Perhaps our little…tall ocean flower makes his heart swell with delight,” Dooley said. His words were still pleasant, but Dylan thought she could detect a hint of a strain to his voice. She suspected Dooley was no longer talking about Prince Callan’s feelings toward her, but about his own for Cagney. Cagney, however, didn’t seem to see it.
“I don’t care what he thinks or feels!” Cagney suddenly burst. When a few people looked in their direction, she ground her teeth and forced her to lower her voice. “Can’t you see he has just about hanged Dylan, socially speaking? Women will hate her for this. Lady Aisling cannot ignore such a blatant action! All the scorn he thought to shield Dylan from? The insensibility of his actions has just opened the floodgates to subject her to it at a far worse intensity!” Cagney hissed.
Dooley blinked. “Oh,” he said. “We didn’t think of that.”
“He has no right to treat Dylan with such favoritism as long as his engagement to Lady Aisling stands,” Cagney said.
Dylan nodded seriously. One must be loyal to their intended.
“It was never made official,” Dooley said.
“No, it is more than official. His parents publically approved of their relationship, and he spent the past season escorting her everywhere,” Cagney said.
Dooley dipped his head toward Dylan. “The bottom line—in case you were wondering, ocean flower—is that Cagney is concerned for you. You must be a great favorite of hers indeed. I have never heard her speak out against Callan before.”
Cagney blushed and lifted her chin. “That is because the prince has never done anything so insensible before. It is as if he has lost his head.”
“Sometimes there are certain things…or people…that make men insensible,” Dooley said, his brown eyes were soft as butter when he looked at Cagney.
Dylan munched on her food and looked back and forth between the pair, wondering if she could take her food elsewhere.
“Has Dooley ruined another business deal and earned your wrath, Cagney? I could feel your ire across the gardens,” Prince Callan said, joining the conversation. He stood next to Dylan and stole a tart from her plate.
“No—for once. We were just discussing—” Dooley started.
“Nothing of importance. Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Cagney curtsied.
“Good afternoon. You look beautiful, Miss Dylan, as do you, Miss Cagney,” Prince Callan smiled.
Thank you for the dress, she wrote, remembering her manners.
“So I’ve been outed, have I? You’re welcome. It looks beautiful with your eyes,” he said.
“Callan.”
Lady Aisling stood beyond the group, her voice flat.
“Good afternoon, Lady Aisling,” Prince Callan said with his insincere smile.
“I wish to see the flowers from Loire. Escort me there?” she asked, her tone expectant.
“Of course,” Prince Callan said, nodding to Dooley, Cagney, and Dylan. He swiped another tart from Dylan’s plate before approaching the young lady and extending his arm.
Lady Aisling took it and walked off with the prince. As she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes darkened with ice and disdain. Then, she turned, smiled, and started talking to Prince Callan.
The trio watched in silence.
“Perhaps you are right, Cagney,” Dooley said. “Callan is an idiot for not correcting Lady Aisling yet.”
“She’s going to eat Dylan alive.” Concern creased Cagney’s brow.
Dylan finished the food on her plate and set it aside. She’s welcome to try, she wrote. I doubt she can do more damage than sharks.
Dooley read the slate and chortled. “You have a funny way of putting things, Miss Dylan.”
Cagney said nothing, but gave her a look of scrutiny.
Dylan reread her slate with a frown. She was being serious.
Typically sharks didn’t attack selkies—they knew better than to mess with the guardians of the ocean. But as Dylan was a sea lion, and all other selkies were seals, she’d been attacked by sharks on three separate occasions. One bit her shoulder before her sisters could rescue her.
It had hurt worse than anything Dylan had encountered before, but she had survived. Some dainty little blonde can’t be worse than a shark, she thought before she caught sight of Jarlath, trailing Lady Shauna like a lovesick duckling.
The sight did some good to Dylan’s heart, but it took her several moments to realize what that meant.
Jarlath is away from his room. If I can ditch Bump-and-Lump, I can search it! But how could she lose them?
Dylan looked around the gardens, hoping to find tall shrubbery or a line of trees. Nestled into the palace wall, there was a mass of shrubbery. She stared at it, her forehead wrinkling.
“That’s a maze,” Dooley said, noticing Dylan’s interest. “It’s pitifully small. There used to be a bigger one, but Princess Fianna got lost in it once as a child, so the queen had it mowed down.”
I will be back, Dylan wrote. She crossed the green lawn and approached the maze. She glanced over at her shoulder and waved off Cagney’s expression of concern while watching for her guards out of the corner of her eye. They stood in the shadow of the palace, their gaze fixated on her.
Dylan sashayed into the maze—it was just a few inches taller than she was. She found her way through the hedges, popping out on the other side.
A door into the palace stood just past the maze. She peeked around the hedge. Lump was speaking to Bump, their attention diverted. Dylan wrenched the door open and threw herself into the palace. She made her way to the kitchen where a plump cook from Loire was at work.
“M
ademoiselle Dylan, how delightful you look!” The cook kissed his fingertips and threw his hand to the ceiling. She knew all of the kitchen staff with great familiarity, but the Loire chef was among her favorites—he was forever cooking up exotic platters and treats for her to try whenever she visited. “All pretty for the party—Princess Elle herself would approve of your dress.”
Thank you, she wrote. I’m sorry, but my guardian has swiped my room key and is occupied for the day. Could I trouble someone to find the chamberlain to help me open my room?
“For you? Anything, Mademoiselle,” the cook chuckled. “Neil, fetch the lady’s key for her from the chamberlain. Don’t keep the lady waiting!”
“Aye, sir,” the kitchen boy said, turning to her. “What be yer room, yer ladyship?”
Dylan described Jarlath’s room, and the young boy trotted off, disappearing from the kitchens.
“You wait in the hallway. You will wilt in this heat and ruin your dress,” the cook said, shooing her out.
She moved to write on her slate, but the cook held up his hands. “No, no! No protests. You eat this and wait for Neil,” the cook said, shoving a dish layered with whipped cream and sugared berries in her hand.
Dylan ate in delight, wrote a slate full of praise, and returned the dish to the cook. By the time she’d finished, Neil was back.
“ ’ere you are. Chamberlain said to keep it, and Lord Jarlath is a dunce—tho—I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” Neil said, placing the key in her extended hand.
Encouraged by this great turn of events, Dylan ruffled Neil’s hair as she left the kitchens, navigating her way through the main wing of the palace with ease. She slipped outside and had just stepped onto the stone bridge that stretched between the main wing and the beach wing, when a voice stopped her.
“There you are. Cagney has been looking all over for you,” Prince Callan said.
She swore colorfully and with great imagination in her mind as she turned to face Prince Callan. This was one of her few chances to search Jarlath’s room. The dunce could fall out of love with Lady Shauna any day and choose to return to Kingsgrace—which would mean imprisonment. She had to find her pelt before then.
If only Prince Callan wasn’t such a concerned host—what is wrong with him? Did someone steal his fish?
The handsome prince watched her, his eyes narrowed and his smile absent. “What took you away from the party? Wasn’t there enough food?” he asked.
She tried to think of a good reply, but there wasn’t one that wouldn’t require an outrageous lie or a few choice words, so she made no move to write on her slate.
“Come on,” Prince Callan said, holding out his hand.
Dylan’s brow furrowed as she stared at him. Callan was angry. Dylan didn’t understand why, but his anger was obvious, stirring in his eyes and shadowing the corners of his mouth.
When she didn’t accept his hand, Prince Callan walked forward and took hers, leading her in the direction of the gardens.
Dylan, with her long legs, kept the pace and let him tow her along.
They rejoined the party with little fuss.
Unfortunately, the two people Dylan most hoped wouldn’t notice her absence, Bump and Lump, saw Callan escort her in from an entirely different direction than they had last seen her. She had hopes that they might write it off, but judging how they stood together, far from their original post, it was likely they had started looking for her before Callan took it upon himself to return her to the party.
Dooley and Cagney were seated on a stone bench strewn with tasseled pillows. When Dylan and Prince Callan strolled into view, Cagney’s relief was obvious.
“You’re fine—good,” Cagney said.
“She was worried some of the court hags were bullying you in a forsaken corner of the garden,” Dooley said.
Callan released her hand, and she plopped down in the space between Cagney and Dooley, squeezed between her friends. She smiled as she brushed shoulders with them and felt just a little bit better with the warm contact.
Callan bowed to the trio. “Enjoy,” was all he said before leaving them.
“Something’s got his waistcoat in a knot,” Dooley said, watching his friend place a smile on his face and greet other guests. “Did he say anything to you, Dylan?”
She shook her head. Even though he ruined my search-mission. I wonder if I could forge a letter in Lady Shauna’s hand to lure Jarlath out…
“Odd,” Cagney said.
“I’ll speak to him tonight,” Dooley promised. “We’ll discuss it over tea.”
Cagney adjusted a lock of her hair. “Wouldn’t drinks be more customary?”
“Only for those who are unrefined and not dedicated disciples of elegance,” Dooley winked, looking ridiculous in his pink waistcoat.
“Forget I asked, please,” Cagney muttered.
For the remainder of the party, Dylan spent most of her time by the snacks or penned in by Cagney and Dooley. Her moves were always shadowed by Bump and Lump—who were no longer stationary, but moved around the perimeter of the gardens, grim reminders that she was not on her own schedule.
If she ever strayed far from her friends, Prince Callan would appear and, politely but irrefutably, escort her back to Cagney’s side. Dylan wasn’t sure why he suddenly showed the herding characteristics of a dog, but it was troublesome.
When the garden party ended at twilight, she was relieved to return to her room.
“Did you enjoy your stroll in the maze, Miss Dylan?” Lump asked as she led the way to the beachside wing.
She stopped and turned to look at her guards. They wore bland expressions, but Bump was fondling a dagger hilt, and Lump’s bushy eyebrows were raised above his sharp eyes.
Dylan nodded before she picked up her path again. Perhaps Jarlath will be absent from his room tonight. With luck he will be out bemoaning his lack of progress with Lady Shauna. I could conduct a search if Bump-and-Lump turn in early.
When Dylan reached her room, Lump said, “We’ll be here all evening, Miss Dylan.” As if they could read her thoughts.
The unornamented words made Dylan shiver as she was reminded that they were Jarlath’s men. So much for sneaking around. Dylan shut herself in her room, grateful to avoid both her “guardian” and “guards.”
After a week of failed search attempts, Dylan’s nerves were worn thin. Jarlath must have exercised his miniscule mental abilities and hidden her pelt in an extraordinary spot as she had yet to sniff out so much as a hint of it. She was the daughter of King Murron, and the best singer of the Ringsted selkies, yet a puffed up dunce was outmaneuvering her. It was enraging.
She wished she had listened to the enchantress and notified her family before brashly throwing herself into enemy hands. She could no longer feel even the faintest trace of selkie crooning—although the sea witch’s black magic still fouled the oceans with constant storms.
Dylan pressed her lips together and squinted at the dazzling ocean. Behind her, noblewomen giggled and talked, fluttering around the royalty. Queen Etain, Prince Callan, Prince Viggo, and some of their friends were present. Dooley and Cagney were not. Over the past few days, Dylan’s time at the ocean had become something of a social hour—particularly since Princess Nessa heard about it and started coming out every morning with her. It was surprisingly early for nobility, but Dylan had been on the beach for two hours before anyone joined her. Unfortunately, the ocean seemed to be in an equally bad temper, and had done little to bolster her sagging spirits.
“Dylan, did you see that wave? It was huge!” Princess Nessa called. She was playing in the ocean tides that seemed unnaturally high considering how close to shore she stood.
She broke out of her foul mood long enough to smile and waved to the princess, but as soon as the young girl went back to playing, Dylan’s puckered look returned.
“What’s wrong?” Prince Callan asked, handing her a fancy glass goblet of apple cider.
Dylan sipped the liquid, but in
stead of quenching her thirst, the cider was sour on her tongue. She handed the goblet back to Callan. Something is not right, she wrote.
Callan looked back at the socializing nobles. “Do you also think it is unnatural for Viggo to be up so early?” he joked.
No. It’s the ocean. Something’s not right. It’s…bitter, Dylan wrote, struggling to put her feelings into words. Everything was off. The ocean was darker than usual, and the sea brine stung Dylan’s eyes instead of soothing her nose. She could feel it in her bones the same way she could feel whale songs. Something was wrong.
Dylan looked over to see if Callan was laughing at her. To her surprise, he looked disturbed. He caught her eyes, nodded, and retreated back to the nobles. “Mother, shouldn’t we return to the palace? Father has that trade meeting soon, and he wanted both of us to attend,” he said.
Dylan paced a few steps, keeping her eyes on the ocean as the skirt of her saffron gown twisted around her ankles. She rubbed her nose and watched the water before she approached it, standing up to her ankles when the tide rushed in. Dylan closed her eyes and listened. There were no whales nearby, but neither were there storms. She could feel the faintest flickers of the typhoon from farther up the coast, and it wasn’t moving at all. The seawater dragged sand over her feet as it retreated…and it didn’t come back.
Dylan’s eyes shot open when she felt it. A water horse. Dylan looked for the swell of water that would accompany an attacking kelpie. To her horror, she saw a huge wave, taller than she was, not twenty feet from Princess Nessa—who was grinning at it.
Dylan tried to scream, but nothing would come out. She ran, her heart pounding in her throat. She and the wave closed in on Nessa…but Dylan reached her first. She grabbed the smiling princess and hauled her backwards.
“What? Dylan—what are you doing!” the princess shouted just as the kelpie burst from its wave, screaming and shrieking.
Dylan dragged Nessa far enough up the beach that the monster would have to leave the water to chase them. She hoped it would be enough of a deterrent, but the water horse was bold, and it leaped from its wave—which stood up unnaturally instead of crashing down.
