“In some ways,” Daddy says, coming back into the present, “I’m glad we never bonded. It is a small concession that my grief has never been compounded by an unfulfilled bond.”
Across the room, one of the two massive gold doors swings open, and Mangrove, Daddy’s royal secretary, peers in.
“Your highness,” he says, reverently lowering his eyes—Daddy is so not the type to demand this kind of behavior, but Mangrove is kind of protocol obsessed. “The complainants are here.”
“Give us a moment, Mangrove.”
“Of course, your highness.”
When Mangrove closes the door behind him, Daddy shakes his head. “That man is determined to act like a second-class citizen.”
“Well, you can be very intimidating,” I reply. “And you do carry a really big trident.”
We both laugh a little, and it breaks the heaviness in the room. Then Daddy says, “Please. Take the throne, Lily.”
Swimming off Daddy’s lap, I float in front of Mom’s throne. No one has sat on its spongy cushion in years. Somehow, as I remember everything Daddy said about Mom’s selfless nature, it seems worse to see her throne abandoned than to feel like I’m usurping her rightful place. As I twist around and sink slowly into her seat, I think, This is for you, Mommy.
Daddy squeezes my hand before shouting, “Mangrove! Send them in!”
I square my shoulders and ready myself for my first session as ruler-in-training. If this is my future, I might as well start now.
13
The thing you might not realize about lobster farmers—especially if you’re a human and you don’t even know there is such a thing—is that they smell like lobsters. If you’ve only seen lobsters either cooked and ready to eat or in one of those little tanks at a seafood restaurant, with their claws rubber-banded, then you have no idea how bad the stench of lobster can be. They make a cattle stockyard seem like a rose garden.
So, after I spend most of the day listening to two quarreling farmers argue about fair grazing rights and whether one had rebranded some of the other’s herd, everything in the throne room smells like lobster—including Daddy, Mangrove, and me.
Thankfully, Margarite called in the housekeeping staff, who unleashed a small school of surgeonfish—distant relatives of those fish that eat scum out of aquariums—and they managed to neutralize the smell in just a few minutes. I’m pretty sure my hair still has a little eau de lobster, but it’s not like I’m going to let the surgeonfish suck on my head.
By the time the throne room is cleared, it’s approaching evening. Approaching time for the separation—and Quince and Dosinia aren’t back yet.
When night falls and the light filtering down from the distant surface is replaced with the bioluminescent glow of the palace lighting system, I start to worry. Not about going home in the dark; we’ll have a royal escort of palace guards to keep us safe. But we have to be in school tomorrow, we still have a three-hour swim to get home—even though Quince’s swimming ability has improved, he can’t keep up with me—and we still have to get through the separation ceremony, which includes a mandatory couples counseling session. It’s a formality, but still it takes time. And remember when I said that mer life is pretty mellow paced? Well that goes for ceremonies, too.
I start swimming circles around the throne. What if they don’t come back? What if Dosinia is keeping Quince hostage as revenge for crashing her party? What if Quince got eaten by a shark? What if—
“Relax, daughter,” Daddy says. “They will be back soon. There is nothing you can do to hurry their return.”
“I know,” I snap, “but I have a major trig test tomorrow. I haven’t studied at all!”
“Your time with terrapeds has made you susceptible to their stress tendencies.” He leans back in his throne, as casually as if he’s watching a finball match. “Relax. If they have not returned in an hour, I will send the guard out.”
“An hour?” That seems like forever from now. “We can’t wait that long! We have to—”
The throne room doors swing open, and Mangrove announces, “Lady Dosinia and Master Quince have returned.”
“Finally!”
Kicking off hard, I jet across the room, reaching the doors just as Quince and Dosinia swim in. They are laughing and holding hands.
“Then she screamed and spat half-chewed jellyfish all over the table!” Dosinia says. Both she and Quince burst into laughter—over an embarrassing story about me. Well, two can play at that game.
“Don’t be telling tales, Doe,” I say, swimming up to her and narrowing my gaze. “Or I might have to share about the time you thought the Loch Ness monster was hiding in your closet.”
Quince, still laughing so hard he’s probably crying—only I can’t tell because human eyes don’t sparkle—says, “Lighten up, princess. It was all in good fun.”
I hold my glare on Dosinia. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
As if Dosinia would ever do anything in good fun. She’s still mad that I didn’t invite her to my twelfth-birthday sleepover. Grudges are her specialty.
“Can’t laugh at yourself, Lily?” she asks in a mocking tone. “How sad.”
“Whatever.” I turn away from her and grab Quince’s hand. It’s time to stop stalling. “We have a separation to attend.”
As we swim away toward the throne, Quince shouts back over his shoulder, “Thanks for showing me around today, Doe.”