One Salt Sea
Page 49
I turned to blink at Dianda, surprised enough by her reply that I allowed my hand to complete its descent to the doorknob. Nothing shocked me. She was telling the truth; there were no wards on the private quarters. “What? Why not?”
“We’re inside the knowe. Wards have never been needed here.”
“Things are different on the land,” I said, and opened the door.
Dean’s room was surprisingly normal, and could have passed for Quentin’s or Raj’s with a few alterations. A dark blue rug softened the polished wood floor, matching the curtains around the single window, which was shaped like—and possibly made from—a ship’s porthole. A tall wardrobe was shoved against one wall, and the bed was beneath the window. The rest of the available wall space was devoted to bookshelves, most of them groaning under the weight of the books stacked there.
“Stay here,” I said, starting to step inside. Dianda’s eyes widened. I raised my hand to stop her protest. “Please. I know a lot of people have been through here, but I need to at least try.”
“Let her, Di,” said Patrick, putting a hand on her arm.
“All right.” She subsided, leaning against her husband. “Proceed.”
I nodded before turning and walking slowly into the room. No blood had been shed here. That was a small problem—I work best when I work with blood—but not an insurmountable one.
Most people assume an unfamiliar scene is harder to work than a familiar one, since you won’t be able to tell what’s out of place. Those people are both right and wrong. I couldn’t tell what was out of place, and I definitely couldn’t tell you if anything was missing, but at the same time, I didn’t have any preconceptions about what was supposed to be where. A familiar scene can become overwhelmingly strange when it’s disturbed in some way, while unfamiliar scenes are strange to begin with. More importantly, people fill in the blanks when they look at a familiar room, inserting objects where they think they belong. Their eyes can just skip over things. That’s dangerous—more dangerous than not knowing what it’s safe to disregard. Given a choice, I’ll take the unfamiliar every time.
The covers on Dean’s bed were smooth. I indicated the bed, continuing to study the rest of the room. “Was Dean in the habit of making his bed that well?”
“Helmi made it for him,” said Dianda. “It was unmade when he disappeared.”
I bit back my usual lecture on preserving the scene of a crime. At least most land fae have heard of police detective shows, and sort of understand what I’m talking about. I didn’t even know if the Undersea knew what television was. “Was there anything strange about it?”
“No.”
“Right.” The books were shelved in alphabetical order, and even the ones that were wedged in tightly enough to dent their covers were where they belonged. Dean had a space problem, but not an organization problem. “Where do the books come from?”
“Bookstores and Amazon,” replied Patrick. He smiled at my startled expression. “The land doesn’t have a monopoly on adopting mortal technology, you know. There’s something to be said for the anonymity of online shopping.”
“On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a mermaid.” I shook my head. “Did Helmi clean those up, too?”
“Dean’s very careful with his library,” said Dianda. “He was asking . . . he’s been asking about a fosterage for a while now.” She glanced at Patrick, a tangled mixture of affection and regret in her expression. “He wants to know what life is like on the land.”
“I can recommend some good fiefdoms when the time comes,” I said staunchly ignoring her slip into the past tense.
“Let’s hope you get the chance,” said Patrick.
There was nothing I could say to that. I gave the room one more long look before moving toward the bed. It was hard to resist the urge to muss the covers, just a little bit; just enough to make it look like a teenage boy still lived here. As it was, the mixture of tidiness and carefully shelved disorder made it all too easy to imagine this as Quentin’s room. I would have willingly started a war to get my squire back. I didn’t even want to think about what I’d do if Gilly’s life were the one on the line.
A nightstand sat just under the porthole window, holding the standard assortment of odds and ends: an oil lamp, a tattered Stephen King paperback with a bookmark about halfway through, and a ceramic dish filled with the sort of things that collect in an active teenager’s pockets. Small stones, salt-corroded coins, dice . . . and several slips of paper. Most looked like they’d been torn from court documents or larger pieces of parchment, which just made the scrap of blue-lined binder paper look all the more out of place.
I crouched next to the nightstand, breathing deeply as I strained to find any trace of lingering magic to confirm my suspicions. The air smelled clean, with a strong undercurrent of saltwater and wood polish. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to focus. My own magic started to rise, the cut-grass-and-copper smell of it somehow forcing the other scents to separate, rather than obscuring them.
And there, buried under the stronger, more recent scents, was the thing I’d been hoping and fearing I’d find: mustard flowers and hot wax. The signature of Raysel’s magic.
I opened my eyes and reached for the scrap of binder paper. It was water-damaged, and most of the list of items had blurred beyond reading, but Raysel’s childish scrawl was still legible in a few spots. “ ‘Knock three times,’ ”I read aloud. “What does that mean?”
“All servants are required to knock three times before entering,” said Dianda. She was frowning as I stood and turned to face her. “That gives the inhabitants time to prepare, so they won’t be surprised. A servant who didn’t knock might find themselves facing a rather unpleasant welcome.”
“Unpleasant how?”
Dianda’s frown became a thin smile, showing more teeth than I was strictly comfortable with. “Painfully so. Even in our quarters, we are never unarmed.”
“Charming. Do the Selkies know about the knocking?”
“Yes,” said Connor. “But . . . I never told Raysel that. There was no reason to.”
There was no reason to tell her about the wards, either, but I decided to keep that to myself. “Someone did.” I held up the slip of paper. “Rayseline was here, and she had written instructions to help her get inside.” It was easy to picture Helmi finding the scrap of paper in the process of cleaning the room and simply putting it with the rest, not realizing it was from a different source.
“We’re inside the knowe. Wards have never been needed here.”
“Things are different on the land,” I said, and opened the door.
Dean’s room was surprisingly normal, and could have passed for Quentin’s or Raj’s with a few alterations. A dark blue rug softened the polished wood floor, matching the curtains around the single window, which was shaped like—and possibly made from—a ship’s porthole. A tall wardrobe was shoved against one wall, and the bed was beneath the window. The rest of the available wall space was devoted to bookshelves, most of them groaning under the weight of the books stacked there.
“Stay here,” I said, starting to step inside. Dianda’s eyes widened. I raised my hand to stop her protest. “Please. I know a lot of people have been through here, but I need to at least try.”
“Let her, Di,” said Patrick, putting a hand on her arm.
“All right.” She subsided, leaning against her husband. “Proceed.”
I nodded before turning and walking slowly into the room. No blood had been shed here. That was a small problem—I work best when I work with blood—but not an insurmountable one.
Most people assume an unfamiliar scene is harder to work than a familiar one, since you won’t be able to tell what’s out of place. Those people are both right and wrong. I couldn’t tell what was out of place, and I definitely couldn’t tell you if anything was missing, but at the same time, I didn’t have any preconceptions about what was supposed to be where. A familiar scene can become overwhelmingly strange when it’s disturbed in some way, while unfamiliar scenes are strange to begin with. More importantly, people fill in the blanks when they look at a familiar room, inserting objects where they think they belong. Their eyes can just skip over things. That’s dangerous—more dangerous than not knowing what it’s safe to disregard. Given a choice, I’ll take the unfamiliar every time.
The covers on Dean’s bed were smooth. I indicated the bed, continuing to study the rest of the room. “Was Dean in the habit of making his bed that well?”
“Helmi made it for him,” said Dianda. “It was unmade when he disappeared.”
I bit back my usual lecture on preserving the scene of a crime. At least most land fae have heard of police detective shows, and sort of understand what I’m talking about. I didn’t even know if the Undersea knew what television was. “Was there anything strange about it?”
“No.”
“Right.” The books were shelved in alphabetical order, and even the ones that were wedged in tightly enough to dent their covers were where they belonged. Dean had a space problem, but not an organization problem. “Where do the books come from?”
“Bookstores and Amazon,” replied Patrick. He smiled at my startled expression. “The land doesn’t have a monopoly on adopting mortal technology, you know. There’s something to be said for the anonymity of online shopping.”
“On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a mermaid.” I shook my head. “Did Helmi clean those up, too?”
“Dean’s very careful with his library,” said Dianda. “He was asking . . . he’s been asking about a fosterage for a while now.” She glanced at Patrick, a tangled mixture of affection and regret in her expression. “He wants to know what life is like on the land.”
“I can recommend some good fiefdoms when the time comes,” I said staunchly ignoring her slip into the past tense.
“Let’s hope you get the chance,” said Patrick.
There was nothing I could say to that. I gave the room one more long look before moving toward the bed. It was hard to resist the urge to muss the covers, just a little bit; just enough to make it look like a teenage boy still lived here. As it was, the mixture of tidiness and carefully shelved disorder made it all too easy to imagine this as Quentin’s room. I would have willingly started a war to get my squire back. I didn’t even want to think about what I’d do if Gilly’s life were the one on the line.
A nightstand sat just under the porthole window, holding the standard assortment of odds and ends: an oil lamp, a tattered Stephen King paperback with a bookmark about halfway through, and a ceramic dish filled with the sort of things that collect in an active teenager’s pockets. Small stones, salt-corroded coins, dice . . . and several slips of paper. Most looked like they’d been torn from court documents or larger pieces of parchment, which just made the scrap of blue-lined binder paper look all the more out of place.
I crouched next to the nightstand, breathing deeply as I strained to find any trace of lingering magic to confirm my suspicions. The air smelled clean, with a strong undercurrent of saltwater and wood polish. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to focus. My own magic started to rise, the cut-grass-and-copper smell of it somehow forcing the other scents to separate, rather than obscuring them.
And there, buried under the stronger, more recent scents, was the thing I’d been hoping and fearing I’d find: mustard flowers and hot wax. The signature of Raysel’s magic.
I opened my eyes and reached for the scrap of binder paper. It was water-damaged, and most of the list of items had blurred beyond reading, but Raysel’s childish scrawl was still legible in a few spots. “ ‘Knock three times,’ ”I read aloud. “What does that mean?”
“All servants are required to knock three times before entering,” said Dianda. She was frowning as I stood and turned to face her. “That gives the inhabitants time to prepare, so they won’t be surprised. A servant who didn’t knock might find themselves facing a rather unpleasant welcome.”
“Unpleasant how?”
Dianda’s frown became a thin smile, showing more teeth than I was strictly comfortable with. “Painfully so. Even in our quarters, we are never unarmed.”
“Charming. Do the Selkies know about the knocking?”
“Yes,” said Connor. “But . . . I never told Raysel that. There was no reason to.”
There was no reason to tell her about the wards, either, but I decided to keep that to myself. “Someone did.” I held up the slip of paper. “Rayseline was here, and she had written instructions to help her get inside.” It was easy to picture Helmi finding the scrap of paper in the process of cleaning the room and simply putting it with the rest, not realizing it was from a different source.
