The Unkindest Tide (October Daye #13) - Seanan McGuire Page 0,48

at home. In San Francisco, she was the sea witch, but almost no one understood what that meant. Here, out at sea, there was no question. She was their mother in mourning and their unforgiving monster, and while she might not have seen the longing in their eyes, I did.

They missed her. They’d been missing her for centuries; they might miss her forever, depending on how things went with the resurrection of the Roane. My heart went out to them, and to her. Why does Faerie have to make everything so hard?

We had entered a small market area, packed with stalls selling fruit, vegetables, bread, and less edible goods, when Tybalt stepped out of the narrow space between a spice vendor and a slightly more permanent-looking tailor’s shop. He was carrying my leather jacket over one arm, and had an expression on his face that couldn’t seem to decide between amusement and irritation.

“Imagine my surprise when I emerged from unpacking to find Marcia saying you’d gone on without me.” He fell into step beside us, offering the Luidaeg a nod. “Lady Sea Witch.”

“Sir Cat,” she replied, without breaking stride. “Don’t be too annoyed at October. I told her she didn’t have time to go get you. I also told Marcia to tell you not to follow us.”

“She did,” he said, offering me my jacket. “I elected to ignore her, as is my right as both a cat and a king.”

“How did the Cait Sidhe survive past infancy?” asked the Luidaeg.

Tybalt raised an eyebrow. “If any of us would know the answer to that, milady, I would expect it to be you. You were, after all, there when it happened.”

The Luidaeg laughed and kept walking.

I shrugged my leather jacket on, taking a moment to fuss with the ribbons that served as my sleeves, trying in vain to make them lie flat, or at least not get all twisted and tangled around my elbows. Tybalt watched this with some amusement, waiting until I was done before he reached over and took my hand.

“You look quite elegant, if a bit anachronistic,” he said. “The Luidaeg’s work, I assume?”

“I can dress myself.”

“Yes, but you generally choose not to unless under serious duress, and I have never once seen you voluntarily trend toward corsetry.” Tybalt shook his head. “I fear I’ll need to take all responsibility for your wedding gown, lest you show up in one of those abominable knee-length creations.”

“They’re called skater dresses, and they’re very comfortable,” I protested.

The Luidaeg looked over her shoulder at us. “Now is when you want to do your wedding planning? Now? Do you have no sense of timing, or are you just oblivious?”

“We are surrounded by water on all sides,” said Tybalt. “Forgive me if I wish to take my betrothed’s mind off the situation.”

I flashed him a smile and kept walking. The Luidaeg rolled her eyes and did the same.

The shopping district—if it could really be called a district, under the circumstances—gave way to another residential neighborhood, this one consisting entirely of tiny shacks. It was shabbier here. The air smelled more strongly of saltwater and decaying wood, and the walkways were slipperier, damp with condensation and streaks of drying seaweed. I cast the Luidaeg a curious look, allowing my question to go unasked.

She answered it anyway. “The Duchy of Ships is home to a great many Selkies and their families, but that doesn’t make them wealthy, or even particularly well-regarded,” she said. “Their inability to breathe water means they can never fully belong to the Undersea. Still, they work as couriers and messengers, and they hold on.”

“Can Roane breathe water?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

“Yes and no,” said the Luidaeg. “They don’t have gills, but their control over the currents is such that they can call air bubbles to themselves, and keep breathing without coming to the surface. It’s a relatively common trick in the Undersea. There are several descendant races who are technically air-breathers, but manage to do it subtly enough that they never get called on it. An open secret, if you will. Now can you stop asking me questions about my kids? You know I have to answer, and you know that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. It’s just that these are things that should be common knowledge—the Roane should never have been lost—and now I have to explain them like they’re trivia. Like they’re trivial. I hate everything about this. I even hate doing this to