Page 22 of The Unkindest Tide

“Name your cargo, First Mate,” shouted a voice, female, even louder than Rodrick’s.

There was no cheer this time. Only silence. Rodrick paled, and for a moment, I thought he was going to turn and run to the safety of his cabin. Then he cleared his throat and stood up even straighter, squaring his shoulders like he thought posture was the answer to all his troubles.

“From the Court of Dreaming Cats, King Tybalt of the Cait Sidhe,” he announced. Tybalt shot me an irritated glance, apparently not pleased to have been called first, and stepped onto the gangplank, looking along his nose at the assembled crowd. Then he proceeded down to the dock, as was only correct when he had been announced so formally.

“From the County of Goldengreen in the Mists, Count Dean Lorden, and his seneschal, Marcia.” Dean stepped onto the gangplank, Marcia behind him, dragging her suitcase. He looked utterly at ease, which made sense; apart from Nolan and the Luidaeg, he was the only one of us who might actually have been here before. Marcia was so busy rubbernecking that I couldn’t tell what she thought about the situation. At least she didn’t slip and fall into the water.

“From the Duchy of Shadowed Hills in the Mists, Sir October Daye, named Knight of Lost Words, and her squire, Quentin.”

I took a deep breath. “Chin up, kiddo, it’s time to get judged.”

“I’ve been judged before,” said Quentin dismissively.

“Then this should be easy.” I stepped onto the gangplank. The wood was slipperier than it looked, and my feet nearly shot out from underneath me. I saved myself from a nasty fall by putting a hand on Quentin’s shoulder and bearing down hard, trying to make the gesture look as natural as possible. It wasn’t easy, because the smell . . .

The Duchy of Ships was located entirely in the Summerlands, with no mortal population to hide from. There was no reason for any of these people to keep their magic under wraps or to pretend to be anything other than what they were. The air crackled with dozens, maybe hundreds of magical signatures, and while “oceanic” scents were dominant—wind and waves and sea grasses, kelp and sand and ambergris—there were plenty of conflicting scents that would have been much easier to interpret if we’d been inland. Or near land at all.

“Toby?” whispered Quentin. “You okay?”

“Lot of magic here,” I said, holding onto his shoulder. “Get me to solid ground.”

We descended slowly, people watching and assessing us every step of the way. Tybalt was there as soon as we reached the bottom of the gangplank, taking my other arm with the sort of ostentatious flourish that I knew meant he was flexing his possession of me for everyone to see. I would have been annoyed, except that I understood his reasons all too well. They were very similar to the reasons I wasn’t letting go of Quentin, and the reason my heart sank as Rodrick continued his introductions.

“From the Court in the Mists, standing in lieu of Her Majesty, Queen Arden Windermere, Prince Nolan Windermere and Her Majesty’s seneschal, Cassandra Brown.”

Nolan and Cassandra walked decorously down the gangplank. Nolan was still in his rumpled turn-of-the-century finery, but Cassandra had exchanged her jeans and sweatshirt for a dress of blue linen a few shades lighter than the lamplit sky above us. She walked three steps behind Nolan, as was technically appropriate for a changeling in service to a pureblood court, her head bowed and her hands folded in front of her. My breath caught in my throat. I’ve known Cassandra since she was born, and while there’s a fourteen-year chunk missing in the middle, courtesy of my time in the pond, I’d never truly seen her in the context of Faerie before.

She was glorious. She was where she’d always been intended to be. Only our prior ruler’s prejudices against changelings had kept Cassandra from this side of her heritage for so long, and I was suddenly, fiercely grateful to see her this way.

“From the Ryan clan among the Selkies, Gillian Marks.”

There she was, my baby girl, alone and anxious at the top of the gangplank, hugging her arms around herself and looking around like she wanted nothing more than to leap into the waiting sea and swim away as fast as she could. She didn’t have anyone to lean on, and so when she took her first step down, her foot shot out from under her and she went sprawling, landing hard on her behind.

“Gillian!” I was halfway up the gangplank before I realized I was going to move. I didn’t stop. I didn’t stop until I was beside her, dropping to my knees on the wood, offering my arm so she could pull herself to her feet.

She glared at me and slapped my arm away. “I’m not a part of your fiefdom, remember?” she snapped, and there was a depth of hurt in her voice that wounded me as surely as any arrow. She pushed herself to her feet, wobbling as she turned and stomped down the gangplank, her anger somehow lending her the stability she needed to remain upright. I stayed where I was, baffled and aching from the urge to run after her.

What had just happened? Maybe more importantly, how could I fix it?

The people who’d gathered to watch us arrive whispered behind their hands, enthralled by the drama we were enacting for their amusement. I stood, bracing myself as carefully as I could, intending to stalk back to where Tybalt and Quentin were waiting for me.

Naturally, I immediately fell on my ass. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.

I heal at a rate that’s frankly offensive to anyone who believes actions should have consequences, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel pain. The impact of my behind on the wood was hard enough to send a shock along my spine, and I sat there for a moment, blinking in shock and surprise. Unfortunately for me, I was still sitting there when Rodrick decided he couldn’t keep the rest of his passengers waiting any longer.

“From the Kingdom in the Mists, apprentice Poppy,” he announced, and Poppy launched herself into the air, stained glass wings beating harder than any pixie’s would have needed to, fighting to keep her increased weight aloft. It had taken her a while to learn how to fly again after giving up her pixiehood for Simon Torquill’s sake. Still, she made a striking sight as she cut through the air toward the dock, a moving painting in all the colors of the living autumn.

Some of the people surrounding us gasped. A few clapped hands over their mouths, staring . . . and then a man who could have been her brother, only rendered in shades of red and pink instead of orange, pushed his way through the crowd, pulling Poppy into a fierce embrace even as they both burst into tears.

“What the . . . ?”

“When you want to keep something secret, you send it out to sea,” said a familiar voice. I tilted my head back. The Luidaeg stood over me, offering her hand. “There are a lot of secrets buried far from familiar shores.”

“You said the Aes Sidhe died out,” I said, letting her pull me to my feet. Her skin was cooler than normal, like she’d risen from the depths and hadn’t had enough time to return to room temperature. “You can’t lie.”

“I can’t, and they did,” she said. “A few scattered survivors does not a people make. It’s just a funeral in slow-motion.” She turned and looked over her shoulder at Rodrick, lifting one eyebrow. “Well? This is where you’re supposed to introduce me.”

“I . . . I sail at the pleasure of Captain Pete, and that means I truthfully name all who enter these waters, as pleasure can easily become pain,” he said. “Annie. We’ve met before. I know you. Why would you write such a thing on my passenger manifest? Are you trying to get me in trouble?”