Page 41 of The Innocent Sleep

The Cephali looked as if she wanted to argue this point, eyes narrowed and knife unwavering. The portion of her tentacles that didn’t match the wall was a vivid red, matching her hair instead, and the skin on the human-seeming part of her body was a creamy white speckled with generous freckles. Her hair was a wild cloud of corkscrew curls, and her only attire was a simple wrap top that matched the wall almost as well as her tentacles did. If she turned the rest of her body that color, she would effectively vanish.

Camouflage is the greatest tool of the Cephali. They can’t turn invisible without invoking illusion spells, but they can change their color as easily as they breathe, which is an innate form of transformation, and—most usefully of all—doesn’t call upon their magic in any measurable way. Helmi could blend in to anything she wanted without the scent of the spell giving her away.

It would make them fine assassins on the land, if they had any interest in leaving the sea. Fortunately, they have never seemed so inclined, and prefer to gather in the knowes created and cared for by Merrow, attaching themselves to noble households and serving in relative safety.

“Helmi, stand down,” said Patrick. I looked over my shoulder. He was standing in the doorway, near a doused, dripping Ginevra. She was back on two legs, wringing the water from her hair.

“A towel might be welcome,” I said dryly.

“I’ll have Helmi get right on that,” said Patrick.

The Cephali woman lowered her knife, looking unhappy about the whole situation as she slipped it into a sheath attached to the top of one tentacle, like a particularly dangerous garter. “A towel for our uninvited guests?”

“Please. And if you could let Dianda know that King Tybalt has returned, with a guest, I would appreciate it immensely.”

“Tybalt?” Helmi looked at me with new interest. “The one you said might be bringing the rest of our family home?” There was a note of unfeigned longing in her question.

“Yes,” said Patrick.

“Right away, sir,” said Helmi, and dropped off the wall, landing with a plop before ambulating out of the room with remarkably impressive speed. I couldn’t call her means of locomotion “walking,” as it involved her tentacles moving in a strange synchronized dance, grasping the floor and pulling her forward with vast muscular flexion. It was definitely enthralling; I had trouble taking my eyes away.

“It used to distract me, too, watching the Cephali move around the knowe,” said Patrick. “It gets worse when they forget that air-filled rooms normally have gravity. They’ll just go straight up the walls. Who’s your dampened friend?”

“My apologies: my manners aren’t presently what I’d like them to be.” I gestured to Ginevra, who paused in wringing out her hair to bob a quick, awkward curtsey. “May I present Princess Ginevra of the Court of Whispering Cats, currently standing formal regent for Prince Rajiv of the Court of Dreaming Cats. Ginevra, this is Duke Patrick Lorden of Saltmist.”

“Ducal Consort,” corrected Patrick. “Technically, I’m still a Count, or would be, if I went up to the surface. Gilad never got around to revoking my title, and I’ve had no formal reason to repudiate it.”

“Oh.” Ginevra shot me a look, clearly mystified.

“The Divided Courts enjoy overcomplicating simple things,” I said, in a soothing tone. To Patrick, I added, “We only have six formal ranks. King, Queen, Prince, Princess, Monarch, and Prime. The latter two are rarely used but do occasionally come into play. Regent is a position, not a rank, and relevant only in a situation such as my own. Forgive me if this is rude, but you look like hell.”

Patrick, who did, in fact, look like hell, chuckled dryly. “I could say the same to you, you know.”

“I am a cat, sir. I always look my very best, even when I don’t, and to so much as imply otherwise is to run the risk of treason.”

Ginevra looked back and forth between us. “Okay, boys, chill. You’re both pretty, you’re both very important, and you’re both the most special boy in the whole room.”

We shot her matching looks of wounded offense, and she laughed.

She was still laughing a moment later, when Helmi returned, pulling Dianda Lorden by the wrist. Dianda was in her own two-legged form and had a towel slung over one shoulder.

And, much like Patrick, she looked like hell.

Neither of them appeared to have slept since the last time I’d been in the knowe. Patrick definitely hadn’t brushed his hair since then, and it stuck out in all directions, somehow managing to be dry and greasy at the same time. Both had dark circles under their eyes, and Dianda’s cheeks were hollow; she wasn’t eating. Half-healed bruises marred her shoulders and neck, and I realized with a pang of guilt that I was so accustomed to October’s swift, impossible recoveries that I’d never considered whether she might be genuinely hurt when the Almere attacked.

She saw me looking and waved her free hand, dismissing my concern. “Amphitrite took the worse of it,” she said. “I just had some bruises, and a few little divots taken out of my tail. Nothing major. Helmi patched me right up, and I’ll be fully recovered any tide now.”

“Yes, because having your wife dragged home bleeding and delirious by her own equally injured Firstborn is always easy on the nerves,” muttered Patrick. “Especially when your husband and two of your children are missing. That’s the best time for something like that. I can’t recommend it highly enough.”

“Will you stop?” Dianda glared at him. “Tybalt wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have something to tell us. Maybe there’s been a change in the spell.”

“No change, milady.” I stepped forward to take the towel, passing it solemnly to Ginevra, who promptly began drying her hair. “We’ve been researching it within the Library of Stars, and attempting to chart its boundaries. Has there been any more word on the isolated portions of the Undersea?”

“A wall runs around the sundered oceans, clear as glass and thin as a whisper, but entirely impermeable,” said Dianda. “Yell, scream, attack it with all the force that you can muster, it doesn’t budge or crack. We’ve had the Asrai attempt to unweave it, sent the Naiads to try to pass through to the water on the other side, nothing. We’re well and truly cut off.”

“Merrow sing storms, do they not?”

Dianda nodded.