Page 58 of Tidal Creatures

“Not like I know, either,” says Kelpie. “We were working on a project that was supposed to embody the adjuncts of the Lunars. Chang’e’s Rabbit, the Old Man’s Dog, that sort of thing. They used to appear on their own, but a few centuries ago, they stopped. If we could get one of them to manifest, we’d be able to summon and maybe even control the Lunar they belong with. And since the best-known companions go with some of the most powerful Lunars, that was a good goal to be working toward if…”

She stops then, looking guilty. Smita smiles, just a little.

“Do Lunars have some sort of access to the City?”

Kelpie nods, silent.

“Thought so. Come on. We need to join the others.” Smita reopens the door.

This time, Kelpie follows her inside.

The house is smaller and warmer than Catrina’s, and while it isn’t particularly cluttered or unkempt, it seems dirtier, in a vital, living sense, like dirt is allowed here, while it has been so thoroughly forbidden at Catrina’s house that it would never dare enter. The walls have the well-scrubbed appearance of something that has been scrubbed, not merely wiped down, because at one point it needed to be.

Kelpie, who spent most of her life in sterile lab conditions, immediately decides she likes this much better. This house looks like people live in it, like it’s happy to have people living in it, and that makes more of a difference than she could possibly have realized before it was placed in front of her. This is a good house.

This is a good house, but people are arguing very nearby, a multitude of overlapping voices. It sounds like a budget meeting in the lab, except that none of them are talking about resource allocation. Smita looks toward the noise, frowns, and takes Kelpie by the elbow.

“Come on,” she says. “I have a few people you ought to meet while they take care of whatever all that’s about.”

Kelpie blinks but lets herself be pulled away from the sound of voices and up the stairs to the landing on the second floor.

Even more than the entry hall, the second-floor hall is filled with light, more than the windows can adequately explain, although the sun pours through them in honeyed sheets, illuminating the little motes of dust dancing in the air, turning them into a pale, phantom aura of gold around the pair as they move through. There are no artificial lights. The sun just seems to refract off of itself somehow, growing bigger and stronger within the enclosed space.

Tall bookshelves have been pushed up against the walls, and braided rugs in a wide variety of contrasting colors pepper the floor, almost like someone has been trying to replicate the experience of standing outside, looking at the house. One of the windows has a set of prisms hanging from it, adding tiny, glimmering rainbows to the scene.

The shouting is quieter here. Kelpie relaxes marginally, realizing how much tension she was carrying after their walk and conversation. Being out in the open is still new to her, and no matter how aware she is that most people won’t see anything strange about her, it’s difficult not to be afraid.

Smita watches, smiling a little as she sees Kelpie straighten.

“That’s better,” she says. “Did you know you wrap your tail around your leg when you’re worried about something? You shouldn’t do that. You’ll cut off the circulation, and I don’t know if even the most mundane doctor in the world could treat you without noticing you don’t have feet.”

“What do feet have to do with anything?”

“Normally, when people lose circulation to their leg, we worry about them possibly losing toes.”

“Well, I already lost all of mine, so I guess I’m ahead of the game,” says Kelpie, and giggles.

Smita’s smile widens. “Good. I was afraid we’d traumatized you, and we still have so many opportunities to do that.” She moves toward a closed door. Someone has placed a small whiteboard in the middle of it, and a complicated mathematical equation has been written there, the numbers surrounded by surprisingly well-drawn wildflowers in dry-erase marker. Smita knocks, lightly.

A feminine voice shouts, “Go away.”

“It’s Smita,” says Smita. “Dodger is downstairs making someone else’s life more difficult than it technically needs to be, if the yelling is anything to judge by. I have a guest.”

“You never have guests.” There’s the rattling sound of a chain being undone, and then the door is cracked open, and a face appears in the gap.

Kelpie blinks. So does the girl, whose eyes widen briefly at the sight of the orange woman in the hallway, before she opens the door wider.

“You can both come in,” she says, in a tone that implies she’s granting some impossible favor.

“Thank you,” says Smita. “Kelpie, this is Kim. Kim, this is Kelpie.”

“Nice to, um, meet you,” says Kelpie, as she follows Smita into the room. She has to fight the urge to stare.

Kim isn’t being nearly so careful. She closes the door behind the pair, turning to watch them.

“Your friend’s orange,” she says.

“Yes,” says Smita.