She wanted to grab him, to pull him aside and find out what was wrong. Why did he seem upset? What had changed? Did it have to do with all the activity in the castle?
But…even if she did manage to get him alone…they couldn’t talk.
She couldn’t talk.
And she highly doubted he could understand a sign language based on an ancient and, to him, foreign language.
She watched Grimsby go, his exit immediately camouflaged by skirts and jackets, scurrying and bustling, and felt something tighten within her. They could have meant something to each other, had things worked out differently.
She took a deep breath, willing the knot in her heart to go away.
The Queen of the Sea had a mission. She had come to find her father. Anything else she would deal with later, if at all. For now, she had to figure out where her father was being kept.
Think logically, she reminded herself. The gulls had told her that they’d seen Ursula getting dressed, primping, while talking with Triton. With a feeling of nausea she faced the obvious: as Vanessa, the sea witch was married to Eric. The two would either be sharing the same room or adjoining apartments in the royal tower. Ariel knew where that was.
She straightened up, held her linens out, and marched forward, trying to set her face into the blank stare of a maid. It was easier than it would have been the first time she had come on land, when she had no cause to do anything aside from stare around with wide eyes, drinking in the strange world and its goings-on. She had never even considered trying to blend in before; there was no strange or different in the world of the mer. It never occurred to her that people would notice or not like her if she stuck out and acted odd.
She brushed aside this slow-moving slipper shell of a thought to another corner of her mind, and wondered if there was a possibility of catching another glimpse of Eric.
The stairs were a little tricky—“up” was a strange movement for her still-new legs and feet—and she made it as far as the first hallway before she was discovered.
“Hey, you! Who are you? You’re not supposed to be upstairs!”
It wasn’t one of the now-multitudinous soldiers; it was a rather pretty but shark-eyed maid. Ariel didn’t react; she just stood there, unsure what to do. She couldn’t even make up an excuse for being there—or at least make it be understood.
The maid grabbed a passing guard. He didn’t seem to have any interest in either one of them and tried to continue his rounds, but the maid sort of shook him at Ariel.
“Hey! She’s not supposed to be up here. She could be a spy!”
The guard grunted in displeasure but started toward Ariel.
The Queen of the Sea dropped her laundry and ran.
Ariel wondered vaguely how her new legs would react to this new situation.
Just fine, apparently.
She ducked between footmen, dodged through couples, threw herself around corners. There was a second stairway she remembered, toward the back of the residency tower, which the chambermaids used. The one she probably should have chosen to begin with. She put a hand out to the sandstone wall to steady herself as she began her first descent with new legs. The firmness and familiarity of the rock gave her courage. She urged her feet down the steps like ceremonial dolphins pulling her golden chariot in a circuit race.
“Halt!” came a voice from behind her—along with the sound of polished boots striking stone.
Ariel panicked and practically fell onto the landing. She wasted a moment trying to decide whether to continue down another narrow flight to the sub-basement where the wine cellars were, along with another exit to the outside. But that was probably what the soldiers expected her to do.
She plunged ahead instead, toward where she remembered the grand ballroom was.
There was less chaos here, and fewer people. But just as Ariel thought she had escaped the last of them, she saw someone looming, blocking her escape at the end of the painted hall.
Carlotta.
The friendly maid who had tried to show Ariel the proper way to bathe. Who had taken it upon herself to pick out an outfit for the mermaid and show her how to dress nicely. With the floppy bow. Who hadn’t been upset when Ariel made a fool of herself using human things the wrong way—who had only found it delightful, and a wonderful curative for the often moody prince.
Carlotta’s black hair was still thick though shot through with grey, and in its usual bun—and not under the bright red kerchief Ariel remembered. Her bodice and new little hat were starched white cotton, pure and strict. But the strangely formal uniform upset Ariel less than the look in Carlotta’s eyes when she saw the mermaid bolting toward her.