Or to mask whatever it was she really smelled like, Ariel thought wryly.
Or were the oils and butters for more medicinal reasons—for the cecaelia’s skin? Ariel found herself looking at her own hands, rubbing them over each other lightly. Last time she had only been in the Dry World for a few days. Was it—literally—drying? Was it difficult, or painful, for creatures from the sea to remain for months battered by void and air, despite their magic?
Ariel shivered. Magic didn’t make everything simpler. Crossing the thresholds of worlds was no minor thing.
But none of the bottles looked like it contained a polyp.
Father? she asked silently. Where are you?
Footsteps rang in the hallway outside.
Frozen, Ariel waited for them to pass.
But they didn’t. They came in…to Eric’s apartment.
The mermaid looked around. If whoever came in knew that Vanessa didn’t like heels of bread or drink wine at that time of day…the jig was up.
The intruder continued to pad around maddeningly. There were accompanying sounds of things being lifted, patted, folded. A maid, straightening or cleaning…Ursula’s room would be next.
What should she do?
What would she do if she were the old Ariel and a shark were hunting her?
Without a second thought, the Queen of the Sea folded herself down as small as possible and hunkered down under the vanity.
Less than a second later the maid came into the doorway.
Ariel saw padded cloth house shoes and closed her eyes, willing invisibility.
As if the person standing there knew Ariel’s position and were bent on drawing out her torture as long as possible, she continued to just stand there: neither leaving the doorway, nor entering Vanessa’s room.
Ariel felt the strange sensation of sweat popping out on the back of her neck. It was thoroughly unpleasant, and tickled besides. She had to fight down an urge to scratch, or move, or stretch. I am a queen, she told herself as the itch became maddening. I am not ruled by my body.
“Max!” the maid called out. Ariel could just see her skirts move as she put her hands on her hips. “Max, where are you? Dinnertime! C’mon, you silly thing. You can’t have gotten far…”
There was no impatience in her voice, only love for the old dog.
But Ariel was so angry with the servant’s existence she wanted to turn her into a sea cucumber. Just for a few minutes.
“Well, I know you wouldn’t want to be in here, the princess’s room,” the maid said, her final words heavy with meaning. She spun and left, going all the way back out to the hallway. “Maaaax…”
Ariel breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She unfolded herself carefully, avoiding hitting her head on the ornate edge of the vanity.
Whew! That was ridiculously, painfully close.
She proceeded into the dressing room, where Vanessa kept her ridiculous assortment of clothes: bright-colored gowns with tiny, corseted waists and laced bodices that dove deep to expose vast amounts of décolletage. Wraps and shawls and jackets and hats with jewels and goldwork and more often than not the feathers—and sometimes the entire body—of some poor, exotic, and thoroughly dead bird.
She felt the silk of one long pale-rose sleeve. It was expert workmanship and utterly beautiful and thoroughly disgusting that such labor had been wasted on the evil woman. In a fairy tale, Ursula would be the wicked, lazy girl who wound up with dried seaweed and empty shells. And maybe shrimp crawling out of her throat.
She noticed something funny about a button on the sleeve just as she was about to let it drop: it was etched like scrimshaw, with lines so fine and thin they must have been made by a master—or a creature of magic.
The design was of an octopus.
Not a friendly one, like many that Ariel knew; this was elongated and sinister, with strangely evil eyes.
Ariel’s own eyes darted around the room like a barracuda distracted by sparkly things. It was immediately clear, once she knew what to look for, that every piece of clothing and accessory had the octopus sigil somewhere on it: the diamond brooch on a collar, the buckle on a belt, a hidden embroidery on the more traditional Tirulian dresses.
Whatever her motivations were in staying among the humans she’d married into, Ursula had not forgotten her origins or her true self.
But there was nothing in the closet that could have been her hidden father; not a bottle or a jar or even a repurposed shoe. Maybe there was a hidden panel somewhere, or maybe the sea witch kept him locked up in a real dungeon, downstairs.
And then, along with a current of moist, soapy air…