He hid the fish under his shirt.
The branzino （known commonly as the wolf fish） had extra-sharp fins and spines and scales, all of which cut into the boy’s flesh as it struggled.
Little Eric arrived at the castle desperate and bleeding. He went straight to the kitchens, where he collapsed into a puddle of tears, cursing his own weakness.
（The king and queen, as any parent could guess, were delighted with the skill and determination their son had shown. They gave Eric a really solid lecture on the importance of knowing what common people did to earn their dinner, for he would be ruling a kingdom of fisherfolk someday. Then the cook oversaw the bandaged, once-again cheerful Eric as he fried up the fish himself. It was presented to the royal family on a golden platter, and everyone lived happily ever after that day.）
This was also not unlike the time when, as a young teen, he had fallen in love with a stray puppy that did not at all fit the royal image of a hunting hound. This, too, he stuffed under his shirt and carried home. Guilty and tortured, he snuck Max into his bed and fed him the best bits of purloined steak from dinner.
He was of course found out.
“It’s not a Sarenna imperial wolf mastiff,” his father had said with a sigh. “We kings of Tirulia have always had those. For centuries.”
“At least it’s not a fish this time,” the queen had pointed out lightly.
But little Eric and older Eric and even now oldest Eric never had a truly terrible secret. Those two were the worst ones he could come up with when trying to compare what he felt now to something similar in his life.
What was it, exactly, he was hiding this time? It wasn’t tangible, like a fish or a puppy.
Clarity?
Was that a terrible secret? Why did he feel the need to hide it?
He tried to mimic the way he usually walked home, but all the Erics—little, older, and present Eric—were terrible liars. It was just one of the many reasons the prince refused to be in his own shows, even in a bit part. He knew his limits.
He looked up quickly, guiltily, askance, expecting things to appear different. More colorful. More detailed. More truthful. More meaningful.
But all the houses he passed looked the same; the flowers and plants were the same colors as the day before.
Yep, that grain storehouse is still the same. Same dry rot around the windows, same moldering timbers…
Wait a moment, that looks really bad. I’ll bet it smells terrible up close. Isn’t that where we keep the surplus grain? In case of blight or disaster? Good heavens, is it leaking? That could ruin everything. Why is that being allowed? I’d better look into that…
Oh, look, it’s that girl from the market who sells the sea beans. What’s she doing here? I used to know her mother…What was her name? Lucretia.
My word—look at that enormous guarded wagon driving up to the castle, with so many soldiers around it! What on earth are they delivering? I want to say…munitions? Yes! That’s it.
Wait—munitions? But why? I can’t quite…Why do we need…？ This is all so bizarre.
Then it hit him.
There hadn’t been a physical change to himself or his sight; the veil or whatever it was, the charm, had been lifted from inside his head. It was like an old net, full of slime and dead shellfish and falling apart and utterly useless, had enshrouded his brain, and had just now been extracted by some clever doctor. He could think for the first time in years. He could react to the things around him. Generate opinions. Hold on to thoughts. He had changed, not his eyes.
That was reassuring, and having figured that out made him feel a bit better and more in control. He strode confidently into the castle. Grimsby was waiting just inside and in one fluid, habituated movement helped the prince spin out of his academic robe and into a very neatly tailored day jacket, dove grey with long tails.
“Thanks, Grims,” Eric said, continuing on to the lesser luncheon room and fluffing up his cravat. All he wanted to do was grab his old manservant—out of sight of the guards—and grill him about the past. He was the only one in the castle Eric could trust. But that would look odd, and until he got the lay of the land, he preferred to play along like still-bespelled Eric.
Princess Vanessa was already seated at the delicate golden table where they would dine together after meeting with the Metalworkers’ Guild. Thank goodness he didn’t have to greet her and take her arm and lead her in. He had very, very mixed feelings right now, but all the ones around her induced nausea.
“Good afternoon, Princess,” Eric said politely. She extended a gloved hand and he perfunctorily kissed the back of it, extending his lips so that only the furthest, tippiest bit, the part that often got chapped at sea, barely brushed the smooth fabric.