Eric took off his shoes to walk his way back home barefoot; despite how cold it was he wanted to feel the sand on his feet. It was part of the sea, part of her home.
When he entered the castle with his hair askew and trailing beach detritus, no one was much shocked. It was just Mad Prince Eric, out on one of his walks again.
He thought about Ursula. Sometimes winning wasn’t just about playing fair, but knowing the rules so well that you could exploit discrepancies. That was the sea witch’s whole method of operation.
He puzzled over ways to expose her true identity to the people who fawned on her and protected her. But as a musician and a prince his ideas were mostly dramatic, elaborate, and complicated. Like throwing a magnificent masked ball, for instance, and installing a hall of mirrors like at Versailles, and then having a bathtub full of salt water there somehow as a prop for Ursula to fall into, causing her to revert to her cecaelian state. Then her image would be reflected a thousand times, and everyone would see…
He scribbled that down as an idea for a later opera. Rather unwieldy in real life.
The prince felt bad about the opera he was supposed to be working on—he hadn’t been to a rehearsal in days. Still, kings of the sea, mermaids, and evil sea hags came first. The real ones, that was.
（Eric did, however, make time to occasionally visit the poor polyps still trapped on Vanessa’s vanity. He gave them little updates on things and told them to buck up. He had no idea if they understood, but it seemed like the right thing to do.）
He found it easiest to think logically when he worked at the puzzle the way an artist or musician would: by sketching out a stage direction plot, with Ursula in the middle and, around her, all the people she had vowed to kill if she was ever threatened in any way. He almost felt like his old self, sitting at his desk under the window and scribbling away—but this time clearheaded and glamour-free.
“Prince Eric,” Grimsby greeted him, a trifle coldly, bringing in hot tea. It was served the traditional Tirulian way, with lots of sugar and cinnamon and cardamom.
Eric sighed. The other man had still been distant and, well, grim, since the prince had ordered him to stop helping.
“Grimsby old boy, someday you’re going to have to forgive me for trying to protect your life. It’s what princes do. Well, good ones, anyway.”
“Of course, sir,” Grimsby said crisply. He put down a napkin and the saucer and eyed Eric’s drawing. “Oh, you’re still working on the opera. I daresay you have a lot else on your mind right now…”
“No kidding. And no, this isn’t for the opera. I should really just put that on hold for a while, until other things…clear up.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily do that, Your Highness. Everyone is looking forward to the show. Now may not be the best time to ostracize your subjects. And it’s a convenient way to keep certain people thinking you’re, well, thinking about other things. Distracted, you know, when your keen mind is focused elsewhere…”
“That’s not a bad point, Grims. All right, then! The show must go on!”
“Good for you, sir. You know…I must really get the carpenters and seamstresses to redo the royal box at the amphitheatre. Apparently, it’s been quite…decorated by seagulls and the like. We don’t want to upset the…er…refined sensibilities of Princess Vanessa. You know how she likes everything around her to look perfect when she’s the center of attention. Probably have to add some gold flourishes or something, too…”
“Yes, she…wait…What?” Eric suddenly looked up at his butler. “What did you just say? What did you really just say? About Vanessa?”
“The princess enjoys flaunting her questionable taste and wealth?” Grimsby stammered.
“Grimsby, old man, you’re a genius!” Eric kissed the confused butler on both cheeks, the Tirulian way, and ran out of the room.
“Thank you?” the Bretlandian said, dabbing at his cheek with the napkin.
“Whuff?” Max asked, watching the prince go.
“No idea,” Grimsby said with a sigh.
“Sssso, which one did she wind up choosing to send to Ibria, in Triton’s place?”
The two eels-become-men were walking side by side, shoulders touching, making their rounds of the castle. Paying out the spies, threatening servants who wouldn’t snitch, stealing bits in the kitchen in front of everyone and snickering about it…the usual afternoon’s work.
“Garahiel,” Jetsam answered, thin lips pulled back over a toothy grin. Neither one of them opened their mouths very far when they spoke; they were all teeth and tongue.