The duke, in turn, called her a “hazelnut-haired strumpet” and forbade her from washing windows anywhere in town. She was forced to begin knitting socks with her parents for greatly reduced pay.
As the weeks passed, Tress fell into a lethargy. She felt less like a mere human being, and more like a human who was merely being.
Life on the Rock for everyone else returned to normal, easy as that. Nobody cared. Nobody was going to do anything.
Until it was, two months after the duke’s return, that Tress made her decision. There was somebody who cared. Naturally, it would be up to that person to do something. Tress couldn’t impose on anyone else.
She was going to have to go rescue Charlie herself.
THE INSPECTOR
Once Tress made the decision, a knot came undone within her—like she’d finally worked a tangle out of a stubborn lock of hair.
She would do it. She had no idea how, but she would find a way to get off the island, cross the terrible Crimson Sea, enter the Midnight Sea, and rescue Charlie. Yes, each of those problems seemed equally impossible. But somehow less impossible than imagining the rest of her life without him.
First though, Tress went to talk to her parents. （Something more people in stories such as this should do.） She sat them both down, then explained her love for Charlie, her realization that no one would help him, and her determination to go find him—though she expressed worry that her absence might cause them hardship.
Both listened quietly as she spoke. This was, in part, because she’d baked them quail-egg pies. It’s more difficult to object to your daughter’s temporary insanity when your mouth is full.
Once she’d finished, Lem asked for seconds. It was a two-pie type of predicament. Ulba only finished half of her meal, sitting back and leaving the rest untouched. It was also a half-pie type of predicament.
Tress’s father ate his second pie with deliberate care, digging down from the top, then eating outward, saving the crust for the end. Finally, he crunched through that. Then he stared at the plate for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Was it…perhaps…a three-pie predicament?
“I think,” he said at last, turning to Ulba, “we are going to have to let her do this.”
“It’s lunacy!” Tress’s mother said. “Leave the island? Travel to the Midnight Sea? Steal a prisoner from the Sorceress?”
Lem felt at his mustache bristles with his napkin, cleaning out remnants of the meal. “Ulba, would you say our daughter is more practical than we are?”
“Yes, I would normally say that,” Ulba said.
“And would you also say she is more thoughtful than we are?”
“She is always thinking,” Tress’s mother agreed.
“How often does she impose upon people or ask for what she wants?”
“Almost never.”
“With all that in mind,” Tress’s father said, “it must be the right decision for her to leave. She will have considered all other options. Leaving the island to rescue the man she loves might sound like lunacy, but if every other option has been discarded as impossible, then insanity might—in this case—be practical.”
Tress felt a small thrill inside. He agreed?
“Tress,” her father said, leaning forward, resting his once-powerful arms on the tabletop, “we can care for your brother and ourselves if you go. Please do not worry about us; you are too accommodating in this regard. But neither of us can go with you. You understand this?”
“Yes, Father,” she said.
“I had always wondered if this island would prove too small for one such as you.”
This made Tress frown.
“Why do you act like that?” he asked her.
“I don’t want to be rude.”
“Then I demand you tell me, so that not speaking would be even more rude.”
Her grimace worsened. “Well, why would you say the island is too small for me, Father? There’s nothing extraordinary about me. If anything, I am too small for it.”
“Everything is extraordinary about you, Tress,” her mother said. “That’s why nothing in particular stands out.”
Well, parents have to say things like that. They’re required to see the best in their children, otherwise living with the little sociopaths would drive a person mad.
“I have your blessing then?” Tress asked them.
“I still think this is a terrible idea,” Ulba noted.
Lem nodded. “It is. But a terrible idea executed brilliantly has to be better than a brilliant idea executed terribly. I mean, look at pelicans.”