The room was teeming when I entered, the heralds at the door making no real effort to introduce me. I had no political favors to give; my only real asset was that I was a living, breathing body for the King to name as part of his entourage. A few heads turned my way, but while their gazes were not unfriendly, they didn't linger on me. I might as well have been a member of the staff.
Social invisibility had its perks. I wound my way through the crowd, murmuring pleasantries when someone looked my way, until I had reached the refreshment table against the furthest wall. The balcony was only a few steps further on, and the doors were open to let the night air in. Only a few more steps, and I would be free—
A hand caught my arm. I turned, startled, to find myself looking at a tall, blue-eyed woman with a heart-shaped face framed by the glossy black planes of her hair, which fell to her collarbones before ending in a sharp, geometric line. She was wearing an old-fashioned silk dress in deep blue, with a squared-off bodice and a split skirt revealing the paler blue beneath. And she looked like she wanted nothing more in all the world than an excuse to break my nose.
"Is there real food here? Because I will hit you with a chair if it gets me real food," she said. Catching herself, she released my arm, took a stuttering half-step back, and said, "I mean, is there anything here that takes more than a single bite to chew? I'm starving, and I'm reasonably sure it would be rude of me to devour everything on this table just because none of it is large enough to bait a hook."
I blinked at her, nonplussed, before looking past her to the refreshment table. There were oysters on the half-shell; plump, peeled shrimp, ready to be dipped into a variety of sauces; small sandwiches with the crusts cut off; all the bland, decadent things that we had stolen from the mortals in an effort to keep with the times. The requisite platters of fruits and cheeses were also there, but without a decent hunk of bread to pile them on, it would be virtually impossible to eat more than a few bites and not seem to be stuffing yourself senseless.
"I don't believe we've met," I said.
"I don't believe so either," she said. "I got invited to this party, and apparently it would have been unspeakably rude for me to refuse."
"Funny; the same thing happened to me," I said. "Would you like me to show you to the kitchens?"
"Am I going to be chased out of the kitchens by an angry chef with a very large knife?"
"No," I said. "They know me here. Honestly, the chef will probably just be pleased to see that I've made a friend."
She raised an eyebrow. "Have you, then? Made a friend?"
"Well, miss mysterious stranger who hasn't told me her name but is ready to hit me with a chair for the sake of a sandwich, I think I'd prefer you as a friend, since it seems you'd make a dangerous enemy."
The woman laughed and offered him her hand. "Dianda."
"Patrick." I took her hand and brushed my lips across her knuckles, fulfilling propriety as quickly and as efficiently as possible. "Follow me to the food."
"I think we're friends already," she said.
*
It was a small matter to sneak myself and Dianda along the balcony to an open door, slip back inside, and from there, head into the kitchens. They were buzzing with activity, naturally enough: there was a large party going on, and such things tended to occupy the bulk of the manpower. A few of the chefs glanced at us, saw that it was me, and returned to their business. Dianda looked halfway impressed as I led her to a table at the very back of the room.
"Are you secretly the master of the kitchens?" she asked.
"No, just an unlanded baron who doesn't care much for balls, and so makes friends with people who can help him hide," I said. "What would you like to eat?"
"Meat," she said, without hesitation. "Any sort. And bread. Meat, and bread, and something salty."
"How salty?" I asked.
"If the back of my tongue doesn't hurt, it's not salty enough."
"I'll see what I can do," I said, and left her there as I went to begin raiding the kitchen.
The nice thing about being in the kitchen of a royal household is the way the staff is prepared to feed the King anything his heart desires at a moment's notice. Does the King want a joint of beef that's been slow-roasted for three days? They'll have one waiting under a preservation spell to keep it good. Does the King want a wheel of blue cheese so salty that it burns? They'll have that, too. I nabbed a loaf of crusty brown bread from the baker's station, a serving tray from an unattended counter, and piled them both high with beef, lamb, cheese, spiced tomato catsup, and sharp, crispy endive. The nearest chef gave me a sharp look when I grabbed a small bowl of candied ginger, and so I retreated back to the table with my prizes.
Dianda's eyes widened when I dropped the tray in front of her. "Oh, we are definitely friends," she said, reaching for the roast lamb without bothering with such niceties as knives or bread. "We may even be the very best of friends, if this is the sort of trick you can play on a regular basis."
"One of the small advantages of being landless: I am well-acquainted with the kitchen of every noble house from here to Salinas," I said, sitting down across from her and reaching for the bread. "I'm sorry, I haven't seen you before. Are you new to the area?"
"Sort of," she said. "I was away at school for a long while, and I only recently got back. This is my first large party in the Mists."
"Well, then, I hope you enjoy it, or you're going to wish you'd stayed at school for a while longer." I began slicing the bread, piling it up to the side of the tray.
Dianda's expression twisted, turning wry. "Oh, believe me, I already wish I had. But this party wasn't really optional for me."
"It's the Undersea," I said.
She blinked. "Come again?"
"The Duke of Saltmist is stepping aside in favor of his heir," I said. "King Gilad is throwing this party to wish his friend a fond farewell, and show the heir that the Mists are well-protected. It's a very civilized way of saying 'I have a large army, look at my large army, doesn't it waltz well.' Sandwich?"
"Please," said Dianda.
I set about assembling a sandwich for her, watching her eyes as I gauged how high to pile the meat and pieces of broken-off cheese. Blue didn't cut well, but it broke easily. "I've never seen a mermaid before, of any variety. I believe they're Merrow, in Saltmist?"
"That sounds right," said Dianda.
"What does a Merrow look like? Do you know?"
"Probably all scaly and weird," said Dianda, taking her sandwich from me. "Really, it's good that we're hiding in the kitchen. It's never polite to stare at the visiting nobility."
"I'm sure that whatever they look like, they're fine rulers and excellent allies," I said. "And if they're not, well, they have a large army."
"And doesn't it waltz well," said Dianda, before filling her mouth with sandwich.
She ate like she hadn't been fed in weeks. I tried, for a time, to match her, but after my second sandwich, I had to admit defeat. She swallowed the bite that she'd been chewing and blinked at me, eyes large and liquid in the firelight.
"Aren't you hungry?"
"I'm full enough that another bite and I would have to excuse myself to go and have a nap," I said. "Carry on. It's clear that you need it."
"We had a long journey to get here," she said, somewhat ruefully. "But I can't expect you to just sit there and watch me eat, and I don't want to send you away—you're the only friend I've made here. Why don't you tell me about yourself? I'm a captive audience, at least until we run out of cheese."
"This is the King's kitchen, missy," said a passing serving girl, sounding faintly offended. "We never run out of cheese."
"You heard the lady," said Dianda, turning back to me. "I'll expect your entire life story now, if you would be so kind. Don't make me ask again. There's still the chance that I'll grow weary of your company and hit you with a chair."
"You are very hard on the furniture," I said. It was difficult to keep the amusement out of my voice. It woul
d have been utterly impossible, had I not been so thoroughly baffled. Dianda was, by any objective measure, beautiful. Her motions were quick and precise, underpinned by the sort of purpose that I rarely saw among the idle nobility. Her features were pleasant, and while she was lovely when she smiled, I thought she was twice as fine when she scowled. The fact that she allowed herself to frown was enough to set her apart from most of the nobles I knew. They kept their faces pleasantly neutral, lest they betray an actual emotion to someone who could use it against them. The embroidery on her gown was elegantly done, ornamented with bits of pearl and sea glass.
She was lovely, intelligent, interesting...and sitting with me. Clearly, there was something terribly wrong with her. That, or she simply hadn't been warned about the local social structure yet, and this was an opportunity I was never going to have again.
"Well, you know my name—Patrick—and my title—Baron. Landless, sadly, although I'm in line to inherit someday, assuming my parents don't come up with a more acceptable heir before they stand aside."
Dianda swallowed her mouthful of sandwich and said, "You don't sound too excited."
"I've never really been suited to the nobility. I'd trade my title for permission to work a trade without it needing to be 'gentlemanly' and socially acceptable. I have a little workshop down by the docks."
"Really?"
It was all I could do not to wince at the questioning note in her tone. Bringing my work—my "little hobby"—into things had spoiled more than one otherwise pleasant evening. Still, she was the one who had asked for my life story. Better to tell her now, before our association could taint her reputation with people she didn't even know. "I want to build steamships out of silver and wood and glass. Ships that we can sail, modeled on the ones the humans build. The world is so vast. My parents moved from Albany to the Westlands before I was born—I was part of the first generation of Daoine Sidhe to actually be born here, not just immigrate. I would love to see the place that bore them. But Tuatha who can cross that sort of distance are rare, and their services are dear, and the tall-masted ships take so long to sail that it would be a matter for years. If we had a steamship..."
"You could make the voyage there and back in a single season," said Dianda. To my surprise and delight, she nodded. "That sounds like an admirable way to pass the time. Are you very fond of the sea, then? For all that you've never seen a mermaid?"
"I do like the ocean," I admitted. "I was born in the Kingdom of Tremont, in the city the humans call 'Boston.' I grew up watching the waves roll in and smelling chowder cooking on the stove. We had a knowe, but my mother was firm that I should learn how to live in the mortal world. 'You'll be spending a lot of time here, love, you need to fit into it,' was what she always said. I think it worked slightly better than intended. I became besotted with the ships. The way they worked. They lines of them. They were so beautiful."
"Then you have seen mermaids," she said. "They stick them on the masts, don't they?"
"They place them on the prow, not the mast, and figureheads don't count," I said. "Anyway. I was fostered to the Westlands when I turned sixteen, and I've stayed here ever since. I made a few friends. Since that's never been easy for me, I decided to stay here, at least for a little while. San Francisco has an ocean, after all."
"True," she said, using her fingers to drag the last few crumbs off the tray. "San Francisco does have an ocean. Or an ocean has San Francisco. It's all in where you are when you start looking."
"I suppose that's true," I said. "But you can't be that interested in hearing my life story. It's all idleness and steam engines. Nothing to charm a lady."
"Have you ever been one?" she asked.
"Been what?"
"A lady."
"No, I'm afraid I haven't."
"Then please believe me when I say that sometimes idleness and steam engines are precisely the thing to charm a lady. Where I come from, it's all about..." She made a popping noise in the back of her throat and mimed swinging a punch. "It's nice to talk to someone who doesn't feel the need to prove his manhood by assaulting the nearest servant."
"They're kitchen staff, they all have knives," I said. Dianda laughed. It was a pleasant sound; I could have done with hearing it more. "You must have gone to a very violent school, if all the boys there were breaking one another's jaws to win your heart."
"Oh, I broke most of the jaws," she said. "I don't like it when people fight for me. I'm quite capable of fighting for myself."
"Then you must fight for me, lady, as I do not know one end of a sword from the other."
Dianda blinked before smiling slowly. "I could see my way to doing so, if you continue to feed me this well."
"A moment," I said, holding up a hand. I rose, crossing the kitchen with quick steps, and fell into quiet conversation with one of the pastry chefs. He looked past me to Dianda, who waved, a bewildered look upon her face. He looked back to me.
"Have you kidnapped her, son?" he asked, voice low. "I'm an old Hob, I know how you young folk get on..."
"Nothing like that," I replied. "She's new to the area, she doesn't know yet what a terrible idea this is. Help me out while I can still be helped?"
The chef laughed ruefully and produced a tray from inside a cupboard, pressing it into my hands. "You are formally repaid for repairing my oven last month," he said.
"Indeed," I said, and turned to whisk my prize back to the table.
One of the servers had already cleared away the tray holding the crumbs of our meal, as quickly and casually as if the kitchen was always used as a dining room for escaped guests. I set my new tray down in front of Dianda, and was gratified when she clapped her hands together, as delighted as a child.
"You found me cake!"
"I did." It was a lovely thing, dark with chocolate and layered with berries and cream; a welter of fruit and sculpted chocolate seashells spilled across the top, accented by spun-sugar pearls. "They'll be serving this in the ballroom as well, if you'd rather go and eat with your peers."
"If you don't stop trying to chase me away, I shall stab you with a fork." Dianda picked up a sugar pearl and popped it into her mouth, crunching it between her teeth.
"Is that better or worse than hitting me with a chair?"
"Oh, better, better; I only stab people I am genuinely fond of." She picked up a fork and attacked the cake with gusto.
It really was delicious. Eating it with her only made it moreso, as she exclaimed over what I thought of as common fruits of California—strawberries and blackberries—as if they were the rarest things in the world, and seemed utterly fascinated by the interplay of chocolate and cream. She pouted when we ran out of sugar pearls. I laughed.
"If you come around here again, I'll take you for ice cream," I said impulsively. "If you think this is grand, that will astonish you."
She blinked at me. My heart sank. Then, warily, she asked, "You'd like me to come around again? Are you sure?"
"This is the most fun I've had at one of these parties in ages," I said. "My friend Simon convinced me to come—well, reminded me that I would be insulting the crown if I refused—by teasing me with mermaid princesses and suchlike. I shall have to show him my gratitude. I don't care if I never meet a mermaid. Meeting you was quite the sufficient honor."
"You may change that song when you get to know me a little better," said Dianda.
"So tell me more about yourself," I said. "You went to a quite violent school where there were no strawberries. What did you do to amuse yourself? Do you play the piano, or practice alchemy?"
"I hit people, mostly," said Dianda. She smiled ruefully. "It was a very violent school. I'm my father's only living child, and my mother's gone. He needed to know that I could survive when the time came for him to stand aside. I know the forms and the formalities, I can name a hundred Firstborn and list their gifts and graces, but really, where I'm most comfortable is hitting things. Which makes friendships complicated. No one wants to get too close to the gir
l who broke their suitor's jaw."
"If it was a school for warriors, I'd think being so skilled would make you the most beloved in your class."
"Being second-best made you beloved. Being first made you a target." She shook her head. "I wasn't sent there to make friends. I was sent to make alliances, and show how strong I would be when I took my father's place. A little loneliness was a small price to pay."
I frowned. "Pardon me if this is an indelicate thing to hint around, but you seem older than I would expect for one who had just graduated from a warrior's school."
"It was a hundred year curriculum," she said. "I was only fifty when my parents sent me away. I had two younger brothers, then, and a mother living. I returned to find only Father. Sometimes, that's the way of things."
"I am so sorry." I reached impulsively across the table and took her hand. "It may be the way of things, but it shouldn't be."
Dianda's eyes widened as she looked down at my hand. I started to pull away. She tightened her grip. "Then let's change things," she said.
I couldn't think of a single thing to say to that, and so I simply smiled.
*
When the cake was gone—not just ours, but the larger platters that had been carried out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the ballroom—Dianda sighed, pulling her hand from mine, and said, "This has been lovely, but my father will be looking for me."
"Then may I escort you back to the party I escorted you away from?" I rose, offering her my arm. "At least this way, it doesn't look like either one of us wandered off and got lost in the knowe. Which has happened. The place is a maze disguised as a manse."
"How long have you been waiting to use that phrase?" she asked, standing and slipping her hand into the crook of my elbow.
"A while," I admitted.
We walked back along the balcony to the ballroom, where a small disturbance was underway. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a gunmetal gray beard was standing in front of King Gilad, hands clenched into fists and face red with anger. Dianda grimaced.