Part of Your World (Twisted Tales)(31)

“You don’t want the prince anymore?” Jona asked curiously.

Ariel looked at her in surprise. Had the bird read her mind? “Excuse me?”

“The character of you really seemed to pine after the character of him in Eric’s opera, La Sirenetta,” Jona said with a shrug. “And Great-Grandfather always told the story of the two of you, and you gave your voice away to win him….”

“It was a long time ago. I was young, he was handsome and exotic. I don’t think—in reality—there’s much of a possibility of a long-term relationship between a mermaid and a human.”

It was so much easier to speak quickly first and then decide later if it was truth or lies. She was already losing the thoughtfulness that came with being silent. Ariel scolded herself mentally.

“Better ease off,” Scuttle said to his great-grandgull in what he probably thought was a helpful whisper. “She seems a little touchy. Still an open wound.”

Ariel took a deep breath and stood up. “Well, I don’t think I can go back to the castle right now. Everyone saw me rush out.”

“What will you do?” Jona asked.

“While I’m waiting for things to die down a bit, I’ll go see for myself what mess Ursula’s rule over Tirulia has created. If Carlotta is right, it makes my task even more urgent. I can’t have humans dying because of a princess I—however inadvertently—gave them. I need to go to town, where the people are, and listen to what they are saying.”

“Absotively,” Scuttle said. “Having a sea witch for a princess has got to have some bad, you know, reiterations.”

“Repercussions, I think you mean, Great-Grandfather,” Jona corrected politely. She stretched her wings. “I should go alert Flounder of your status change—regarding your voice.”

“Thank you, Jona,” Ariel said warmly. “Please tell him to meet me in this cove four tides from now for an update. And make sure he fully understands not to tell anyone else at all yet.”

“Anyone?” Scuttle asked, surprised. “Not even old crabby-claws?”

“Especially not Sebastian. Not yet. I already feel bad enough getting my voice back—and not my father. I can’t bear the thought of explaining that to him right now. Also, if everyone knows that I can talk again, it’s just more pressure—to get me back, to have me stay and rule. It would be hard to escape and look for Father a second time.”

“But you wouldn’t be telling everyone, just Sebastian,” Scuttle pointed out.

“Once Sebastian knows, the entire kingdom will hear about it within hours,” Ariel said with a wan smile. “He’s as bad as a guppy with gossip.”





He made his way back from rehearsal to the castle with the uncomfortable feeling that he was hiding something.

It was not unlike the time he had caught his first really sizable branzino. The old fishermen on the docks had cheered when the eight-year-old princeling ran home as fast as his little legs could carry him, holding his prize aloft.

But then, realizing he had a catch of serious merit, Eric was suddenly convinced that his mother and father, the king and queen, would yell at him for such plebeian pursuits and forbid him from cooking and eating the dinner he had gotten for himself like a real man.

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.