Chapter 309
Lovelace turns to Wake with his ever-present diplomatic smile. “Would you be so kind as to join me in reviewing the proposed locations for your battalion’s encampments? We want to ensure the Abyssian presence is seen as strong, but not intrusive.”
Wake shifts his weight beside me, instinctively reaching for my hand. “Where I go, my mate goes.”
“Nonsense,” Lovelace cuts in gently, but firmly. “Your mate is already expected elsewhere. Petra will take excellent care of her, as will the rest of the family. It’s been far too long since we hosted a proper welcome for one of our own.”
I look up at Wake and catch the warning flicker in his eyes. He’s not thrilled. I’m not either. But we agreed: no waves. Not yet.
I squeeze his hand and smile tightly. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“Go charm the generals.”
Wake glances once at Lovelace, then back to me. “You’ll call if you need me?”
“Always.”
He kisses my forehead—more deliberate than affectionate—then follows Lovelace down the corridor, his body language tense with every step.
Petra smiles faintly at me. “This way, child.”
She guides me through a winding corridor lined with softly glowing anemone lanterns and delicate coral carvings. The palace is somehow even more opulent from the inside, all flowing crystal corridors and rooms shaped like blooming shells. It doesn’t feel like a place made for war or strategy. It feels like a monument.
We arrive at a chamber half-filled with laughing women—Enkians, like me, or at least what I might’ve been if I’d been raised here. They lounge on kelp-woven cushions, eating delicate wafers of honey-seared fish and sipping a thick, dark purple liquid from shimmering pearlescent spheres.
When I enter, the room stills.
Dozens of soft-eyed strangers turn to look at me like I’ve just risen from myth. One of them, a tall woman with scales the same color as lavender pearls, immediately claps her hands together.
“She’s here!”
The room bursts into motion again—welcomes, cheers, excited chatter. Someone presses a drink into my hands. The scent is sharp, floral, a little bitter.
I take a cautious sip. It burns, then soothes, leaving behind something like sugared citrus and clove. Not what I expected.
“It’s pungent,” I say, blinking.
“It grows on you,” Petra says with a sly smile. “Like family.”
The room laughs politely.
Introductions fly at me from every direction—cousins, aunts, and just about every other relation I can name. There are a lot of them, many with names that have too many syllables and more consonants than I can track. I catch maybe half of them. One girl, a cousin named Atolla, clutches both my hands in hers, eyes wide.
“You look just like the tapestries of Electra,” she gushes. “The Beautiful One’s blood runs strong in your face.”
I give a tight smile. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“It’s the best thing,” another girl says dreamily.
We settle into soft cushions, the group rearranging to make a circle around me. Conversation resumes, and I’m quickly caught in a tide of questions. Everyone wants to know everything. What was it like growing up away from the city? Do I like the palace? Have I met the Olokun Heir? What kind of jewelry do they wear outside Estellis?
I answer what I can—carefully. I keep my stories vague. I don’t mention I’m half human, or that I’ve spent more time on land than in water. I just… smile, nod, and deflect.
It doesn’t take long to realize that none of them have any frame of reference for what I’m describing.
When I mention schooling, they look confused. When I say I’m an only child, their jaws drop.
“Truly?” one girl gasps. “No brothers or sisters at all?”
I shake my head. “Just me and my mom.”
At that, the mood shifts. The pity sets in. A collective softening of fins and eyes.
“Will she be attending the ball?” another asks gently.
I glance at Petra. “No. She… passed away.”
A murmur of sorrow moves through the group. Hands pressed to hearts. Downcast eyes.
“My grandmother will be,” I add quickly, trying to lift the mood.
The energy returns at once.
“Anthozoa?” someone squeaks. “The Anthozoa?”
“She’s your grandmother?”
“What about Delphinium?”
“I thought they were a myth!”
Petra shifts beside me, stiff. She clears her throat and changes the subject before I can answer.
“So. Tell us about your mate.”
I blink. “My… what?”
The women lean in as one, eyes glittering with excitement.
“Your mate!” one giggles. “He’s so tall!”
“Is it true he’s a prince?”
Atolla’s nose crinkles. “Is it true he’s a trench dweller?”
“How did you meet?”
“Who confessed their love first?”
I answer carefully, sipping my drink between responses. I tell the softened version of my story—about the boy who saved me, the years of silence, the impossible reunion. No science, no surface life. Just fate, love, and waiting.
When I finish, Atolla places a hand over her heart. “Praise be to Electra that she brought you together again.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Praise be.”
A pause settles.
Then Atolla asks, brightly, “How many young do you have?”
I blink. “Oh—uh, none. Not yet. We’ve only been mated a few months.”
Silence.
A few of the women glance at each other. One girl—Belis, I think—gasps and leans forward, her eyes wide and worried.
“Are you… barren?”
Several women gasp audibly. Petra stiffens beside me.
“Belis!” she scolds. “That was rude.”
“I didn’t mean—!” Belis stammers. “I just… she’s so old.”
“I’m right here,” I say dryly. “And I am not old.”
Petra smooths her expression and turns to me. “Forgive her, Phoebe. We forget how different life is outside of Estellis.”
“Clearly.”
I take another sip of the purple drink, mostly to hide my unease. The flavor still surprises me—bright and clinging, like it’s determined to stay with me.
I glance around the circle.
“How many of you have children?” I ask.
Hands rise. One. Two. Eight. Thirteen.
Two-thirds of the room.
Most of them look my age, or close to it.
A few… don’t.
I scan their faces, and it sinks in like ice in my gut—some of these girls aren’t more than fifteen. And several of them are pregnant, their bellies rounded under their silk wraps.
They smile. They glow. They chatter about their mates and babies like it’s all they’ve ever known. Like it’s all they’re supposed to know.
I feel the tightness crawl up my spine. That sinking feeling. The same one I had when we first arrived. When the palace stared at me like it knew more than it should.
Petra sees my face.
She leans in, lowering her voice. “You’re safe here, Phoebe.”
I force a nod. “Of course.”
But my thoughts drift back to Cora’s voice, sharp in my memory:
Just because they’re your family doesn’t mean they can be trusted.
The laughter around me continues. Someone offers me another pearl of drink.
And I sip. Because I didn’t heed my grandmother’s warning.
And I don’t know what else to do.
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