which she took no offense. They were, after all, goblins; trickery was their nature. Still, this wresting—she thought it not a recent thing, no matter the pains Daphne took to tell the tale wide in certain portions, nor Olida, to obscure the precise course of events.
She had already deduced that this stranger sea was not bound to these, save as a sea is bound to all its creatures. This sea’s love— that lay elsewhere. Perhaps it lay with the creature Borgan , perhaps not. Wherever its present location, whatever its current object, she had decided before the goblins’ tale was half done that the love of this sea would very soon be hers .
The character of this sea pleased her; there was a calmness in its currents; a certainty of its power; a deliberation, and a pleasing order, in its movements.
Yes, this sea would be hers. The goblins were negligible; they would either yield, or they would die. The Borgan — there might lie a challenge, if only half of Olida’s charges were true. The sea itself . . . that would require subtlety, and sureness, and power. She might manage it—she would manage it, but first . . .
She must reacquire her name, her history, and the full sum of her powers.
From the goblins, she had hidden the extent of her disabilities. The same deep knowledge from which she drew her understanding of goblins counseled her to keep any injury secret from them.
It was the presence of this deep knowledge that gave her hope of a speedy reunion with herself. In the meantime, she listened carefully to the goblins, and put what questions seemed good. Eventually, she allowed it to be seen that she was weary, and somewhat weak in her limbs.
This was, perhaps, a little dangerous, goblins being what they were.
However, she was weary, and a little weak; but the goblins needed her, or what they thought she was. In her judgment, they knew as little as she did about what she truly was, but they had made certain shrewd guesses and come to believe that she could be of use to them.
Something stirred in her breast at that thought—outrage, that she might be of use to goblins!
Ah! How she yearned to learn the truth of herself, and to know whether that hauteur was earned . . . or a pose.
But Daphne had asked her something—yes: What was her counsel to them regarding a method of attack?
“Sisters,” she said, smiling softly, wearily, at them from her recline. “I have heard much to amaze me, and my heart bleeds from your wounds. I wish to counsel you wisely and well. In order to do so, I must think upon all you have told me. If there might be some secluded grotto where my meditations might go forth, undisturbed?”
The goblins exchanged a glance. They were bewildered, perhaps; she did not think they were plotting against her. She had value to them; having given them nothing yet save the courtesy of listening to them.
“There is,” Olida said, “a room that might serve, sister. It’s further back, and behind these rooms. We’ll be here, and will protect you.”
“It’s not,” Daphne said, warningly, “well-appointed—only a grotto, sister.”
“All I need is peace and a space in which to float. This grotto sounds as if it will serve well. Might I be guided there?”
It was Olida who showed her the way, and who left her alone, to rest and to meditate.
She spun, surveying the space, and acknowledged that Daphne had spoken truly—it was not well-appointed, being only a small stone cubby, where the currents ran lazy and sweet.
It would do.
She reclined among the waters, her black hair floating gracefully about her. She closed her eyes, and slipped willfully into sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TUESDAY, JULY 4
LOW TIDE 6:22 P.M. EDT
SUNSET 8:26 P.M.
The Fourth of July is the centerpiece of the Season. People had started hitting town in earnest Thursday night, but the real announcement that the celebrations had begun was the triumphant—not to say noisy—arrival of the motorcycles, precisely at noon on
She had already deduced that this stranger sea was not bound to these, save as a sea is bound to all its creatures. This sea’s love— that lay elsewhere. Perhaps it lay with the creature Borgan , perhaps not. Wherever its present location, whatever its current object, she had decided before the goblins’ tale was half done that the love of this sea would very soon be hers .
The character of this sea pleased her; there was a calmness in its currents; a certainty of its power; a deliberation, and a pleasing order, in its movements.
Yes, this sea would be hers. The goblins were negligible; they would either yield, or they would die. The Borgan — there might lie a challenge, if only half of Olida’s charges were true. The sea itself . . . that would require subtlety, and sureness, and power. She might manage it—she would manage it, but first . . .
She must reacquire her name, her history, and the full sum of her powers.
From the goblins, she had hidden the extent of her disabilities. The same deep knowledge from which she drew her understanding of goblins counseled her to keep any injury secret from them.
It was the presence of this deep knowledge that gave her hope of a speedy reunion with herself. In the meantime, she listened carefully to the goblins, and put what questions seemed good. Eventually, she allowed it to be seen that she was weary, and somewhat weak in her limbs.
This was, perhaps, a little dangerous, goblins being what they were.
However, she was weary, and a little weak; but the goblins needed her, or what they thought she was. In her judgment, they knew as little as she did about what she truly was, but they had made certain shrewd guesses and come to believe that she could be of use to them.
Something stirred in her breast at that thought—outrage, that she might be of use to goblins!
Ah! How she yearned to learn the truth of herself, and to know whether that hauteur was earned . . . or a pose.
But Daphne had asked her something—yes: What was her counsel to them regarding a method of attack?
“Sisters,” she said, smiling softly, wearily, at them from her recline. “I have heard much to amaze me, and my heart bleeds from your wounds. I wish to counsel you wisely and well. In order to do so, I must think upon all you have told me. If there might be some secluded grotto where my meditations might go forth, undisturbed?”
The goblins exchanged a glance. They were bewildered, perhaps; she did not think they were plotting against her. She had value to them; having given them nothing yet save the courtesy of listening to them.
“There is,” Olida said, “a room that might serve, sister. It’s further back, and behind these rooms. We’ll be here, and will protect you.”
“It’s not,” Daphne said, warningly, “well-appointed—only a grotto, sister.”
“All I need is peace and a space in which to float. This grotto sounds as if it will serve well. Might I be guided there?”
It was Olida who showed her the way, and who left her alone, to rest and to meditate.
She spun, surveying the space, and acknowledged that Daphne had spoken truly—it was not well-appointed, being only a small stone cubby, where the currents ran lazy and sweet.
It would do.
She reclined among the waters, her black hair floating gracefully about her. She closed her eyes, and slipped willfully into sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TUESDAY, JULY 4
LOW TIDE 6:22 P.M. EDT
SUNSET 8:26 P.M.
The Fourth of July is the centerpiece of the Season. People had started hitting town in earnest Thursday night, but the real announcement that the celebrations had begun was the triumphant—not to say noisy—arrival of the motorcycles, precisely at noon on
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