Rory left to boil the kettle. Returned wordlessly with the mug. ‘You need anything else?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going out tonight. I’ll check back in tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Mm.’
Rory lingered in the doorway. He might as well have been a ghost. Little more than a pale shadow of his mother, whose faded picture on the mantelpiece was the only decoration in this depressing room.
He threw his coat back on and headed for the door. ‘Text if you need anything.’
‘Mm.’
Rory ducked into the cold wind and set out for the club.
Chapter Four
Fionn had only been on land a handful of times and none of them were experiences he remembered with any fondness. He hated how heavy his limbs felt in open air and how disconnected he felt without the pull of the ocean all around him.
Waiting with Neacel near the surface, he dreaded experiencing it once more.
‘I think it’s clear,’ Neacel sang after peeking his head out of the waves. He rippled with excitement, obviously keen to get going.
Fionn had met Neacel before sunset by the palace boundary so that they might travel the current together to reach Ullapool, the largest human settlement for many miles. The group of warriors had apparently gone on earlier, and it occurred to Fionn that Neacel probably wasn’t comfortable joining them by himself.
But he seemed alarmingly comfortable with everything else about the adventure.
Once the current had deposited them in the ocean loch that reached deep inland, Neacel directed Fionn to a secluded cove on the shore just outside of Ullapool, explaining that there was a small cave at one end of the beach full of supplies.
‘You’ve done this a lot, have you?’ Fionn asked, following him with suspicion. ‘And what kind of supplies?’
Neacel beckoned him to swim faster, showing the first hint of impatience. ‘Clothes and money. You’ve no need to fear, Your Highness. This is a regular base camp for Minchmen travelling to land.’
Fionn tried to hide how unsettling he found the idea of a ‘regular base camp’ for mixing with humans, and also the fact that he’d never heard of it before. He wasn’t good at mixing with his own kind, let alone those of another species.
They reached shallow water and touched feet to the lochbed. Fionn walked slowly, giving his body time to adjust as it broke out of waves and supported itself inch by inch in the cold air. Saltwater drained from the gills in his throat before they sealed up.
As he stepped fully onto dry land, breaking contact with the water, Fionn’s skin tingled with the sensation of changing colour. The chromatophores under his skin contracted, morphing the blue pigment into a pinkish tan colour that resembled a white human. It was more instinct than intent, a natural kind of camouflage through mimicry, like the clever skin of an octopus.
A sliver of moon cast some light over the cove, but Fionn’s eyes were perfectly adapted to seeing in the dark. He found the cave Neacel described with ease.
It lay above the tide line, so the sand inside was dry. Fionn followed Neacel to a corner where the ground had been disturbed: hurriedly dug up and then patted back down in a rush. Neacel did the same. A quick scrabble at the sand unearthed several sealed casks.
Inside were kilts—the human kind, made of itchy tartan cloth—and shirts, socks, and boots in various sizes.
‘I hate socks,’ Fionn grumbled, struggling to pull the grey cotton over his damp feet. His throat felt dry already from breathing and talking without water. Bluefolk vocal chordscouldn’t replicate DeepSong while filled with air, so he reverted to the human language he’d been taught growing up.
‘You don’t have to wear them, but you might stand out.’ Neacel’s rendition of the language was clearer than Fionn’s. He’d clearly had more practice.
Fionn inspected his human kilt which was an acceptable shade of dark green and blue tartan. ‘Are you sure humans still wear these? I had heard trousers were common now.’
‘Trust me, Your Highness. Other human fashions may come and go, but to our fair neighbours the Scots, the kilt will always be acceptable.’ Neacel flashed a grin that was veritably cheeky. ‘Besides, the locals will assume we are a gang of eccentrics from another part of the mainland who have come out purely to getsloshed.’
‘What’s sloshed?’
Neacel looked a little guilty. ‘Have you ever had whiskey, Your Highness?’
Fionn frowned. The word was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t reach for its meaning and his ignorance irritated him. ‘No. Is it good?’
