The tunnel ended in a vast natural cathedral, the ceiling dripping with stalactites and hung with strings of lights that looked like something from a construction site, too modern for the rest of the setting.

“We sell them generators,” Jack murmured, before anyone could ask. “In a world powered by lightning, everyone desires electricity, if only for the sake of keeping up with the neighbors.”

At the far end of the vast room was a dais, and on the dais was a chair crafted from the helm of a great sailing ship, crusted with barnacles and candy-colored corals, until it became a gaudy monument to the sea, a carnival extraction dredged up from the deeps. It was cushioned in rotten, salt-stained velvet, and on it lounged a boy around Jack’s age. His skin was the salt-white of a body left too long in the water, and his hair was long, black, and tangled with strands of precisely placed kelp. His lips were painted the same color, and thick rings of charcoal surrounded his green, calculating eyes. Red-robed acolytes stood all around him.

The boy—the high priest, Christopher supposed, as it would be ridiculous to think the acolytes took turns lounging around trying to look seductive—was also dressed in red, but his clothing was cut in a more piratical than priestly style, echoed all the way to the tentacle-shaped red coral prosthetic that replaced the lower half of his left leg. No, Christopher corrected himself; not a prosthetic. The tentacle twisted of its own accord, turning over to reveal a single glistening sucker. Whether this was a mobility device or a magic trick gone wrong, the tentacle was as much flesh as the rest of the high priest.

“Well, well, well,” said the high priest. There was a bubbling undertone to his words, like he was speaking from deep underwater. “Jacqueline Wolcott, come to visit after all this time—and Jillian Wolcott as well, if I’m not mistaken. Have you finally made amends with your sister, and decided to strengthen your familial bonds by becoming a single entity?”

“I’d banter, but I haven’t the time, and you haven’t the wit to keep up,” said Jack. “Hello, Gideon. These are my friends. Christopher Flores, late of Mariposa, and Sumi Onishi, late of Confection.”

“We’re heroes,” said Sumi, cocking her head as she considered the high priest. “You’re not a hero, I don’t think. But you’re not from here, either. Are you?”

“I’m not,” said Gideon. He sounded delighted. “What a wonderful pair of wanderers you’ve found, Jack! And I’m told the Drowned Gods have accepted your sacrifice.”

Christopher stiffened. Jack put out a hand to stop him before he could even start to move.

“Then you know these are unique circumstances,” she said.