“Lo mein.”

“And this?”

“A sugar cookie.”

“And this?”

“A lobster roll.”

“And this?”

“A slice of pepperoni pizza.”

“Mmmph,” Artur said. He had pretty good table manners for a man mastering eight cuisines at once.

“I have to admit,” Thomas said, grinning, “this is a shitload more fun than I thought it was going to be. Wait ‘til he discovers room service.”

“Don’t say ‘shit’,” Fred groaned. She picked at her salad. “My appetite was almost coming back.”

Artur shoved a lobster roll under her nose and she recoiled. “Artur, I’m allergic! I’ll puke for half an hour if I eat that thing.”

“Little Rika, you do not know what riches you deny yourself.” A small bit of lobster roll hit Fred on the left cheek; she brushed it away. “I wish the High King were here. He loves a fine feast.”

“Maybe you should go home,” Thomas suggested with all the subtly of a sledgehammer. “I mean, to bring him back for a visit. Someday.”

“Someday, perhaps.” Artur was in too good a mood to be baited. “Again my thanks, good host.”

Thomas waved it away. “Glad you’re enjoying it. They open in the morning, in case you want to come back for breakfast.”

“Ah. Breakfast!”

Fred smirked and forked a cherry tomato into her mouth.

Chapter Twenty-five

The next morning, Fred grimly followed the sound of the singing. It was (ugh!) “Part of Your World” from the Disney (ugh!) soundtrack. The voice was a perfectly on-key soprano, pleasant and carrying, and Fred followed it all the way up the stairs to the top level of Main One. It was after hours, and, thank heavens—no crowds. But it also meant that she had Madison (bleah) to herself.

At the top of the tank she found Madison, leaning over the edge and crooning to the fish.

“Stop that immediately,” she ordered, resisting the urge to clock the woman on the side of the head with the bucket of fish.

Madison jumped. “Oh! Hi, Dr. Bimm! I didn’t hear you come up. You’re rilly rilly quiet.”

“How could you hear anything over all that yowling? What are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s one of my theories, like,” the girl explained helpfully, dressed in a pink shell top and a miniskirt so brief it looked like linen panties. Real appropriate for the workplace. “I think the fish do better if they can hear pleasant things like music n’ stuff.”

Know any Pet Shop Boys? “Yeah, that’s… yeah.” She peered into Main One and dropped a smelt, which was quickly scooped up by a passing barracuda. Excellent. The strike, brief as it was, appeared to be over. She’d pop into her scuba suit after she finished interrogated the idiot and feed them properly.

The idiot was talking; better pay attention.

“You’re the marine biologist, Dr. Bimm. What do you think?” She blinked her big blue eyes at Fred and twisted a blonde curl around one finger.

“About what?”

“About singing to the fish. Do you think it helps them?”