“No, you nitwit, I’ve not had a go—” And so I spun out my story, from when I’d first gone to Brabantio’s, to being walled up in the dungeon, of his confession to killing my Cordelia, of the fear and submission to Vivian, of my time in the dark, kept alive by the will to revenge and my worry over the dim giant’s welfare. And though I know he did not follow it all, he would remember it, as was his way, and I needed to tell it, so I told him of my escape from the dungeon, my rescue by Jessica and her nursing me back to health. I told him of the plot to revenge those wrongs, my disguise as a Jew (although the only Jew Drool had ever known was Phyllis Stein, who ran the pawnshop in London and used to let him blow the candles out on the menorah every Christmas to celebrate the baby Jesus’ birthday), so I explained that they were the people in the yellow hats. I told him of the attack by Lorenzo and Salanio and how Viv had saved me, followed me, and had no doubt slain Rodrigo.

And when I had talked for an hour, and brought us round to a rowboat outside the harbor at Genoa, Drool said, “Smashing, Pocket! You shagged a mermaid.”

Which made me wish that I hadn’t left the puppet Jones sans stick, in a box at Belmont, so I could pummel the enormous fool about the head and shoulders with it for missing the bloody point. I thought perhaps to press Jessica’s bag of treasure into action in the puppet’s stead, when the black shade moved under the boat.

“Oh no,” said I.

Drool followed my gaze over the side, then followed the movement of the mermaid from one side of the boat to the other, causing the boat to rock precipitously.

“Pocket . . . ?” said Drool.

I leaned over the side, trying to follow her movement, as she swam out, perhaps fifty yards, then turned and came back toward the boat. “No,” said I, to the water, trying to send the command to her with a picture in my mind’s eye. “Not this one. Do not hurt him,” I said.

“Pocket,” said Drool, his voice rising in tremolo terror. He started to stand and I grabbed his shirt and pulled him down. “Pocket . . . ?”

“No, not this one. No!” I barked at the water, straining to send my thoughts at the creature. “He is a friend. A friend.” Did this venomous creature of the deep even understand the concept? But I felt a response of sorts, a blankness, confusion, a question maybe, an image in the lightning blue I had seen in the dark.