Scratch answered as much as she could. No, she didn’t miss the Lakes. How could she, when she had come to the Royal City as a baby? No, her mama didn’t live in the Lakes. She lived in a house in a nice part of town with thick windows and a big lock on the door. No, she didn’t have a grandma and grandpa. Or, if she did, her mother never told her about them. Purpose hadn’t told her daughter about any of their family.

“Really?” Temperance stuck her thumb into her mouth. Brella gently pulled it out. Temperance didn’t seem to notice. “Not even about your papa?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Temperance considered this. “I had a mama and a papa, but they both died. You seem sad. Lollie says it’s okay to be sad. I’m sad sometimes, too.” She patted Scratch’s face, a gesture meant to be comforting but was undeniably a series of tiny, painful slaps. Her thumb was still wet from when it had been in her mouth, and it left damp smudges on Scratch’s cheek.

Brella wasn’t looking at either of them.

“Do you want to sing a song?” Temperance cocked her head. “Mama used to sing songs while she brushed my hair.”

“Mine too,” Scratch rasped. Tangled Lakes hair was thick and scraggly, prone to knots. Her mother said it was because the hair wanted to be rope for ships. Scratch had always complained while her mother brushed her hair. “Let it be rope!” she would cry. “I don’t care!”

Temperance jammed a finger into a nostril.“Could you brush my hair?”

“Sure.”

A few minutes later, Temperance sat between her legs, humming absently while Scratch combed through the tangles and snarls. Brella had drifted away. She sat with Lollie, having quiet conversation by the dying fire. Scratch turned from them, settling her mind on the meditation of drawing thick, yellow locks through Temperance’s gap-toothed comb, leaving them smooth and glossy.

“Brackish, brackish, brackish,” Temperance sang, “are the waves awaiting me.”

And there it was, stored in another one of those dark cellars of the soul, coated in cobwebs. It crested before she could stop it, as much instinct as catching Temperance had been when she had leapt into Scratch’s arms.

“Brackish, brackish, brackish,” she sang, before she recognized that she was singing, “are the waves awaiting me.”

Temperance whipped around. She stared for a moment, then smiled.

“From the beginning,” she instructed, and Scratch could do nothing but nod helplessly and sing:

Brackish, brackish, brackish

Are the waters of the sea

Born was I in brackish swell

And so my grave shall be

Spill the lager, spoil the milk, and scald the bitter tea

Brackish, brackish, brackish

Are the waves awaiting me

I sail amongst my fellows

For my cousins all they be

No better men to take

When you are facing down the sea