The silbercows told her that in fact, they were starting to get used to her singing. This thing we need you to do will help humans, they said. And we need to help humans, because then maybe humans will remember silbercows and feel an obligation to help us. But you’re the only one in the ocean big and strong enough to do what we need. We don’t know what to do, if you won’t help.

The creature decided to pretend that the silbercows weren’t there. She swung her eye-stems away from them and held her ring up to the light, admiring it. Then, anxiously, she pulled that tentacle close and tucked it away, because she remembered that the silbercows knew the human who’d lost the ring. She didn’t want to give them ideas about “helping the humans” by returning it.

She sank down and put an eye to her Storyworld, where her two skeletons lay in their well-preserved clothing. Mine, she thought. Mine.

The silbercows were still looking at her sadly. It was setting off unhappy implosions inside her heart.

I’m scared, she said, bursting out with it suddenly. What you’re asking is scary.

The silbercows stirred, curious and interested. They asked her why it was scary.

I’ve never gone far from home, she said. I’ve never undone anything that was done. I’ve never done anything for anyone else. I’ve never had to give up a treasure.

The silbercows asked her if there was anything they could do to make it easier for her to give up this treasure.

She sat with that question, circling her tentacles around her body and sinking her head down inside the cave they made. She tried to think of what would make her feel least like a hero.

Then she popped her head back up. You could come with me and guard me from other silbercows so they don’t talk to me, she said. You could sing with me while I go. And you could promise me that I can have my Storyworld back after the humans are done with it.

The silbercows asked her, would she accept two out of three?

Chapter Thirty

Giddon and Hava flew to Torla’s Neck in one of the airships that conveyed the Keepish Mail.

You would hate this, Giddon told Bitterblue as the Keepish landscape slid by below. The rocking, and the feeling of being blown out of the sky whenever the wind hits. Hava loves it, of course. The rougher it gets, the louder she laughs. I wonder, he thought, as another gust made him think he might dissolve into wind, if this is how it feels to be a bird.

Quona had arranged this conveyance for them. “It’ll minimize attention,” she’d said. “No one would ever expect you to fly with the Keepish Mail.”