“And you?” The man turned to Alba. He licked his worm tail again.

“Cooked cream…,” the water was whispering to her now.

Cooked cream sounded reasonable. It sounded like something a king would eat. She certainly had never eaten it.

“His favorite dish,” the water insisted.

Alba took a small step away from the vapor. She was looking at the boots of one of the breastplated men. The leather was water-stained. A bit of algae was clinging to the lace. He had been wading in a pond. She did not know king from commoner, but she knew the man with the furrows rising across his expanse of forehead would not have asked the question unless he knew the answer.

Not fish, she thought, looking at the algae. He would not have needed to wade. Not frog—too small, too common. Not fit for a king.

She looked at the hand holding the lamp. The skin was mottled and bruised, even raw in some patches, as though he’d been bitten.

“Cooked cream…” The hissing was loud in her ears. “Cooked cream.”

“Turtle soup,” she declared, then tried to ennoble her language. “The king will enjoy turtle soup. A fine delicacy… cooked in… fine cream… from fine cows.”

All together, the retinue murmured and gasped.

“This is the one.” The forehead was round with pleasure and appetite. “Oracle, cede to your apprentice.”

V

OVERCOOKED AND DESPISED

Alba took the oracle’s place reluctantly. Why—again—why could she not have kept herself quiet?

As she settled herself on the stool, the retinue remolded itself. A boy was pushed to the front.

Alba did not think she had ever seen anything so delicate.

No, that was not quite right. The boy himself was sturdy enough—he had all the firmness of youth and health, long bones and supple flesh.

But his face…

Yes, this was delicate. Flat and blank. Soft. Unformed.

“Cooked cream,” hissed the waters below.

She grew nervous as the blank-faced boy approached. He was too delicate. Too fragile.

The man with the globulous forehead prodded the boy. “Speak. Speak to the oracle.”

“Oracle,” the boy said. “I want…” He trailed off, unsure.

“I seek your advice,” said the man.

“I seek your advice,” the boy repeated.

“What question may the oracle answer?” Alba said, trying to be not too terrible in her voice.

“What am I meant to ask again?” The boy turned to Globulous Brow.

“About your rule. You are traveling now to take your rightful crown.”

“Oracle, I want to know about my rule.”

Alba looked at the unformed, fragile face. His rule? Was this boy a king? The king?

Below her, the waters were hissing and spitting. A sickly sweet fog began to rise; the tendrils encircled her ankles. Alba realized with horror that she was directly over the largest vent in the chamber, but with the crowd of people around her, she could not move. “Brutish, brutish,” the waters were hissing. “A brutish rule. A violent end.”

What could she tell this delicate boy? This delicate king? She felt a tremendous weight of responsibility. She cast about the chamber for something, anything. Her gaze settled on the woman whose cheeks had been carved with disappointment. She noted the way the woman’s arms encircled her belly, the way her dress stretched—a little, not too much, but enough—over her middle.