The next morning—or what passed for morning in a city that never saw the sun—I was back in the Prince's mausoleum of a bedroom.
I had spent the "night" in the East Wing, which was surprisingly comfortable (if you ignored the fact that my bed was a giant, hollowed-out sponge). But I couldn't sleep. I went to work.
I sat on the edge of the giant pearl-shell, holding a fresh bowl of warm, emulsified "Sea-Oat Porridge."
"Okay, little star," I whispered, holding the spoon near Prince Orion's pale lips. "Open up. This one has honey-kelp in it. It's sweet."
Orion blinked his large, seafoam-green eyes at me. He was so small. So fragile. He looked less like a Royal Heir and more like a frightened minnow that had lost its school.
He opened his mouth obediently, but he didn't make a sound. He swallowed the porridge slowly, his tiny, webbed hands gripping the edge of his blanket until his knuckles turned white.
"Is it good?" I asked softly.
