“Who?”
“You.” She wouldn’t watch him grow up a little every day, she wouldn’t help him with his homework, she wouldn’t read him bedtime stories every night.
“I’ll miss you too.” Frowning, he pulled his blanket up to his chin.
“What’s the matter, Naiadum?”
“I can’t sleep these days.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re leaving.”
He looked suddenly deflated, smaller under his blanket. Tears welled in Coralline’s eyes, and her lower lip quivered, but, manufacturing a smile, she said conspirationally, “Want to know my secret to falling asleep every night?”
“What?” he asked, his eyes bright again.
“Looking at the stars.”
“But there are no stars in the ocean.”
“There are.”
Coralline looked up at the luciferin orbs traversing the low, dome-shaped ceiling like slow-motion comets. Strings of light pulsed within the glassy spheres, casting a white-blue glow over the room. “You know a story I tell myself every night?” she whispered.
It created the effect she’d desired. “What?” Naiadum whispered back.
“I pretend each luciferin orb is a galaxy of stars, and the galaxies are traveling the universe.”
Naiadum contemplated the orbs newly, his eyes reflecting their glow. “How do luciferin orbs create light?” he asked. “Is it magic?”
“Not quite. The orbs are full of a bacteria that contains luciferin, a compound that generates light in the presence of oxygen, assisted by an enzyme called luciferase. Luciferin light is a form of bioluminescence, which means light created by living organisms. You know, I’ve always found it fascinating that among the smallest entities in the universe, bacteria, can produce what is otherwise produced by the largest entities: stars.”
Naiadum looked hopelessly confused. She should have provided him with a simpler explanation, Coralline thought, one more suited to his age. He pondered the orbs, then his gaze returned to hers. “I’ve never seen the sky before,” he said. “I want to look at real stars, not pretend-stars. Can we go up to the surface now and look at the stars?”
“No!” Gathering her breath, Coralline tried to hide her alarm at his suggestion. “The surface is not safe. Humans are often there in their ships, with fishnets ready to trap and kill.”
“But I want to crest,” he whined. “When can I crest?”
“In eight years, when you turn sixteen.”
“Why can’t I crest sooner?”
“Because the Children Anti-Cresting Act of the Under-Ministry of Youth Matters forbids it.”
His face fell.
“You’re not missing out, Naiadum. I crested when I was sixteen, and I certainly never want to return to the surface again.”
Coralline hadn’t even wanted to crest, but her mother had insisted, for it was tradition to crest on the day one turned sixteen. Her parents had cheered her nervously from below as her head had broken out over the waves, her neck remaining submerged so that her gills could continue to breathe. The sky had been empty and the sun piercing, and the rays of light had pricked her pupils and wrung hot tears from her eyes. The waves had thrashed her about, and she’d found their temper appropriate—the surface was violent, like the men who trod upon it.
“But how will anyone know if I swim up to the surface?” Naiadum asked.
“I’ll know.”
“Not if you’re not looking,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“I’ll always be looking for you.” Coralline brushed his hair off his forehead. “Dreams are for after you sleep, not before. Now, admire the stars in your room and close your eyes, you dreaming crester.”
“I adore Yacht,” gushed Ascella Auriga. “It’s such an artfully designed restaurant. I even love the name. Did you know, I practically grew up on yachts? Daddy owned such a large fleet of them.”
Izar cast a glance about him. The restaurant’s dark, gold-specked floor tiles were polished enough to double as mirrors. Black pillars soared toward the ceiling, vaulted with birds perched on leafless branches, poised to fly but caged into sculptured stillness.
His chair was wide and cushioned, but he sat as stiffly as though upon an iron bench. He had no choice but to be here; it was the most expensive restaurant in Menkar, and thus Ascella’s favorite restaurant. Their first date had been here. Since then, the place had become a monthly ritual for them; now, they sat across from each other at their twelfth dinner here, celebrating Ascella’s birthday.
On their first date, Izar had glanced at the patrons at other tables and felt ashamed of his crinkled suit, with its faint smell of combustion fumes, his shoes, their soles filthy and scraped, and his belt, its leather wearing like rubber from an old tire. He’d almost choked to see the tab at the end of the dinner—two thousand dollars. Their next visits to Yacht had seen him gradually changed, with clean nails, creamed hair, and tailor-made suits.
His transformation had been aided by a morbidly obese etiquette consultant who, over the course of several tedious hours-long sessions, had instructed him on the pairing of wines with food, the utensils to use for different courses, and the advantages of setting up advance tabs at restaurants. Izar had never told Ascella about the etiquette consultant. To her, etiquette and social graces happened naturally—there was no more need to teach them than to teach walking. But indulgent dining was not Izar’s first language the way it was hers—the consultant had helped him interpret some of its mysterious undertones.
As Izar had invented Castor in his Invention Chamber, he had reinvented himself in order to be admitted to Yacht. At his Chamber, he flashed an identification card to gain admittance; at Yacht, he flashed a credit card. As Castor had had many iterations, Izar had improved himself each time he’d been here. And each time, he’d hoped to feel comfortable, as though he belonged, but it had not yet happened. At the moment, he felt as constrained as though his silver-gray tie were a noose. He would much rather have eaten take-out dinner on the floor of his Invention Chamber than dine at Yacht.
“This coming week will be incredibly busy and eventful for me at work,” Ascella said.
In the champagne glow of the chandelier, Izar thought her ear-length hair resembled pale gold silk. He found himself admiring her silver-sequined, floor-length designer gown, held up by a single strap.
“Tarazed arrives tomorrow—”
“Tarazed?” Izar asked.
“Yes, remember? I told you.” Ascella’s eyes glimmered the cold, pale blue of morning frost, and her poppy-red lips puckered. “We’re hosting a special exhibition for Tarazed next week at my art gallery, Abstract. Tarazed is the world’s most renowned modern expressionist.”
“Right. Of course. I remember Tarazed now.”
Izar had seen pictures of the flamboyant forty-year-old painter in newspapers. He had dark hair and dark eyes and cheeks that sprouted with stubble like a profusion of weeds. He wore shirts that resembled the jarring lines of his artwork, but little of their design was visible in the photos Izar had seen—numerous women were always hanging over his arms.
Izar had forgotten about Tarazed only because he was distracted by thoughts of Castor. Throughout dinner, he’d been waiting for an opportunity to tell Ascella that he’d invented underwater fire, but they were now on their dessert course, a square of cocoa-dusted hazelnut tart, and she’d been speaking incessantly about art.