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She spots the town car and slows. The long black vehicle gets a skeptical inspection, as though she expects it to come with terms and conditions of its own.

I nearly smile. After yesterday, she has reason to be suspicious of anything expensive that appears in front of her without warning.

I walk around the hood and pull open the rear passenger door. “Watch your step. The rain made the cobblestones slippery.”

“I can manage a puddle, Mr. Eiriksson.” She gives me a dry look as she approaches. “I’ve had some practice.”

Valerie climbs inside, and I follow her into the back. The reinforced door seals behind us, muting the traffic and leaving the cabin in comfortable dimness.

My car was built around kraken proportions. The rear seats leave plenty of room for my tentacles, and normally I’d call the cabin generous.

With Valerie beside me, generous feels optimistic. She fastens her seat belt, and the faint scent of floral shampoo reaches me when she settles back against the seat.

Our knees sit only a few inches apart, and one of my tentacles rests uncomfortably close to her ankle. I draw it nearer to my side before the driver pulls away from the curb.

Valerie looks through the rain-streaked window as the hotel disappears behind us. “Saltweather is mostly fog until July. This almost feels familiar.”

She would know this kind of morning better than I do. Yesterday, she walked into my office soaked through and refused to leave without an answer.

The thought brings Saltweather with it. My crews left the quay exactly as promised, but the real problem hasn’t gone anywhere.

I can’t tell her that yet. All I can do is keep my word and find another answer before the truth catches up with us.

The town car merges into morning traffic, and Valerie tests the reinforced door beside her with two fingers. “I assume this thing has a decent safety rating. The doors feel like bank vaults.”

“The chassis uses abyssal steel. It can survive considerably worse than anything we’re likely to encounter in city traffic.” I leave the definition of considerably worse alone, and Valerie seems content to do the same.

Fog drifts past the tinted windows while the commercial district takes shape outside. The contract permits far more contact than the few inches between us, which somehow makes me more conscious of them.

“You told me your mother wants you back with your siren ex,” Valerie says. “What I still don’t understand is why she cares enough to engineer it at somebody else’s wedding.”

“She doesn’t care about my romantic life.” The distinction has never troubled Solveig, and I doubt it ever will. “A public reconciliation would reassure the merfolk clans that my family still values the alliance.”

Valerie considers that for a moment. “So your love life is essentially foreign policy.”

“When my mother is involved, most things eventually become foreign policy.” I settle farther into the leather, trying to find a position that doesn’t put one of my tentacles within easy reach of her.

“And the siren is happy to go along with this?” Valerie asks. The question sounds casual enough, but she has no idea what name I’m about to give her.

“Maren has never objected to a public appearance.” Valerie goes still for half a beat, and then recognition catches up.

“Maren?” She turns toward me fully. “As in Maren Dahl? The platinum-selling Maren Dahl? You want to avoid an international celebrity?”

“I want to avoid a three-hundred-year headache,” I reply. “Her record sales are irrelevant to me.”

Valerie lets out a short breath, shaking her head. She looks down at her own slacks, picking at the hem of her cardigan. The rush of warm air venting from the climate control stirs the stray hairs framing her face.

“They aren’t irrelevant to the cameras,” Valerie says, looking back up at me. “If you think a librarian from a small town is going to outshine Maren on a red carpet, your logic is very flawed.”

“I don’t want you to outshine her.” Her brows lift, and I give her the part that actually matters. “Maren performs. You don’t. That alone gives you the advantage.”

She studies me for a moment before answering. Since Valerie entered my life, she hasn’t once tried to shape herself around what I might prefer, and I’d rather not see her start now.

“You really think that matters?” she asks. Some of the challenge has gone from her voice.

“I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.” The answer comes easily, and the color warming her cheeks makes the cabin feel smaller than it did a moment ago.

Valerie turns toward the window again. “There’s still one fairly obvious flaw in this brilliant strategy. Confidence doesn’t tailor a dress, Mr. Eiriksson.”