Part of Your World (Twisted Tales, #5)

by Liz Braswell

Sebastian and Flounder and Threll, the little seahorse messenger, were placed around the outside edges of the crowd, interpreting what she said aloud. They and Ariel’s sisters were the only ones who had bothered to learn the ancient, signed version of the mer language—but only the fish and crab and seahorse volunteered to translate.

(The one time they had tried to use a conch to amplify Flounder’s voice had just been a disaster. He had sounded ridiculous.) In a perfect world, her sisters would be the ones doing it. Those who grew up with her and had similar voices could speak more easily for her—and since they were princesses themselves, everyone was more likely to listen. But it was too much like work. And the one thing her sisters tended to avoid—more than the advances of unwanted suitors—was work.

So little actual communication was represented by words that were said aloud, she had realized upon losing her voice. Often the real meaning lay underneath and unspoken.

Every stumbling block is a stepping-stone.

How many other races were there on Gaia, more similar than different? Who would get along if just introduced properly? All they needed was a voice: the right voice, an understanding voice, a voice of reason that spoke everyone’s language.

“Father,” Ariel said, and a thousand meanings were in that word: apology, sorrow, joy, love. “Ariel,” her father breathed, choking on the first word he had said in years. Then without a moment’s hesitation he wrapped his arms around her and began to cry.

“I am so sorry,” Ariel whispered. She, oddly, was not crying, though she hugged her father back firmly. “For everything.” “You are forgiven. For everything,” he said, stroking her hair. “How?” she asked in wonder. “Someday, you will understand,” Triton said with a smile. “Perhaps when you are a mother.”