Snuzillaberry Pie

Just after sunset the following day, he stole away to a library. No one missed the erudite chicken-killer. He read many a myth and clear falsehood, but learned one terribly important fact: merfolk were incredibly sensitive to salinity levels of water. Brackish wouldn’t do. Oceanic was the only way. It was only natural, then, that he deduced the cause of the merman’s unhealthy tail and gills must be the lack of salt in his water. Astarion became a quiet hoarder of salt, the way other men hoard coins or grievances. At first it was small thefts, the sort no one would miss. In a dusty diner outside Riatavin he palmed two shakers while the waitress’s back was turned, the glass grimy with dusted grease against his palm. In a small grocery he slipped a blue box of Morton’s under his coat—the girl in the yellow raincoat smiling up at him like she approved of his small crimes. On a lonely farm road he cracked open a mineral lick meant for cattle and chipped away what he could carry in a handkerchief. Each time he returned to the tank under cover of cicada song or distant thunder, the woolen sack at his hip growing heavier with hopeful ocean. The first night he tried it, he waited until the roustabouts were snoring quietly in their bunks after packing up the tents and props and such. He stole into Gale’s car, balanced on the stool by his tank, chest needlessly heaving, and tipped three sacks of salt into his cramped travel tank. The water bloomed cloudy white for a moment, then cleared. Gale drifted up from the bottom where he had been listlessly pacing in tight laps. His gills—those delicate, tattered fans along neck and ribs—fluttered once, twice. For the first time in weeks, the merman’s shoulders eased. He turned those storm-hazel eyes toward the glass and held them there, studying the pale elf on the other side as though seeing him truly for the first time. His tail gave one slow, deliberate swirl, almost a bow. Astarion settled on the stool and pressed his forehead to the cool tank wall, breath fogging the glass. “There you are,” he whispered, tasting salt on his own lips. “Come back to yourself, stormling.” But salt is a jealous medicine. The freshwater singing fish could not abide it. One by one their bright bodies turned belly-up and floated at the surface like fallen petals.