Waters of Versailles by Kelly Robson Read Free Book Online Page B

splitting as they smashed together. Overhead, the red-and-blue parrot climbed among the fern fronds, screeching and flapping its wings.
    As he had suspected, the little fish loved ice. He had once seen a nixie swimming at the foot of a glacier, playing with ice boulders as they calved from the ice field’s flank. The nixie had pushed them around like kindling, building a dam that spread a wide lake of turquoise meltwater over the moraine.
    â€œPapa, come play!”
    â€œPapa!” The parrot screeched its name.
    Sylvain had purchased the bird from an elderly lady who was moldering in a north-wing garret, wearing threadbare finery from the Sun King’s reign and living off charity and crumbs of her neighbors’ leftover meals. The parrot was a good companion for the little fish. It was old and wily, and with its sharp beak and talons, it was well equipped to protect itself if she got too rough. It could fly out of reach and was fast enough to dodge sprays and splashes.
    â€œPapa?” The nixie levered herself up the lip of her nest and stared at Sylvain expectantly. “Papa come play?”
    Sylvain felt in his pockets for the last of the walnuts. “Here, little one. See if you can lure Papa down with this.”
    â€œBird! Food!” she yelled, waving the walnut aloft. The parrot kited down to the nest and plucked the nut from her fist.
    â€œCome play, Papa?” she asked. She wasn’t looking at the bird. Her uncanny gaze was for him alone.
    â€œThat’s quite enough of that,” he said. “The bird’s name is Papa, and you’ll do well to remember it, young lady.”
    She leaned close and spoke slowly, explaining. “Bird is Bird, Papa is Papa.”
    â€œPapa,” agreed the parrot, its beady gaze fixed on Sylvain.
    â€œYou are impossible.” Sylvain waved at the surface of the pond, which was now carpeted with icy slurry circulating in the slowing current. “Clear away your toys or I’ll freeze swimming across.”
    â€œPapa go away?”
    â€œThe bird is staying here with you. I am going to see about my important business. When I come back, I’ll bring more walnuts for Papa and nothing for you. Now clean up the ice.”
    She laughed and dove. The water bubbled like a soup pot, forcing the slush to congeal into wads the size of lily pads. As the turbulence increased the leaves tilted and stacked, climbing into columns of gleaming ice that stretched and branched overhead.
    The parrot flew to the top of a column and nibbled at the ice. It was solid and hard as rock.
    â€œVery impressive,” breathed Sylvain.
    He had spent the past few days running up debts with the village icemongers and pushing cartloads of straw-wrapped ice blocks down the tunnels. Though she had never seen ice, she had taken to it instinctively, tossing it around the grotto, building walls and dams, smashing and splitting the blocks into shard and slag, and playing in the slush like a pig in mud. But now she was creating ice. This was extraordinary.
    â€œCome here, little one,” he said.
    Obedient for the moment, she slipped over the surface to tread water at the edge of the nest. Above the water, her pale green skin was furred with frost. Steam snaked from her nostrils and gill slits.
    â€œShow me how you did that,” he said.
    She blinked. “Show me how, Papa?”
    He spoke slowly. “The ice was melted into slush, but you froze it again, building this.” He pointed to an ice branch. The parrot sidestepped along the branch, bobbing its head and gobbling to itself. “Can you do it again?”
    She shrugged. “You are impossible.”
    He scooped up a fistful of water and held it out in his cupped hand. “Give it a try. Can you freeze this?”
    The little fish peered up at him with that familiar imploring, pleading expression. He could hear her request even before she opened her mouth.
    â€œSing a song?”
    Gifts