“Did you—do you love him?” Asking the question, Cade uncovered a spear-blow in his own chest: a pressure and a loss, a stab that left him off-balance. “Your merman. Or whatever he is. Nerein.”
“No, of course not, how could I when—” Jeremiah changed this answer mid-current, a different stream of words. One hand rearranged his hair, knocking pearls askew. “Maybe I did. In a way. The way you’d love the sea. The sky. A storm. More than ordinary. Not human.”
Cade couldn’t reply. He did not know what his expression was doing, only that it caused Jeremiah to add swiftly, “But he couldn’t understand. Why I missed Gwen’s porridge. Why it mattered that I helped your father fix the roof. Why someone needed to bring Da supper.”
“Porridge.”
“And bacon. I’m only human.”
“And you talk to sea-folk,” Cade said, “and you had an affair with a merman—a prince, even—and you’re wearing fish-scales…”
Jeremiah laughed, a small flustered pink-edged sound, and lifted a shoulder, dropped it: a shrug.