Wet Magic by E. Nesbit (read 50 shades of grey txt) 📕

first netted. It was a curious scene⁠—rather like looking down on London at night from the top of St. Paul’s. Some bright things, like trams or omnibuses, were rushing along, and smaller lights, which looked mighty like cabs and carriages, dotted the expanse of blackness till, where they were thick set, the darkness disappeared in a blaze of silvery light.

Other light-bearers had rows of round lights like the portholes of great liners. One came sweeping toward them, and a wild idea came to Cathay that perhaps when ships sink they go on living and moving underwater just as she and the others had done. Perhaps they do. Anyhow, this was not one of them, for, as it came close, it was plainly to be perceived as a vast fish with phosphorescent lights in rows along its gigantic sides. It opened its jaws as it passed, and for an instant everyone shut their eyes and felt that all was over. When the eyes were opened again, the mighty fish was far away. Cathay, however, was discovered to be in tears.

“I wish we hadn’t come,” she said; and the others could not but feel that there was something in what she said. They comforted her and themselves as best they could by expressing a curious half-certainty which they had that everything would be all right in the end. As I said before, there are some things so horrible that if you can bring yourself to face them you see at once that they can’t be true. The barest idea of poetic justice⁠—which we all believe in at the bottom of our hearts⁠—made it impossible to think that the children who had nobly (they couldn’t help feeling it was noble) defended their friends, the Mer Folk, should have anything really dreadful happen to them in consequence. And when Bernard talked about the fortunes of war he did it in an unconvinced sort of way and Francis told him to shut up.

“But what are we to do,” sniffed Cathay for the twentieth time, and all the while the Infantryman was going steadily on, dragging the wretched netful after him.

“Press our pearl buttons,” suggested Francis hopefully. “Then we shall be invisible and unfeelable and we can escape.” He fumbled with the round marble-like pearl.

“No, no,” said Bernard, catching at his hand, “don’t you see? If we do, we may never get out of the net. If they can’t see us or feel us they’ll think the net’s empty, and perhaps hang it up on a hook or put it away in a box.”

“And forget it while years roll by. I see,” said Cathay.

“But we can undo them the minute we’re there. Can’t we?” said Mavis.

“Yes, of course,” said Bernard; but as a matter of fact they couldn’t.

At last the Infantryman, after threading his way through streets of enormous rocky palaces, passed through a colossal arch, and so into a hall as big as St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey into one.

A crowd of Under Folk, who were seated on stone benches around rude tables, eating strange luminous food, rose up, and cried, “What news?”

“Four prisoners,” said the Infantryman.

“Upper Folk,” the Colonel said; “and my orders are to deliver them to the Queen herself.”

He passed to the end of the hall and up a long wide flight of steps made of something so green and clear that it was plainly either glass or emerald, and I don’t think it could have been glass, because how could they have made glass in the sea? There were lights below it which shone through the green transparency so clear and lovely that Francis said dreamily⁠—

“ ‘Sabrina fair,
Listen where thou art sitting,
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave⁠—’ ”

and quite suddenly there was much less room in the net, and they were being embraced all at once and with tears of relief and joy by the Princess Freia⁠—their own Mer Princess.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to⁠—Princess dear, I didn’t,” said Francis. “It was the emerald steps made me think of translucent.”

“So they are,” she said, “but oh, if you knew what I’ve felt⁠—you, our guests, our knights-errant, our noble defenders⁠—to be prisoners and all of us safe. I did so hope you’d call me. And I’m so proud that you didn’t⁠—that you were brave enough not to call for me until you did it by accident.”

“We never thought of doing it,” said Mavis candidly, “but I hope we shouldn’t have, if we had thought of it.”

“Why haven’t you pressed your pearl buttons?” she asked, and they told her why.

“Wise children,” she said, “but at any rate we must all use the charm that prevents our losing our memories.”

“I shan’t use mine,” said Cathay. “I don’t want to remember. If I didn’t remember I should forget to be frightened. Do please let me forget to remember.” She clung pleadingly to the Princess, who whispered to Mavis, “Perhaps it would be best,” and they let Cathay have her way.

The others had only just time to swallow their charms before the Infantryman threw the net onto a great table, which seemed to be cut out of one vast diamond, and fell on his face on the ground. It was his way of saluting his sovereign.

“Prisoners, your Majesty,” he said when he had got up again. “Four of the young of the Upper Folk⁠—” and he turned to the net as he spoke, and stopped short⁠—“there’s someone else,” he said in an altered voice, “someone as wasn’t there when we started, I’ll swear.”

“Open the net,” said a strong, sweet voice, “and bid the prisoners stand up that I may look upon them.”

“They might escape, my love,” said another voice anxiously, “or perhaps they bite.”

“Submersia,” said the first voice, “do you and four of my women stand ready. Take the prisoners one by one. Seize each a prisoner and hold them, awaiting my royal pleasure.”

The net was opened and large and strong hands took Bernard, who was nearest the mouth of the net back, and held him gently but