The Sentinels I am very dark, but lovely, O daughters of Jerusalem

Argent eyes widened, bright incredulity glittering like stardust as Lotte listened to her brother’s description of the girl he’d met. “He said she would not speak!” she breathed, completely unaware that she, too, had been in the girl’s vicinity — and had, for a time, loved a wolf she had loved. As agile as her mind was, Lotte could not connect the wet, doggish creature from the Blackrock Depths with the otherworldly picture Brontide’s words had created; the grizzled bard had described his Seelie as vibrant and sweet, bright and occasionally too innocently appeasing for her own good. The skittish siren lurking in the ocean shallows had been dismissed as a reluctant pack wolf — perhaps an omega — part of the scenery, but not an active player in the scene. “Coelacanth was her name,” she said, her low, rich voice still hushed, “but the bard — Brontide — told me she would willingly answer to other names, so long as she found them pleasing to her ears.”

Fixing Dagfinn with a petulant glance, “I gave you a story,” pointed out the girl, forthright as was her wont. She did not wish to press her twin, for he was not without his own reservations, but she could not help asking: “Did you blink sweetly at her? Did you give her a name?”