"There's no need to hide, darling." Ursula ran a hand over the gown's glittering bodice again and watched the little mermaid's silhouette, in the corner of the mirror, startle and shrink back. As if hair like hers could ever hope to hide in shadows, the pretty little fool.

Touching the nautilus, Ursula let the stolen voice unspool into the night, sweet and warm and summer-soft, just enough to snare a single mind. The girl came out of hiding then, the whole wretched split-tailed landwalker length of her, and before her own reflection could give the game away Ursula surged in front of her and seized her hand. "So pleased to meet you," she said, smiling maybe a little too wide, shoving as much silk and velvet as she could into the Vanessa-voice.

The girl blinked, uncertain; her throat worked and her gaze slid away.

"No, no," Ursula chided. She tucked a finger under the girl's chin, tilting it back. "We look each other in the face here, don't we?"

There was a question in those eyes -- the start of Do I know you? -- but against Ursula's own piercing gaze it faded back, faded black, swallowed to benthic depths. Tension slipped from the girl's shoulder. She felt light as seafoam as Ursula guided her over to the bed and sat her down; her eyes followed Ursula's all the while, lost in heedless trance.

Ursula found that she was no more able to look away herself. The girl was a sight there, dimpled into the pearly satin sheets: her hair was a flame, her back a sunset arc. She burned -- Ursula burned. She -- they -- lacked only for the ocean's cool embrace.

"No," Ursula repeated softly, then, softer than any silk or velvet, "no, I won't be giving up what's mine by right."