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She gave up on finding her foot. The thing wrapped around her ankle was attached to something of weight but it exerted no force beyond gravity, and even that was nullified by the buoyancy of the oil. Delaney propelled her arms and forced herself upward. She kicked her free leg and flailed and swam and had no idea if she made any progress at all.

Something tugged on her scalp. It was her hair. Unlike whatever clung to her ankle, this force was actively pulling, and actively pulling her upward. Her body began to rise and rise, and continued to rise, and just when she wondered how far she had left to rise she broke the surface.

Air, functionally unneeded but welcome nonetheless, flooded into her windpipes as she sputtered oil. A single gasping breath as the rest of her body came sailing out the lagoon. She landed on her raft of bubbles imagining herself like those birds in soap commercials who got trapped in oil slicks.

"I can't see anything," she told her rescuer.

"You got oil in your eyes," said Sloan.

A hand pressed against her face. When it went away, she could see again. A miracle! A miracle of totally bland magic.

And yep, she looked like a bird in a soap commercial. Oh dear lord.

(Chapter 11)