Elodie of the Sea

by Shari L. Tapscott

  I shake my head. “Older.”

  My new friend chuckles. It’s a deep sound, slow and rich and carefree. It warms me, makes me want to say something that will make him laugh again.

  He nudges my shoulder. “You have the rare opportunity to be whoever you want to be—be as old as you want to be—and you’re aging yourself.”

  Whatever I want to be.

  The words were spoken lightly, but they burrow into my heart.

  Bran’s expression dims as his eyes sweep over my face. Quietly, he asks, “Have you remembered anything?”

  I press my hand to my forehead. Just thinking of attempting to dig up memories makes me dizzy again. “It’s there. I feel it.”

  “What about your name?” It’s almost a whisper, like he’s afraid if he asks, I’ll break.

  A name defines a person; it’s the essence of who they are.

  “No.”

  “You started to say something when you woke the first time. I wonder, is it Eleanor?”

  “What?” I lower my hand to meet his eyes. “I don’t think so, but it’s…”

  That’s enough to encourage him. “Elaina?”

  It’s close, I know it. But not there.

  “What about just Elle?” His brown gaze searches mine. Whatever he must see in my eyes gives him hope because he gives me a questioning smile.

  “Elle?” he asks again.

  Slowly, I nod. “It sounds familiar, like maybe someone’s called me that before.”

  He repeats it, and whether he means to or not, it crosses his tongue like a caress, making me shiver for no apparent reason.

  Immediately, Bran yanks off his jacket and places it around my shoulders. “It’s freezing. You should be inside, where it’s warm.”

  “Only a man from Triblue would think this is freezing,” I say, my mind wholly preoccupied with the warmth of the jacket and its bright citrus and dark lavender scent. Bran’s changed his clothes. “I’d hate to see you up north.”

  Bran pauses, his hands still on the front of the jacket. “You’ve been up north? Do you remember it?”

  Slowly, I nod. “I’ve been to the continent above Elden, up where great chunks of ice float in the ocean.”

  “When? With whom?”

  “I…have no idea.”

  “It’s a good start,” he assures me.

  My eyes fall to the space—or lack of space—between us, and I realize I’ve let myself become just a touch smitten. It’s a silly thing, something I brush away as folly. Bran’s been kind. It’s natural I would develop an emotional attachment of some kind, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to pine over him like a lovesick girl. If anything, he has become a friend.

  Clearing his throat, Bran takes a subtle step back.

  “Did you attend to your errands?” I ask, my mind wandering to his new clothes. Even his boots look new—and expensive.

  Bran gives me a smile that’s become familiar in the last few days. “I bought you something.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” I meet his eyes, worried he can’t afford these luxuries when the weather is making it difficult to work.

  “I did it anyway.”

  With laughing eyes, he leads me toward the cottage. Like a true gentleman, he opens the door, gesturing me inside first.

  I spot the garment immediately. It lies on the bed, made of fabric the color of the summer sky on a cloudless day.

  “Oh, Bran,” I murmur as I cross the hut and run my hand along the soft cloth. The overskirt cuts away in the front, revealing a vee of white fabric embroidered in blue threads that match the rest of the gown.

  “You’re doing better, able to leave the bed more often,” he says from behind me, his voice soft. “You can’t continue to wear my old shirt.”

  Clutching the gown, I turn, feeling strangely overcome. I have no idea why. It’s as if my body remembers things my mind does not. I don’t think anyone has ever given me something like this.

  “Do you like it?” There’s hesitation in his voice, like he’s worried I’m going to turn it down.

  “Very much.” I give him a shove. “Now go away so I can put it on.”

  A bright smile flickers across his face, and then he leaves the cottage, softly shutting the door behind him.

  The fabric is silken, the sleeves are long and fitted, and it will cinch at my waist after it’s tied. I only wish there was a mirror.

  “Well?” Bran calls from the other side of the door.

  I fight with the ties at the back, which are foreign. I don’t think I’ve worn this style before.

  “Help me?” I ask after I tell him to come in, showing him my back. I’m fully covered, but the dress is still loose.

  After hesitating for half a moment, he strides across the cottage, stopping just behind me. My stomach flutters, which I know is ridiculous, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  With deft fingers, Bran pulls the strings taut. As he ties the bow, his hand accidentally brushes the small of my back, and I suck in a breath—one I’m afraid he notices.

  He goes very still, and thick silence falls over the cottage. It’s so quiet, I’m afraid he can hear my heart as it quickens its pace. After several long moments, he runs a tentative hand through my long, loose hair. It’s a simple touch, nothing too familiar.

  Still, I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation more than I should. After a moment, he lets his hand drop and takes a step back, putting space between us.

  Slowly, I turn, hoping my cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. “Thank you.”

  He smiles, but his eyes drop to my hand—to the ring. He only looks at it for a moment before his gaze returns to my face, but it’s long enough. His entire demeanor changes.

  “You are most welcome,” he says lightly, smiling at me like he would a sister or cousin. “You look lovely.”

  I laugh softly and run my hand along the skirt even as a sinking feeling settles in my stomach.

  Bran was wrong on the shore. I can’t be whatever I want to be, not with this ring on my finger. Somehow, I must find out what it is and why I wear it.

  There’s no way to move on with my future if I can’t unlock my past.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bran

  I stare at the ceiling, watching as daylight grows outside and peeks through thin parts in the shingled roof. I’ve already climbed up and patched it several times, replacing shingles that have blown off in the wind. So far, my quick improvements have kept the rain out, but it’s not a permanent fix.

  Considering the feast is tonight, and the coronation is tomorrow, it doesn’t have to be.

  I roll on my cot, turning toward Elle. She sleeps across the tiny room, burrowed in the blankets, with only her hair visible. She no longer whimpers as she dreams. The knot on her head seems to have gone down, but she still needs to see a physician.

  I’ve put it off long enough. I have to tell her who I am—no more letting her believe I’m a penniless sailor.

  I’d hoped yesterday’s gifts would have made her ask questions, brought about a natural way to segue into the conversation. But Elle seemed content to worry that I spent too much and didn’t bother to question where I came up with the money in the first place.

  She stirs under her blankets, and I turn away, feeling guilty for watching her. When she first arrived, she had all my attention because I worried she might not wake. But that’s not why my eyes stray to her now.

  She’s a mermaid.

  Even if I have stirrings of feelings for this girl, there’s no future here. I must remind myself of my duty—to care for her, protect her, see that she gets on her feet. As I would with anyone I found in her state.

  I’ve been selfish these last few days, keeping her to myself. If I genuinely had her wellbeing in mind, I would have taken her to the castle immediately.

  But it’s dangerous for her, I tell myself, desperately trying to rationalize my decision. If people were to realize what she is…

  As alway
s, my mind shifts to that blasted ring she wears.

  Not your concern.

  Her memory will come back, and I’ll see that she rejoins her family. That’s what’s best for her.

  A sharp knock sounds at the door, startling me so badly, I jump like a skittish horse. Elle mumbles in her sleep and tugs the covers farther over her head.

  Quickly, I rise from my cot and shoulder on a fitted jacket to ward off the damp chill of the morning before I send the unwanted visitor away.

  Careful to keep Elle from view, I partially open the door, blocking the entrance with my body. I’m already opening my mouth, ready to ask what the stranger wants, when a pair of bright blue eyes laughs at me.

  “You’re not a morning person, I take it,” Pippa says, standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck, attempting to see around me.

  Archer stands behind her, giving me an apologetic look.

  “Dristan told you.” I step out, shutting the door behind me—protecting Elle, even from these people who I’d trust with my life.

  Pippa points to a basket on her arm. “Your brother says you’re reluctant to take her to a physician. I brought a few things.”

  For reasons I’ve never inquired about, Pippa spent much of her youth training with Lauramore’s resident herbalist. As soon as she and Archer were married, they moved to Errinton, and Archer took back the estate and title that rightfully belonged to him. Right away, he built her an indoor garden, a massive greenhouse in the heart of the frozen kingdom where she could continue her craft.

  “She’s hesitant to see a physician,” I explain, having second thoughts about allowing Dristan to tell the princess about Elle—though I know Pippa will never let me send her away now. She’s already here. With a smile on her face, she’ll badger me until she gets her way.

  “That might be, but I’m not a physician.” The princess nudges past me, already opening the door.

  It’s Archer who stops her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Pippa, you can’t just barge in there. Let Bran warn the poor girl you’re going in first.”

  The princess looks like she’s about to argue, but then she gives him a tight, amused smile and steps back.

  I’ve always wondered if she didn’t fall in love with Archer because he was the only person alive who doesn’t give in to her every whim.

  Shooting Pippa a look, warning her to give me a moment, I slip back into the cottage.

  Elle’s awake, sitting on her cot, blankets pulled to her throat. Her pretty eyes are terrified, and the look is like a punch to my gut.

  I kneel by her cot, wanting very much to take her hand. Trying not to dwell on that desire—trying not to over-analyze it, I say, “Two of my friends are outside. They’ve come because my brother told them about you, and they’re concerned you might be injured.”

  Fear widens her eyes, and she shakes her head. “I won’t see a physician.”

  “Pippa’s not a physician. She’s an herbalist—and a good friend.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  I cringe, trying to smile. “I don’t think we do.”

  “What about…?” She motions to the subtle, sparkling mark on her face.

  Unsure, I rub my hand over my hair, grasping the strands as I search for an answer.

  “Stop that,” she murmurs, clasping her hand over mine and pulling it down to rest with hers on top of the covers. Her mouth is serious, but her eyes are now light. “You’re going to pull out all your hair, and one day, it might not grow back so readily.”

  There are a hundred things my mind could focus on—the sound of the waves, the call of the gulls, the chill of the room…the fact that Pippa’s right outside the flimsy door, about to burst in at any moment—but it chooses to settle on the feel of Elle’s hand over mine. The warmth of her skin, her long, feminine fingers.

  “I’ll protect you,” I finally say, knowing it’s not enough.

  Her eyes flicker to mine. They hold for several moments, searching, before she nods. Simply believing me. Trusting me to keep her and her secret safe.

  “Come on in, Pippa,” I call, not pulling my gaze from Elle’s until I hear the door open.

  Elle looks startled as she takes in Pippa’s appearance—and rightly so. I’ve let the girl make assumptions about me that are far from the truth. Why would a poor sailor be acquainted with a noblewoman like Pippa?

  Pippa’s eyes sweep over Elle, taking in a million things at once, and then she flashes me a look. I don’t have to be an expert in female subtlety to read it.

  Elle’s beautiful, stunning now that a faint blush has returned to her cheeks and the dark circles around her eyes have faded. Pippa thinks that’s why I’ve kept her here to myself.

  So what if the princess is right? I refuse to acknowledge the humor-laced accusation and instead pretend I don’t notice.

  Pippa introduces herself, leaving off her title so as not to make Elle uncomfortable, and drops into the chair next to Elle’s cot. She presses two fingers to the inside of the mermaid’s wrist. “Your color’s good. Your pulse is fine—if perhaps a little fast, but I’m sure that’s because I arrived so early, taking you by surprise.”

  Elle blinks, unsure what to make of the princess.

  “You have no memory of your past?” Pippa asks. It’s another thing she must have learned from Dristan since I certainly didn’t tell her.

  Elle nods after a long minute, understandably hesitant. Pippa’s searching gaze is trained on the mermaid’s cheek, on the mark that’s not easily explained.

  “Did you hit your head?” Pippa asks, not yet addressing the mark.

  “I believe so.” Elle shifts under the covers, growing warier by the moment.

  I’m about to intervene when Pippa turns her attention to Elle’s scalp. She locates the nearly-gone bump and nods.

  The princess then asks Elle a dozen questions, all testing her memory. Elle struggles, growing increasingly frustrated.

  “You’ve suffered a mild concussion.” The princess rises from her chair, heading toward the basket she set on the table. “But I think you’ll be fine.”

  Elle looks at me, silently asking me why the princess didn’t mention the mark. Before I can try to find an answer, Pippa turns, handing me a brown parchment package. “Merryming and fiddlemint. Make a tea out of them—they’re good for brain trauma.” Then the princess turns to Elle. “Drink it twice a day, morning and night. There’s enough for several doses, but come to me when you run out, and I’ll get you more.”

  Elle nods, silent.

  “And her memory?” I can’t help but ask.

  Pippa’s eyes flicker. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to address the question—doesn’t want to disappoint the girl. Cornered, she shoots Elle an apologetic look. “Drink the tea, and hopefully it will return with time.”

  Elle’s face falls, and I silently berate myself. I should have kept my fool mouth shut.

  “But there is good news; I see no reason why you can’t join us for the coronation eve feast tonight. I can understand how Bran’s enjoyed this solitude, but I imagine you’re bored to tears.”

  Startled, I hold my breath.

  “Feast?” Elle frowns.

  Pippa gives me a questioning look, like she’s asking if Elle forgot or if I haven’t told her. I subtly shake my head.

  “Right.” Pippa bites back a laugh once she realizes what a predicament I’m in. “No matter. I’m sure I’ll see you very soon.”

  Elle looks as if she’s questioning her memory as well, but she nods to Pippa anyway.

  “Bran, can I speak with you?” Pippa asks before she goes.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” I promise Elle as I open the door.

  As soon as we’re outside, Pippa drags me away from the cottage so we won’t be overheard. Archer, who was leaning against the wall, watching the ocean, follows without question.

  “You haven’t told her who you are,” Pippa accuses.

  I rub the back of my neck. “Not yet.”<
br />
  “You have to tell her eventually.” She points her finger at my chest. “And by eventually, I mean today.”

  “Why have you kept it to yourself?” Archer asks, less judgmental than his wife.

  I hesitate, unsure if I want to admit the truth. “Because she has no idea who I am.”

  Immediately their expressions soften with pity—not something I want directed at me.

  Impatient, I jerk my hand through the air, as if the motion will erase the looks on their faces. “Stop.”

  “You’re bringing her back to the castle, aren’t you?” Pippa asks. “She’s doing well, but she can’t stay here alone.”

  The truth is, I haven’t decided. This day has been growing closer and closer, looming in the not-so-distant future. I’ve avoided it, pretended it wasn’t imminent.

  I’m no more ready to leave the beach than I was on the day I rescued Elle.

  “I’m hesitant to bring her around too many people.”

  “Because of the mermaid’s mark?” Pippa asks bluntly.

  Turning back, I give her a wry, closed-lip smile.

  Archer frowns. “Mermaid’s mark?”

  “She’s been touched by them in some way,” Pippa explains as she pulls the long length of her auburn hair over her shoulder.

  It’s as red as wine but fades to gold at the ends. Rumor has it the princess was kissed by a fairy as a baby.

  “People ask questions,” she continues, “but they soon forget.”

  I can’t meet Pippa’s inquisitive stare, so I turn to the sea. “You’ve studied medical conditions.”

  “Yes,” she answers slowly, perhaps concerned by my tone. “But I’ve never had formal education.”

  “Have you ever heard of someone who encountered a merperson or other magical creature and was altered? Perhaps magic changed certain things about their physical makeup?”

  Startled, Pippa narrows her eyes, processing the question.

  “Changed?” Archer asks.

  There is no one else I can ask, and part of me is desperate to explain what I’ve seen.

  But I can’t tell them.

  “Never mind.” I groan and rub my hands over my face. “How do I tell her that tomorrow I’ll be king of all Triblue?”