And the mermaid who’d given me the precious gift of life lay unmoving against my chest.
Epilogue
The sound of swing music filled the little house on Juniper Lane.
“Daddy,” my littlest daughter, Kayla, called from the yard. “Turn the sprinkler on.”
“I’m coming,” I called. I pushed open the door only to get smacked square in the chest with a water balloon. Al, who had just lost his two front teeth, stood grinning like a jack-o-lantern at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m gonna get you,” I yelled then raced down the stairs after him.
Al ran around the back of the house giving me enough time to open the faucet on the sprinklers. I heard Kayla squeal with delight as water splashed around the yard.
“Don’t tell me you started without me?” a voice called from the porch.
I turned to see Kate coming down the stairs, looking adorable in her red polka-dot bikini. It highlighted the red, heart-shaped beach glass pendant lying on her chest.
“Sorry,” I called, turning to join her, pretending I didn’t see Al sneaking up on me from the other side of the porch. “Everything okay?” I asked her, studying the worried expression on her face.
She shrugged. “More gray hairs,” she said then, fluffing her long, blonde locks.
“That happens,” I said, leaning in to kiss her cheek, “when you’re human.”
Before she could answer, however, Al launched his attack, drenching us both. This time, however, Kate ran after him. I watched her go, my wife, my savior, my…mermaid, who had given up her last spark of magic for me, not knowing the gift it would give her in return. I smiled as I watched her laugh, tickling our little boy until he crumpled to the ground, our daughter joining in the fun. My wife, whom I would grow old with and would love until the day I died…many years from now.
Thank You
Thank you for reading The Glass Mermaid. If you enjoyed the novella, would you mind leaving a review and let other potential readers know you enjoyed the story? Word of mouth is an author’s best friend!
I’m back in Chancellor for my next installment of The Chancellor Fairy Tales with The Cupcake Witch, now available on Amazon.
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Thank you so much for reading,
Cheers,
Poppy
About the Author
Romance author. Cupcake connoisseur. Certified herbalist. Beach bum. Fan of all things Starbucks. Holistic healing advocate. Surfer girl wanna-be. Lost guru. Maker of dandelion wine. Counselor. Paranormal buff. Etsy addict. Secretly Jedi. So not a geek girl. Gifted in sarcasm. Hot wife. Ninja mom. And now, I'm ready to share a whole head full of witty, mouthy, smart, lovely, heart-warming, and hot characters with the world. Are you ready?
Poppy Lawless is the author of the The Glass Mermaid and the forthcoming novella, The Cupcake Witch. Poppy holds degrees in English and Psychology. She is a counselor in the field of mental health and is a trained herbalist. Poppy's new series blends the best of romance with a Practical Magic or contemporary Bewitched appeal.
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About the Falling in Deep Collection
From mermaids to sirens, Miami to Athens, dark paranormal romance to contemporary stories with steam, the fifteen award-winning and best-selling authors of the Falling in Deep Collection are bringing you mermaid tales like you've never seen before.
The Falling in Deep Collection
Scales by Pauline Creeden
Ink: A Mermaid Romance by Melanie Karsak
Of Ocean and Ash by A. R. Draeger
Deep Breath by J. M. Miller
At the Heart of the Deep by Carrie Wells
The Mermaid’s Den by Ella Malone
The Water is Sweeter by Eli Constant
The Glass Mermaid by Poppy Lawless
An Officer & a Mermaid by Blaire Edens
How to be a Mermaid by Erin Hayes
Cold Water Bridegroom by B. Brumley
Immersed by Katie Hayoz
Siren's Kiss by Margo Bond Collins
To Each His Own by Anna Albergucci
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Sneak Peek: An Officer and a Mermaid by Blaire Edens
PROLOGUE
1791, Saint-Domingue (present day Haiti)
Syreena felt the unrest in the air. The smell of sugar cane burning, sweet and smoky like the caramel candies she’d tried as a little girl in Paris, filled the humid air. Behind it was the smell of coffee, bitter and burnt where it had been torched in the fields. It wouldn’t be long until the slaves, intent upon overthrowing the landowners, came to Belle Emilie, the plantation her father had named after her late mother.
Only a matter of time.
Syreena and her Papa had seen the drawings in the French newspapers. There was no doubt about what would happen when the revolting slaves slashed and burned their way to Belle Emilie. They were determined to take over the plantations and craft a new government separate from France.
Her beloved home would be burned to the ground and she and her father, along with Collette, her former nanny who’d stayed on even after Syreena had grown into womanhood, would be killed. Brutally. With machetes. It was a dim picture from which there was no escape. They had run out of time to flee to Port-au-Prince and pay for passage on a ship back to France.
It was too late.
Steam swirled off the hot water in the tub. It was always hot in Saint-Domingue but in August the heat was so oppressive it was hard to summon up the energy to breathe much less move. Syreena asked for a cool bath but her father insisted it had to be hot. As hot as she could stand it. He’d gotten his wish.
“Mademoiselle, it’s time to get dressed,” Colette’s high-pitched voice trilled from the next room. “Your Papa’ll be angry if we’re not downstairs on time.”
When Syreena rose from the copper tub, the heat went to her head and made her dizzy. She held onto the rim until her legs felt steady. Her legs were the pink of sea coral. Just as she stepped from the tub onto the tiled floor, felt the cool seeping into the soles of her feet, Colette hurried into the room. She wrapped a cotton towel around Syreena and said, “You get everything clean? Behind your ears? Every place?”
Syreena tolerated Colette’s bossiness only because she loved her dearly. Colette had been the one steady female presence in her life. While the hole her mother’s death left in Syreena’s heart would never be filled, Colette had always been there for Syreena, more like a doting aunt, than a woman who’d left her life in France to care for Syreena.
“Mademoiselle, your dress is ready for you,” Colette said, taking the towel from Syreena. “You must look your best.”
Syreena looked into the other woman’s eyes. They were deep brown and wise. “I’m afraid, Colette,” she said, not trying to hide the tears sliding down her cheek. “I don’t want to leave Papa. I don’t want to leave you, either.”
Colette took both of Syreena’s wrists in her hands and looked deeply into her eyes. For the first time Syreena noticed the webs of lines around Colette’s eyes. “You are the only child your Papa has. You must let him save you.”
“But we could try to get to Port-au-Prince. We have money. Surely we could—”
“There’s no time. Listen to me.” Colette tightened her grip. “You’ve been the greatest joy in my life, Syreena. I can face whatever fate awaits me if I know you’re okay.” The love in her eyes made Syreena’s heart clench as if it were in a vise. “Please, let us try to save you. In you there is the best of all of us.”
“I love you, Colette. I could have never—”
The older woman smiled, softening the lines crisscrossing her face. “I know, ma cherie. Now,
we must hurry.”
Syreena quickly donned the long white gown Colette had prepared for her. Made of the finest lawn fabric, linen threads so fine they felt like silk, it fit loosely like a nightgown. She felt naked without her stays but her father’s instructions had been very specific. Only her small clothes and the dress.
She took one last look around her room, enjoyed the feel of the smooth wood under her feet, the way the hazy sunlight filtered through the large windows that caught the breeze off the ocean. Her eye lingered on the small painting of her mother, Emilie that hung just above her secretary. Beautiful, delicate. Too delicate for Saint-Domingue.
Syreena closed the door behind her and walked down the stairs, as slowly as she could, savoring every creak, the omnipresent smell of beeswax polish, the faraway sounds of the slaves in the fields singing the songs of Africa.
Everything was the same as it had always been. But it wouldn’t be for very long.
Her father, a sun-weathered man of five and forty, stood in center of the parlor. Behind him stood his trusted manservant, Guillaume. He was short and wiry with skin the color of coffee.
“It is time, ma cherie,” her father said.
Syreena wasn’t ready. It was an impossible situation. She had two choices. She could stay and die alongside her father or she could trust in Guillaume’s magic, the voodoo he’d brought with him from West Africa.
She and her father were close. Her mother had died of malaria shortly after they came to Saint-Domingue and it had just been her and Papa for as long as she could remember. Her mother was only a name, a character in stories papa like to tell, the painting in her room. Syreena couldn’t imagine her life without Papa but, at only two and twenty, she wasn’t ready to die either.
Papa had wanted to send her to France, to meet a suitable husband, but she’d cried and sobbed until he could not bear to force her. That had been two years ago, before everything had changed. Now it was too late.
“Syreena, it is time,” he repeated. “We must go to the beach.”
Guillaume, with a face as expressionless as stone, nodded. “Yes, mademoiselle, we must go.”
She nodded and her father took her hand in his. “You, my dear, will live and love.”
“But, papa, I don’t want to be without you,” she said, tears beginning to fall. “I will be too afraid.”
“Ma Cherie, you have given me more joy in this life than any man deserves. You will be fine without me. It will not be easy, but you will be safe until a man comes along who is worthy of you.”
He took her into his arms. Syreena breathed in the familiar, comfortable smell of him. She feared it would be the last time she would be this near to him and she wanted to savor it.
She felt Colette behind her, heard her muffle a sob.
“Monsieur, we must go. We haven’t much time,” Guillaume said.
Her father pushed her back, his arms on her shoulders. He smiled. “You are just as beautiful as your mother. She would be so proud of the woman you’ve become. I had the great love of my life with your mama, and now, with Guillaume’s help, you will be spared so that you may have yours.” He kissed her forehead.
“Where am I going?” she asked.
“A place between worlds where you will be safe until the time is right for you to live wholly in this world again.”
“Should I not pack a trunk?”
Her father shook her head. “No, darling. You will have everything you need. Now, let us go.”
Holding hands, she and her father followed Guillaume to the beach. The sun had set and already the shadows were dark. When they reached the beach, Syreena saw a circle drawn in the sand. Seven candles were placed on the perimeter. They cast an unworldly yellow glow in the gloaming where everything else was a muted shade of blue or gauzy shade of gray.
“Stand in the middle, mademoiselle,” Guillaume said. His voice was low and solemn.
Syreena looked at her father and he nodded. She bent to take off her shoes. She wanted to feel the gritty sand of the island beneath her feet once more. Saint-Domingue was her first love, and she couldn’t imagine leaving it.
Guillaume gestured to her and she stepped inside the circle. She felt the dry heat of the candles warming her feet as they flickered in the breeze blowing off the water. He stepped inside the circle with her. Even though he’d been her father’s manservant for as long as she could remember, she’d never been this close to him.
He smelled different than her father. Like earth and salt water.
Her father stood just outside the circle, a faraway look on his face.
Guillaume took an amulet from the pouch he wore belted around his waist. Syreena had seen plenty of them. Many of the slaves wore them, believing they provided protection from everything from illness to demons.
She looked at Papa. His blue eyes were tired. The light reflected off the tears rolling down his face. He was crushed, but he smiled and nodded at her anyway. Her strong and tender Papa until the end. Emotion squeezed her heart and she wasn’t sure she could continue. More than anything she wanted to dash out of the circle and into his arms. She wanted their life to go back to what it was, what it had been for the bulk of her life.
“This you must wear around your neck always. Never take it off. Never. Do you understand?” Guillaume’s eyes met hers. They were solemn.
It was a small amulet, about the size of a small Manonsillo fruit. Inside the circle was the painted image of Mami Wata, a mermaid-like deity venerated by the slaves from West Africa. She was carefully painted, from the curls in her ebony hair to the scales of the snake wrapped around her neck.
“Mami Wata?” Syreena asked.
Guillaume nodded. “She will protect you. She will show you the way.” He held up a small leather pouch. It was tightly closed with a drawstring. He threaded it onto the thin leather strap that held the amulet. “There are special things inside. Do not lose them. Do not be without them. Not until you are sure you do not need them anymore.”
“How will I know I don’t need them?”
“You will know. Then, and only then, you are to throw them, along with this charm, into the sea. Here, in this place. Then the circle will be complete.”
She nodded even though she had no idea what was happening.
“You may not understand what it is happening but you will be safe. I vow this to you.” The lyrical sounds of West Africa were heavy in his voice. “Do not be afraid, mademoiselle. Your papa and I are doing this because it is all we can do.”
Syreena looked up and down the beach. “But there are no boats. No horseman. Where am I going?”
“You’re going to a place where you will be hidden from everyone until you meet the man who can keep you safe forever. When it is time,” Guillaume said, “you must return here, to this beach, to this spot. Do you understand?” His eyes were serious. “You must come back here. To the place it all began.” He pointed his finger emphatically downward.
“I understand,” she replied in a whisper. She didn’t, but the weight of his voice told her there was nothing more he could say to explain.
Guillaume nodded and moved to stand behind her. He placed the necklace over her head. The leather pouch hung right above her breasts. She touched it with her index finger. It felt warm, alive.
“Keep your fingers on it,” Guillaume said. He placed his hands on her shoulders, a familiarity unimagined only days ago. “We wish you the best of luck, mademoiselle.”
He began chanting. His bass voice was hypnotic. At first, she recognized a few of the words. The language drifted between the patois of the island, Creole, and the stranger, foreign sounds of West Africa. Her eyelids became very heavy; she was falling into a deep sleep, as if she’d been up for days and days.
The sounds of the waves lapping onto the beach became louder and louder and Guillaume’s voice became more and more distant.
The last thing she heard, in Guillaume’s melodic, bass voice, was, “She will swim alone until the man who is
her true equal in all things comes to her.”
She felt herself falling, spinning, whirling into a vortex of color and sound and wind. Her body began to feel lighter and lighter, as if she were weightless.
Then there was nothing but blue.
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Sneak Peek: The Mermaid’s Den by Ella Malone
Chapter One
“Wait, wait,” I called to my new husband. “You’re walking too fast.”
“Too fast?” he said. “Really? Can’t keep up, Mrs. Flynn?” He grabbed me, cradling me in his arms.
The last glass of champagne at our wedding reception had left me hazy, smiling, and tripping on the cobblestone sidewalk. Tom wasn’t in any better shape. He could walk straight, but that last beer tipped him past his usual mellow buzz and pointed him at slap happy.
Laughing at me as I stumbled yet again, he helped me balance, asking, “Why don’t you take off the damn heels?”
“No way. There are fish guts on this sidewalk,” I said, shocked he’d suggest I remove the gorgeous, white, silk shoes.
“But if you leave them on, you’ll be on the sidewalk, too.”
He had a point, but I wasn’t willing to concede. I struggled to take another step, laughing and lunging at his arm. He caught me in a hug, pulling me close, looking into my eyes. He kissed me softly before he spoke.
“You make my life, Laura Flynn.”
Jolted from my memory, I dropped a glass as George Sullivan called to me across the bar, “Hey, Laura, another beer?”
The Glass Mermaid (The Chancellor Fairy Tales Book 1) Page 6
