The Selkie Enchantress

by Sophie Moss

  Her hands fell away from the flower, dropping to the ground. The wind snatched a petal loose and it drifted to the surface of a silver pool of rainwater forming around the base of the rose. It caught there, like a floating white shell as cold fingers of frost twisted over the surface, snaking out from the center and the image of a dozen glistening pearls formed in the ice.

  Caitlin dug her hands into the earth, all the heartache and anger pouring out of her as the surf pounded against the shoreline. The rain fell, silver ribbons of runoff swirling around her like a tangled web of long-suppressed memories. Memories of a time when she’d been young and stupid enough to believe she could bring a child into this world at sixteen.

  How did Glenna know what happened when she left the island? How could she have found out when she’d never told a soul? She pulled herself to her feet and fumbled with the door to the cottage. She crossed the dark room, the rain pounding against the roof and dripping through the rotted thatch onto the gritty floor of the cottage. She pressed her hands to the far wall, feeling blindly for the loose stone and slipping it free, letting it drop to the ground with a loud thud, and catching the dozens of letters that spilled out.

  She squeezed them in her hands, rainwater seeping into the paper, bleeding through the ink. Had Glenna found her letters? Had she discovered the rose outside the cottage and read the initials carved into the stone? How else could she know? Warm drops of water splattered onto the letters and she realized she was crying. She clutched the precious words to her chest as a sob caught in her throat.

  ‘All you have to do is open your eyes.’

  To what? To the fact that she hadn’t been strong enough to carry a child into this world? That sheer love alone hadn’t been enough to keep her baby alive? She’d have given her life in exchange for her son to take one single breath. But her child had died while she had lived. And when she’d pushed the empty cradle out into the sea—the cradle she’d carved from the palest driftwood—she’d watched the waves swallow it, and a piece of her drowned in the ocean that day.

  But as many months as she’d spent whittling that perfect hollow scoop, sanding smooth the rounded edges and carving her unborn son’s initials in the wood, it had never been anything more than a simple crib roughly fashioned from a frightened pregnant teenager’s hands.

  Where, then, had those pearls come from? Why was this white rose growing over her son’s memorial? What happened to Liam’s memory? And why was Owen the spitting image of the son they would have had if she hadn’t lost their child?

  ***

  Ducking his head against the wind howling through the web of stone walls stretching out to the coast, Sam Holt spotted the beam of a flashlight through Brennan’s darkened windows. Angling away from his own cottage, he headed toward the main house. It wasn’t common for the island to have break-ins, but everyone else was up at the pub keeping warm, including Brennan. It couldn’t hurt to have a look.

  You could take the man away from the investigation, but you couldn’t take the investigator out of the man. Sam shook his head. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. Old habits die hard. Rain sheeted down into the pastures where sheep and pigs picked their way over muddy rivers to the ancient sheds. Hail smacked against the windows of the cottage and one of the hunter green shutters was starting to come loose in the wind. He made a mental note to fix it later.

  He’d taken a liking to the old farmer. He was starting to look after him like a son would an aging parent. If someone was up to something while Brennan was away, it was his responsibility to take care of it. And after what happened on the island this summer, he wasn’t taking any chances. As he got closer, he noted the front door was cracked. Keeping his guard up, he pushed it open slowly, widening the crack little by little to get a view inside.

  When he spotted Liam, he let out a breath. The floorboards squeaked as he stepped into the cottage. The beam shifted, shining into his eyes. Sam held his palm up and Liam lowered the flashlight. The two men stared at each other until Sam closed the door behind him. “Looking for something?”

  “Yes.” Liam aimed the flashlight back at the rows of bookshelves. “Why aren’t you up at the pub with the others?”

  “I wanted to look after the animals.”

  Liam glanced over his shoulder. “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”

  “I am.” Sam brushed his dripping hood back, taking in Liam’s soaking wet hair, his crooked glasses and disheveled clothes. “Does Brennan know you’re here?”

  “No.” Liam strode across the room to the next shelf, shining the light over the spines of the books. He was wearing a black slicker, but his dark gray sweater and jeans were soaked through. Restless frustrated energy poured off him in waves.

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t be here,” Sam suggested.

  Liam reached into his pocket and dropped something onto the table. Sam’s gaze fell to the white rose. The scent of saltwater and rose petals drifted into the room. “Where did you find that?”

  “It washed up on the pier.”

  Slowly, Sam picked up the flower, letting it roll through his fingers. Liam continued to pace back and forth along the row of shelves, slipping books in and out of the shelves, shoving them back into their places with increasing frustration.

  “I know I returned it,” Liam murmured. “It has to be here.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “Does it have something to do with this flower?”

  Liam nodded.

  Sam’s hand stilled on the stem. He remembered his conversation with Glenna at Caitlin’s house last night. She’d said she was at Brennan’s yesterday, borrowing books to do ‘a little research.’

  It couldn’t be a coincidence that Liam was here now, searching for a book. The day after Nuala and Owen arrived on the island. The day after, from what he’d heard, he’d lost all recollection of his relationship with Caitlin. Sam set the rose back down on the table. “You might want to know that Glenna borrowed a few of Brennan’s books yesterday.”

  Liam turned, the beam of the flashlight lowering to the faded throw-rug. “Glenna?”

  Sam nodded.

  Liam’s gaze dropped to the flower. “Which books?”

  “I don’t know.” Sam took a step back when he realized he’d seen those troubled eyes somewhere else, on someone else recently. “She mentioned it at Caitlin’s party last night.”

  Liam grabbed the rose and stuffed it back in his pocket. “I think I’ll have a word with Glenna.”

  ***

  Liam’s boots squished into a thick cover of lichens as he cut through the fields, following a muddy path through stone walls and patchwork pastures. A sheep bleated from a nearby field, calling out to his mother as Glenna’s cottage came into view. The stone walkway was submerged in three inches of rainwater. The hardy rosemary plants flanking her crimson door twisted madly as thick stalks cracked off, swirling into the muddy streams of soil rushing from her raised garden beds.

  If his instincts were right, then the fairy tale he’d found wasn’t just hidden in the dusty back shelves of the Trinity Library in Dublin. It was hidden somewhere on this island as well. Banging on her door, he stepped back. It wasn’t the first time she’d kept secrets from the islanders. And he wasn’t leaving until he found out the truth.

  He banged on the door again, surprised when the knob turned easily. “Glenna,” he called, pushing the door open and stepping into the cottage. The sitting room was dark and full of shadows. The heavy burgundy curtains were drawn and a cold draft blew through the room. There was a fire dying in the hearth, but no sign of Glenna.

  “Glenna?” he called again, in case she was in her bedroom, but there was no answer and the door was wide open. Screw privacy, he thought, striding into her room. Dozens of ruby pillar candles were scattered throughout the room. They were burnt down to an inch, sandalwood-scented wax suspended in mid-melt, pooling into b
ronze plates as if they’d been burning all day and she’d blown them out in a hurry.

  The shelves that lined the walls above her ornately-carved cherry headboard were packed with books. Books of spells and magic. Herbs and witchery. Celtic legends and forgotten Irish myths. He crossed the room to the books, scanning the collection of worn canvas volumes. How had he not known she had all these?

  He spotted the one he was looking for, tucked back behind the others, only visible because of its height. He pushed the others aside, reaching for the heavy volume, his fingertips brushing the worn corners of the canvas, faded now to a pale yellowish-green.

  He slid it out carefully, running a hand over the dusty cover. The faded gold lettering was worn so thin only a few of the letters were still legible. The edges of the pages curled and he traced the fraying golden ribbon threading through the middle, opening to the story it marked.

  He spotted the ragged edges along the seam, the tear in the precious pages where the story should have been. He snapped the book shut, a cloud of dust shooting up into the air as black spots formed in his vision. It was a small island. He would find her. And when he did, she would explain exactly what kind of game she was playing.

  Stalking out of the room, he was almost to the door when a bulky object tucked under the antique drawing table caught his eye. He spotted a curve of pale wood peeking out of a bundled quilt. Bending down, he lifted the corner of the quilt and froze when he saw the sanded driftwood, the line of pearls, the hollow scoop where a baby would lay.

  Chapter 15

  Nuala stood at the window of her bedroom, facing the sea. Tracing a finger along the glass, she followed the line of the horizon, leaving a trail of frost in her wake. The sky was pewter gray, the rain a relentless tap dance of silver slippers on ice. Below, the surf curled over a strand of pearl-white beach. Sea spray shot into the air as the waves pummeled the jetty, swallowing the pathetic barrier of jagged rocks meant to shelter the harbor.

  One more day. One more day on this wretched island and everything she’d ever wanted would be hers. She heard the shuffle of Owen’s footsteps and she turned. Her son stood in the doorway, watching her warily. Her hand fell away from the window and she crossed the room, sighing when he shrank back from her. She reached out, catching his chin in her hand, turning his face from side to side.

  His skin was holding its color better than she’d expected. She drew her thumb over a faint discoloration on his cheekbone, watching the shimmer of blue settle into the darker pigment, transforming it back to alabaster white. As soon as they got back to the ocean, the last layer would heal. She reached for his hand, wanting to see if the marks from where he’d touched the rose by the cottage had faded. But he pulled away from her, hiding his hand behind his back.

  Nuala drummed her fingers over the windowsill. Maybe it would be easier if he knew. Maybe it was a mistake erasing his memories. If he could remember the life they had run from, and understand what was at stake in these final hours on land, maybe she could regain his trust. Maybe he could even help her. Help them get what they needed to build the life they deserved when they returned to the sea.

  It was a risk. But it might be the only way to have him back on her side. To keep him from causing any more trouble. She opened her mouth, closing it when she spotted a movement outside her window. She parted the lace curtain, recognizing the brunette from the other night at Caitlin’s house. Glenna. The artist who’d moved to the island a few years ago from Dublin. Her gaze dropped to the bulky object balanced in the woman’s arms. Brushing past Owen, Nuala opened the door to a rush of wind and rain.

  “Hi.” Glenna smiled warmly, stepping around an overflowing pothole. “I hope you don’t mind me popping over like this.” She juggled the object wrapped in cellophane. “Caitlin asked me to finish this painting for over the fireplace ages ago. Do you mind if I hang it? I’ll just be a minute and then get right out of your way.”

  Nuala stepped aside uncertainly.

  “Thanks,” Glenna said, walking into the dimly lit cottage. Her long coat dripped rainwater onto the floor, already slick from the spray shooting in the door. She took a moment to scan the simple furnishings. A wheat-colored sofa and matching arm chairs circled a throw rug in creams and pale blues. A wooden rocker sat in the corner by the far window with a view of the harbor. An antique dining table nestled close to the hearth, separating the tiny kitchen from the sitting room. “It’s rather cozy, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Nuala lied. She wanted nothing more than to leave this place and return to her home.

  Glenna smiled down at Owen, still huddled in the corner of the room. “It’s nice to see you again, Owen.”

  “You too,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet.

  Glenna wandered into the sitting room, setting the heavy object down and turning her attention back to Nuala. “How are you enjoying your stay on the island?”

  “It’s a lovely place.” What was it about this woman that set her on edge?

  “It is,” Glenna agreed. “I’m sorry the storm is keeping you from exploring more of the island. The views from the cliffs are breathtaking. On a clear day you can see as far south as the Cliffs of Moher.”

  “We’ll have to make a trip back one day.” Out of the corner of her eye, Nuala caught her son’s head snap up. “But we’re making the best of our stay. And we’re glad to be away from the mainland for a few days.” She looked pointedly at her son. “Aren’t we, Owen?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled, his gaze drifting over to the wrapped object.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Glenna said. “Maybe when you return, we’ll have a few cottages for you to choose from.” She strolled to the window, dipping her fingers into the bowl of seashells. “This is our second renovation. Mine and Caitlin’s. That’s what we do on the island.”

  “I thought you were an artist?”

  “I am.” Glenna glanced over her shoulder. “But I never pass up a lucrative business opportunity.” She selected a silver shell from the bowl and held it up to the dim light streaming in through the window. “Caitlin designs and manages the properties and I fund the purchase of the homes. We hope to have a string of holiday homes on the island one day to bump up the tourist trade to compete with the more popular islands.”

  Nuala gritted her teeth. She didn’t care about holiday homes or tourist trades. And she didn’t have time for social calls. Why was this woman still here anyway? She better not expect her to offer to make tea. It wasn’t happening.

  Owen took a step toward the painting. “Can I see it?”

  Glenna smiled down at Owen as she set the shell back in the bowl and walked over to the painting. “Do you like to paint?”

  He stared at the murky white wrapping, taking another hesitant step closer. “I don’t know.”

  Glenna slipped a nail into the tape, sliding it through the holds. She looked up at Nuala. “You should bring him by my studio later. I’d be happy to set him up with some paint and an old canvas.”

  “Thank you, but we have plans later.”

  Glenna lifted a shoulder, snapping the second piece of tape. “Maybe next time.”

  Owen inched closer, his fingers brushing the top of the bubble wrap.

  “Go ahead,” Glenna urged. “Tear it off.” She lifted knowing eyes to Nuala’s. “I guess it’s almost like unwrapping a present.”

  Owen tore the wrapping away from the painting and Nuala’s breath caught in her throat when she saw the white coral towers, the soaring marble gates, the sparkling beds of oyster shells around shimmering roses made of ice.

  Glenna lifted the painting into her arms, carrying it over to the fireplace. “Might as well set it up on the mantle and see how it looks.”

  “Owen.” Nuala struggled to find her voice. How? How could this woman know what her palace looked like? How could anyone know exactly what it looked like unless they’d seen it? “Go to your room.”

  “But the painting,” Owen stuttered. “I’ve…”

/>   “Go to your room,” Nuala snapped, her voice cracking through the damp air in the cottage like a whip.

  Glenna turned, her smile fading at the change in Nuala’s tone. “Is everything alright?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Nuala said as soon as her son was out of earshot.

  Glenna wandered away from the fireplace, studying the painting from a few different angles to make sure it was straight. “I heard you were a songwriter.” She walked back up to the wall, edging the left corner up a half an inch. “I’d love to see some of your songs.” She stepped back, scrutinizing the position, keeping her tone light and friendly. “If you ever feel like sharing.”

  Nuala’s fingers curled into her palms, her nails biting into the skin. “I never show anyone my work until it’s completely finished.”

  Glenna angled her head, a powerful flame burning deep in those amber eyes. “Never?”

  “You must understand that vulnerability,” Nuala quipped. “You’re an artist.”

  “Of course,” Glenna said, nodding. “But maybe you’d let me see one that’s finished?”

  “Unfortunately, I left my song books at home.”

  “That is unfortunate.” Glenna trailed a hand along the back of the sofa. “I guess I should be going. Bye, Owen,” she called loud enough so the boy could hear.

  Owen ran out of the bedroom, his wet socks skidding across the slick floor. “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “She’s going home,” Nuala said tightly.

  Glenna’s lips curved as she brushed past Nuala.