Lugh, who hadn’t come to see me since I’d abandoned him at the market yesterday. We hardly ever went this long without talking.
“I’ll get the rest of these,” Fynn murmured, drawing my gaze. I gave him a smile of thanks and was surprised by the reddish tint to his face. I lowered my eyes, pretending to study the salve until the last of the bandages dropped to the floor.
“You can look now.” Fynn’s trousers were buttoned, and he’d crossed his arms behind his head. “Let’s have the foul stuff, then.”
I arched a brow. “You mean Mally’s homemade salve? The balm she spent hours making for you?”
Fynn’s eyes shifted guiltily. “Yes, that.”
“I understand you tried to eat some of it earlier.”
“Won’t make that mistake again,” he muttered.
“But surely you know what balm is? With or without your memories?”
He didn’t answer. He was probably exhausted. With a gentle touch, I smeared salve around his wounds. Mally had used the same mixture on my cuts and scrapes, and time never dulled the memory of its distinct burn.
Fynn sucked in a breath. “That feels about as good as gnawing off my own arm.”
“I know.” I paused with my fingers in the jar. Perhaps getting him to talk would distract from the sting. “Have you given any more thought to who you are? Where you’re from, or your profession?” I considered what little I knew of him. “Maybe you were the captain of a ship, caught unaware by a storm that drowned your crew and destroyed your vessel.”
Fynn managed a smile. “Do I look old enough to be a captain?” I shook my head. With the slight shadow on his jaw, he looked a few years older than me at most. “But maybe I worked on boats around the island.”
I dipped my fingers in the salve jar again. “I don’t think you’re a native.”
His smile broadened. “Prove it.”
“Fine. If you live anywhere on the Isle, you’ll be able to tell me this: what’s the Manx symbol?”
Fynn barely thought for a moment before shrugging. “No idea. You’ve made your point.”
“It’s the Triskelion. It stands for life, death, and rebirth.” I traced the symbol’s three points in the air. “Hmm.” I thought harder and drummed my sticky fingers against the sofa. “Your accent might give me a hint. Say something.”
“I’m tired of being on this sofa, and I’d like to go for a walk on the beach.” His voice was clear but his words were plain, devoid of the Isle’s lilting brogue. I detected no trace of a Scottish burr or the crisp accent of the English.
“You’re definitely an American,” I declared, unable to suppress a giggle as I offered him my less sticky hand. “And the first one I’ve met. Tell me, what’s it like there? Is there truly land available for anyone who wants a piece?”
He flashed a broad grin as he shook my hand. “That’s right, I’m from America. You’ve solved the mystery. I have a bottomless bank account and fifty servants.”
“Fifty!” I laughed as Fynn nodded emphatically.
Still, I didn’t like the sound of his labored breathing. I quickly applied the salve to the last of his cuts, sneaking scandalous peeks at him as I worked. His tanned skin suggested he’d spent time in the sun, and his powerful arms could have rigged sails or wrangled cattle anywhere. When he remembered where he belonged, perhaps I could visit him there. That is, if he didn’t mind the imposition from a near stranger.
“What about you?” Fynn asked, disrupting the stillness. “There’s not much more to say about myself yet, unless you’ve already devised another life for me outside America.” His smile reappeared.
“There’s not much to tell.” Picking up the clean bandages, I started binding his wounds.
“That can’t be true.” Fynn waved a hand at the hearth. “Grayse told me you chopped all that firewood. Is that how you earn a living?”
I ran the roll of bandages across his stomach, careful not to wrap them too tightly. “No. I’ve just started an apprenticeship outside town. It’s mostly cleaning, but I need to do my best if I ever want to leave this rock.”
“Where would you go?”
I paused to consider the question. “Any place without a sea view. Maybe Dublin. Paris. Boston. I have a second cousin in Kilkenny in Ireland, and I’m told it’s miles from the ocean. Perhaps someday I’ll see them all.”
“I’d like to visit them all, too.” Fynn’s voice sounded fainter. Perhaps my clumsy nursing had exhausted him. “If it turns out I do have a fortune, I’ll buy you a chestnut horse as payment for saving me. You can ride it across America.”
I tied off the last section of bandages. “Wouldn’t that be grand? My own horse.” I joined Fynn on the sofa, my eyes on the scant distance between us. “For someone with no memory, you’re quite fascinating.”
Fynn’s grin shifted to a grimace. “Good to hear. Now if I die of infection, at least I’ll go happily. Oh, and Bridey?” He leaned in, radiating warmth. My breath caught in my throat as I inhaled the scent of the herbal salve beneath his bandages.
“What?”
A faint sheen of sweat coated his brow. “I need to lie down.”
I blinked, jarred from a vision of him bringing his mouth closer to mine. A boy who I didn’t really know. A boy who thought me brave …
As I leaped to my feet, the doorknob rattled. Mam, Liss, and Grayse tromped inside. Grayse was toying with the fishbone around her neck. I’d given her Morag’s Bollan Cross and she refused to take it off.
I supposed it couldn’t hurt. If Morag really was a witch, and that foul charm had any power, Grayse—and all of us, for that matter—would need its protection if anyone or anything wished us harm.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A week later, on a bright June morning, Mam sent me to buy a few skeins of yarn from Ina Cretney, who had almost as many children as her husband owned sheep.
Fynn had been pacing around the house for the past few days, and when I asked if he wanted to accompany me to the market, his eyes lit up. After Mally approved the outing, Fynn and I set off, passing one of Mr. Gill’s search parties midway up the road. They roamed the cliffs above the sea constantly as they called Nessa’s and Eveleen’s names, but their eyes remained on the trees and hills, rather than the water. They’d never find anything that way.
The market at the center of town was a collection of stalls and weathered buildings gathered around a stone fountain of four leaping dolphins. The shops’ roofs were ancient, and though their large windows were relatively new, the glass was already caked with grit.
The square was crowded, as it always was on such a fine day. The bustle of so many hats and skirts made my search for a glint of Mrs. Cretney’s copper hair a challenge.
“Keep an eye out for a woman with a swarm of children tugging at her skirts,” I muttered to Fynn, leading the way past a display of pies. There were few smiles among the shoppers today, even the ones with cakes and sweets in their hands. Even perpetually jolly Mr. Watterson, the cloth merchant, looked grim. Mothers kept their children close, when they were usually content to let them run about the square. Perhaps they were worried about the recent lack of fish. Or they’d finally realized that Nessa and Eveleen hadn’t gone to Peel, and they weren’t coming back.
“What’s that?” Fynn asked with a puzzled look, pointing to a bright ribbon of taffy.
“Candy. Surely you remember candy,” I said distractedly, gazing over the head of the child clutching the taffy with sticky fingers. I’d caught a glimpse of vivid red hair, and half hoped we were about to bump into Lugh, but the flash of red had vanished by the time I elbowed my way through the press of shoppers. If it really was him, and he was avoiding me, I could hardly blame him for it.
As we neared the fountain, someone called, “Bridey Reynylt Corkill!” in a perfect imitation of Mam.
I whirled around and met Cat’s light brown eyes. Pressing a hand to my chest, I glared. “Don’t do that!”
Giggles erupted from the tiny fig
ure beside Cat. Her little sister, Alis, peered at us through a mop of black ringlets, displaying a jack-o’-lantern smile. She was missing more teeth than Grayse, despite being a year younger. In one hand, she clutched half a bonnag. The rest of the crumbly cake was probably in her stomach already.
“Where have you been lately?” Cat asked me, though she was slyly studying Fynn. “You must be the comeover everyone’s talking about.” She nudged me in the ribs and shot me an impatient glance.
Right. She expected an introduction. “Fynn, this is Catreena Stowell.” I nodded to Cat, who grinned.“And her sister, Alis.”
“You’re from London, right?” Cat extended a hand and tossed her curls over her shoulder. “Came in with the latest boatload of tourists, hit your head, and fell into the water before our Bridey rescued you? That’s what Mrs. Kissack’s been telling everyone.”
I frowned, marveling at how quickly news became gossip around here. I tried to catch Cat’s eye as she waited for Fynn to take her hand, but she was watching him with interest. He gazed back at her with something like confusion. Finally, he raised a hand in return. But instead of shaking, he simply pressed his palm against hers, his eyes seeking mine as though hoping for a nod of approval.
“You’re supposed to shake.” Cat pursed her lips and dropped her hand to her side. “Honestly, they must not teach manners in London anymore!”
“I—I’m sorry.” Fynn frowned. “I’m not from London. At least, I don’t think I am.” He launched into a brief explanation of his rescue, and how he’d lost his memory.
“So, Fynn.” Cat beamed at me. “Has Bridey told you she’s the best dancer on the island?”
Fynn flashed a grin. “She hadn’t mentioned it. Tell me more.”
“No, that’s quite enough, thank you, Cat.” I shook my head but couldn’t keep from smiling. “What’s happened?” I gestured around the crowded market. “Did a boatload of tourists arrive ahead of schedule? Or is Mrs. Kissack giving away sticky buns?”
“We were about to have a look,” Cat answered as Alis attempted to finish her bonnag in one huge bite. “Austeyn Boyd and Brice Nelson say the dry spell in their fishing is over. They’ve caught some giant crabs.”
Alis flung her arms wide, nearly smacking me in the stomach. “They’re bigger than horses!”
Cat smiled patiently. “You don’t know that. They haven’t shown them to anyone yet, silly goose.”
I tried to smile at Alis’s antics, too, but my insides seemed to have turned to liquid as I tried not to think of what crabs the size of horses would look like.
“You know how Mr. Boyd loves to brag. He’s just like his son,” Cat continued, oblivious to my discomfort. She meant Thomase Boyd, one of the lads who used to court Mally. “He’ll probably wait till the whole town’s come out before he shows us the blasted things.”
“Mmm.” I scanned the crowd for a sight of the monstrous crabs, but to no avail. Instead, as I turned back to my friends, my eyes met Fynn’s.
“Bridey.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back to me, a faint frown crossing his lips. “Why is that woman glaring at us?”
I peered around. I’d been so set on finding out more about the fishermen and their catch that I hadn’t noticed the tall woman quarreling with her two young sons. Her name eluded me, but I knew her face. She always sat in the front pew at church.
“I wanna toss a ha’penny in the fountain!” one boy cried.
“Just one? Please?” his brother added hopefully.
“Not today, boys.” The woman paused to glare at us. “Not while she’s here.” She released one of her son’s hands and made the sign of the cross in the air.
“Ay!” Cat shouted as the woman made to push through the crowd, then turned abruptly to see who called her. “Is there a reason you’re being so rude to my friend?”
The woman drew herself up, frowning. “I don’t consort with witches, Catreena Stowell. And neither should you!”
My face burned. The word witch rang in my ears, harsh and unforgiving. It was no wonder Morag avoided coming to town if this was the treatment she could expect to receive.
“You miserable old hag!” Cat called, putting an arm around me. “Bridey’s no witch.”
Fynn leaned in, his ruddy cheeks mirroring the heat in mine. “Witch?” he repeated in a low voice. “Why would that woman call you a—”
The clamor of the crowd rose suddenly.
“It’s starting!” Cat grabbed Alis’s hand. “It’s starting! Hurry, you two, or you’ll miss everything!” Without waiting for Fynn and me, she darted forward, pulling Alis with her.
“Tell Grayse to come play on Friday!” Alis called above the din.
“I will!” I shouted, but she had already vanished.
Folk were gathering by the rickety stand where fishmongers usually sat announcing their bargains. The top of Mr. Nelson’s head, with its few obstinate white hairs, was visible at the front of the crowd.
Fynn and I exchanged a glance, and without warning, he took my hand. It was warm and calloused, and while holding Lugh’s hand sent tingles up my arm, holding Fynn’s made fireworks burst in my chest.
“Let’s go see these mysterious crabs.”
“All right.” Sweat coated my palms. “But if I want to leave—”
“Say the word, and we’ll go.”
We approached the edge of the crowd, my knees wobbling. Fynn eyed the broad backs of two men as though he intended to push through.
I shook my head. “No. I’ll not go any closer.”
“Well then, neither will I.” Fynn squeezed my hand, sending a pleasant shiver through me. I squeezed back, then lowered my eyes to avoid the spectacle.
“Look here!” Mr. Nelson cried. “See what I dredged up in my nets—there’ll be a crab feast at my house tonight!”
The crowd fell silent, save for an infant’s complaint. Then, several women oohed. A man gave a whoop of laughter, and the crowd burst into applause.
Mr. Boyd joined the boasting. “I almost nabbed this one with my largest scap net, but he broke through with his claw! Can you believe it? It nearly took my arm off.”
“Incredible,” one of the men near us muttered. “Simply fantastic.”
His companion elbowed him and whistled. “Suppose I’ll have to take up crabbing. Giants like those will fetch a pretty pound….”
“Bridey.” Fynn spoke close to my ear. “You can look. They’re just big crabs. They don’t have horns. They even look good enough to eat.”
Slowly, I raised my head and studied what the fishermen displayed proudly.
The two crabs were like something from one of Mam’s paintings. They made Mr. Boyd’s and Mr. Nelson’s heads appear tiny by comparison, like stars next to harvest moons. Each man’s arms shook under the strain of holding a creature against his chest, and it was no wonder. The crabs were as wide through their bodies as I was tall. Sunlight glinted off their deep-set eyes and mottled red flesh.
The most horrifying part was their claws. A man could have used one of the enormous appendages as a club, and the blackish pincers looked capable of snapping limbs like twigs.
“Are those the things that attacked you?” I whispered to Fynn, my heart thudding dully in my ears. His wounds hadn’t looked like pincer gouges, but with all that had happened recently, I didn’t feel certain of anything.
“No. At least, I don’t think so.” Fynn eyed me with concern. “Are you all right?”
Unable to form words, I edged away from the crowd. A few folk cast curious glances in my direction, nudging their friends and tittering as I stumbled back. How could everyone gawp at those crabs like they were cause for celebration?
“That’s it. We’re going,” Fynn declared.
We turned and started toward home. If it hadn’t been for Fynn’s wounds, I’d have broken into a full-on sprint.
We found Grayse in the hallway, standing against the wall, chattering happily to herself about something.
“Come see,
Bry!” She reached for me, her wide eyes partially hidden by her unruly hair. Her dress was on backward, and when she tilted her chin up, faint smudges of black paint were visible on her chin and cheeks.
My heart sped up. “Where’s Mam?”
“She’s taking a nap for her headache. But she finished her new painting! Come! I want to show you the Bully!”
I would have much rather joined Fynn in the main room, but I agreed to follow Grayse to Mam’s easel. “Look in on Mam, would you?” I called to Fynn. “See if she needs anything.”
I returned my attention to Grayse. “Didn’t Liss help you get dressed this morning? You know the collar goes in front, right?” We started down the hall together.
“Liss is out with some boy.” Grayse gave a tiny grin. “And the collar goes whichever way I want.”
“Oh, I see. My mistake.” I grinned back, vowing to ask about the boy later. Liss never stepped out with anyone, and I could already hear Cat’s amused speculation as to which lucky lad Liss was sneaking around with. But thoughts of my sister’s secret paramour vanished as we turned a corner to see Mam’s easel.
My mind refused to process the image on the canvas. First, there was the multitude of needlelike teeth. Three rows on top, and three on the bottom, shining in a serpent’s gaping maw. Mam’s wrist must have ached after painting the point of each malicious tooth.
“Bry?” Grayse looked up, chewing on her bottom lip.
“Give me a moment.” I shifted my gaze to the bottom teeth smeared red. Not the vibrant hue of fresh blood, but deep burgundy like an old stain.
Gooseflesh flared on my arms. I wanted to understand what the creature in the painting was, for Mam’s sake. I wanted to know how disturbing the dream had been that inspired this work, what vision had left her confined to her bed with another headache.
The serpentine head, painted inky black, took up most of the picture, with only a sliver of ocean visible around it. A livid yellow eye was dwarfed by the surrounding darkness, and a hint of a fat snake’s body curved off the canvas. Then there were the jaws. Though the creature’s mouth was gaping, an excess of skin around the corners led me to a dreadful realization: its mouth could open even wider.
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