Between the Sea and Stars

by Chantal Gadoury

  “I wasn’t due to you until nine,” Jace said between his teeth.

  “I’m well aware,” Lord Jarl replied. “But I woke with an inexplicable craving for your mother’s cooking.”

  “You hate common fare.” There was an air of accusation in Jace’s tone. Lord Jarl’s smile only widened.

  “Don’t presume to know my preferences, boy.” His eyes drifted to Lena. “It’s always nice to taste new things.”

  A shiver belted over Lena’s spine. She darted her gaze back to the strange food on her plate.

  “Mor is in the kitchen.” Jace thumbed over his shoulder.

  “Why don’t you scurry along to her, then, and bring me back a plate?”

  Jace clenched his jaw and fisted his hands at his sides. “Fine,” he muttered.

  Lord Jarl lifted a brow.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Jace amended, and turned on his heel. Lena didn’t dare to look up as Lord Jarl rested his hands on the table in front of her.

  “Good morning, little pearl,” he murmured. She stifled a tremble.

  “Are you enjoying your stay at my inn?”

  Lena didn’t reply.

  “It is rather . . . humble, isn’t it?” Amusement dripped from Lord Jarl’s tongue. He tipped a finger beneath Lena’s chin, forcing her to peer up at him. “I do appreciate the coyness of females,” he said, his voice low, “But when a man speaks, he expects to be answered. You’d do well to remember that. Prettiness will only get you so far.”

  His mouth sank slowly to a frown as he waited for her to reply.

  “Yes,” Lena said at last, swallowing tightly. “Your Grace,” she added, mimicking Jace. She remembered Mrs. Wyatt’s sentiment yesterday, and gulped down the wad of saliva in her mouth.

  Lord Jarl settled in the seat across from her. His oily smile returned. There was nothing warm or kind about it. A plate clattered in front of him, and he released a disdainful sigh.

  “Your breakfast, min herre,” Jace announced.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t waste time, now that I’m here.”

  “You came for breakfast, not for . . . our meeting.”

  “Ah, well,” Lord Jarl shrugged. “I seem to have lost my appetite.” He rose from the table, smoothing his hands over his shirt. “We’ll use the study to speak.”

  Jace huffed and gritted his teeth. He shoved his barely touched plate to Lena.

  “When you’re done eating, go help mor in the kitchen,” he hissed, and hurried after Lord Jarl before Lena could agree. She nodded anyway, ducking her chin to her chest.

  As she ate, she thought she could feel the roomful of sailors staring at her back.

  14

  Lena nibbled on her breakfast, but whatever appetite she’d woken with was effectively lost. The sausage was too oily and slick, sliding swiftly through her throat, and the rye bread sat heavy on her stomach. She pushed the meal this way and that on her plate, spying discreetly as one by one, the guests cleared from the makeshift dining hall. Talk of sailing and fishing floated into her ears as the sturdy throngs ambled through the front door and out into the sparkling sunlight.

  Lena traced a finger over the painted edge of her plate. She’d stored whole shelves of human kitchenware in her secret grotto beneath the waves—cracked porcelain bowls and brassy utensils, treasures she and Javelin had gleaned from shipwrecks over the years. What would become of their collection now? What would happen to the gifts her brother had brought her, the odd objects they’d guessed and giggled about? All of their memories?

  She clutched the conch shell at her throat, tied with a delicate chain of kelp—Mette’s shell. But it was hers, too. Her brother had given it to her. It was the only tangible remnant of Javelin she had left. With a sigh, she rose from her seat, stacking her untouched plate with Jace’s.

  “Don’t worry about the dishes,” a voice said behind her.

  Lena peered over her shoulder to find Mrs. Wyatt collecting the deserted plates and sliding them into a large bin at her waist.

  “I don’t mind helping,” she replied. She took care to lift her feet properly as she moved across the foyer, dishes outstretched.

  “Careful!” Mrs. Wyatt barked. Lena jerked her gaze upward, alarmed, and planted her foot on a pile of shattered glass on the floor. A jagged shard pierced her sole. With a yelp, she leaped backward, clutching the plates she carried to her chest.

  “For the love of all that’s holy.”

  Lena’s face flushed with embarrassment and fear. She dropped into the nearest chair and plucked the bit of glass from her heel, relieved when no more than a dot of blood emerged from the small laceration.

  “Another broken cup,” Mrs. Wyatt was muttering. She shook her head, then glanced at Lena. “Didn’t Jace bring you any shoes? I told that boy . . .” She trailed off, her punishing gaze falling to Lena’s bodice, which was splattered with the crumbs and juices of her uneaten meal. “For heaven’s sake.”

  She stomped off, vanishing into the kitchen, mumbling something under her breath. Lena couldn’t quite make out her words, but she was sure they were uncomplimentary. She dropped her gaze to her knees. She’d ruined the woman’s gown, and nearly bled her merrow blood all over the floor, and it wasn’t even noon.

  Maybe she couldn’t do this after all.

  Mrs. Wyatt returned swiftly, a strappy stretch of floral-embroidered fabric over one arm and a tall pair of foot coverings tucked beneath the other.

  “I keep a tidy inn,” she said, thrusting the foot coverings at Lena, “But I can’t quite keep up with these animals. Best to keep shoes on your feet, especially during meals. These are Jace’s old boots.” She cleared her throat expectantly, eyes dropping to Lena’s ankles. “Better than going barefoot,” she snapped. It wasn’t a suggestion.

  Lena clutched the shoes in her lap. With care, she began to tug them onto her naked feet. Mrs. Wyatt rounded her chair and tied the flowery fabric around her neck and waist.

  “I don’t want to see you out of this apron till you’ve regained your footing,” she said. “I don’t have time for extra laundering.”

  She reclaimed her discarded bin and slipped Lena and Jace’s dishes into it.

  “Not hungry?” she mused.

  “No ma’am,” Lena said softly, curling her toes inside of the oversized boots.

  Mrs. Wyatt paused, and Lena remembered her earlier remarks: “As if we have food to waste.” Guilt swam through her. Would she be reprimanded for neglecting her breakfast? Instead, Mrs. Wyatt sighed. She reached forward, smoothing a hand over Lena’s hair. The gesture was somewhat startling, though Mrs. Wyatt’s touch was . . . gentle.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” she said. Lena’s eyes widened with surprise. “What’s happened to your family . . . it’s a terrible thing. I’m sure you’re missing them.”

  “I am,” Lena breathed.

  “You’ll find your way without them eventually, if you try. Every day, you’ll have to try.” Her gaze passed over the room, clouded with some unspoken memory. Perhaps she was thinking of Jace’s father. Lena parted her lips, feeling as though she should offer some words of sympathy in return. She pressed her mouth shut again when she noticed a glare forming between Mrs. Wyatt’s brow.

  “That damn Jarl,” she growled, and stomped to the far table to fetch his full dish. “Demanding a meal and then turning his piggish nose up at it. He’ll be the death of me. Don’t repeat that.” She snapped her gaze to Lena, then shifted her stare to the hall, as if she could hear the conversation taking place in the study beyond.

  “What do you think he wants with Jace?” Lena dared to ask.

  Mrs. Wyatt’s shoulders sagged slightly. “God only knows,” she replied, her voice tight. “He snatches him away from the inn whenever he sees fit. Has him perform little jobs for less than nothing. Acts as if he owns us, and not just these walls and this roof. It weighs on my boy, I know it does, but there’s little I can do about it. Jace can get by with a fair amount of sass, but the moment I speak my mind, L
ord Jarl raises the rent. We’re already so behind. We can’t afford to be out of his good graces.”

  “So he’s . . . bad,” Lena concluded quietly. “He’s a bad man.” The legend of the queen spun through her mind, sucking her dangerously close to a whirlpool of panic.

  “Bad?” Mrs. Wyatt snorted. “I gather he lives to make others miserable. He always comes too early for his payment and demands that I should have more than what’s due.”

  Lena struggled to get a grip on herself. Lord Jarl might be . . . slimy. He might order people about, his tongue like the electric snap of an eel. He might prevent Mrs. Wyatt and her family from prospering. But it was still a far cry from murdering merrow and feasting on flesh.

  Mrs. Wyatt huffed her deep irritation and resumed gathering the morning’s dishes, shoving them into her bin with more of a clatter than was necessary.

  “Can I help?” Lena asked. “I . . . I want to earn my keep.”

  “Forgive me, child, but you’re an accident waiting to happen.” Mrs. Wyatt offered a smile, though it was grim. “One lost cup is already more than we can bear. Why don’t you check on Edwin? Jace was right. He’s alone far too often. It’s not good for him. My husband . . . my husband wouldn’t like it, if he were still here.”

  She shook her head sadly, then lowered her eyes to the task at hand.

  “I try to keep us afloat,” she murmured. “I try to keep us . . . happy. As happy as we can expect to be. But there just aren’t enough hours in the day.”

  “Come in, lass.”

  Lena jerked back the hand hovering over Edwin’s doorknob, wondering how on earth he’d known she was there. He chuckled as she slowly opened the door, and gestured to his ears.

  “I had the eyes of a hawk once,” he said. “Now it would seem I have the ears of a bat.”

  She grinned, though she’d never heard of such creatures before. Edwin was precisely where she’d left him—lounging comfortably in his armchair. The window behind his head had been propped wide on its hinges, the matching armchair returned to its usual spot at his side.

  He lifted his blue-speckled fingers, motioning her forward.

  “I was wondering if you’d come back, lass,” he said as Lena tucked the door shut behind herself and crossed the room, decidedly less shaky in her boots. “I’m glad an old man’s stories haven’t bored you to tears. Yet,” he added with a smirk.

  “I wasn’t bored.” Lena sank onto the wilted cushions of the neighboring seat. “Not at all.” She lifted Edwin’s hand to her face, inviting him to feel her smile with his fingertips.

  Edwin drifted his fingers over her cheeks. Concern flattened his features as he examined the sunken crescents beneath her eyes. “You didn’t sleep well.”

  “I did,” Lena replied, too enthusiastically, eager to return the cheerfulness to his face.

  “Then you cried in the midst of your dreams.”

  Alarm halted the reassuring words in Lena’s throat. She’d dreamed of the cavern. Of Carrick and Javelin.

  “I might have,” she admitted softly.

  “We’re a sorrowful species, Lena,” Edwin sighed. “Worse still, when we let ourselves believe we are suffering alone.” He patted her arm. “Fortunately,” he said, “we live beside the sea.”

  He turned his cheek toward the open window, inhaling the salt-laced air. His head swayed gently from side to side, matching the whispering rhythm of the tide.

  “All woes can be lifted by the fresh, ocean breeze. Don’t you agree?” He let his lashes fall shut. “Sun’s out today.”

  “Yes,” Lena replied.

  “Perhaps you could run a small errand for me.” Edwin’s unseeing gaze returned to her. From his breast pocket, he retrieved a handful of coins. “Take these to town.” He pressed his open palm forward. Lena hesitated.

  “Lord Jarl . . .” she began. Edwin quirked a brow, playfulness twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yesterday, he said Mrs. Wyatt was short on the rent.”

  “He says that every month, dear girl,” Edwin chuckled. “We could pay him his weight in gold and he’d say it wasn’t enough. This money belongs to me, and I’m not fool enough to waste it trying to satisfy an insatiable man. I’ll do with my coin what I wish.”

  Lena couldn’t prevent herself from smiling. Edwin’s mirth was contagious.

  “Alright,” she agreed, and accepted the coins, tucking them into her apron. “What exactly would you like me to do with these?”

  “Bring them to town. Fetch yourself something to eat in the square. Take a moment to enjoy the flowers and the scent of the sea. Then go to the Bror Boghandel. There should be a package waiting for me there. Ask for Soren Emil.”

  “I don’t know the way . . . I don’t know where the Bror Boghandel is,” Lena started.

  “I have faith in you, lass,” Edwin chuckled. “You’ll find your way.”

  Lena chewed her bottom lip, recalling Mrs. Wyatt’s earlier words.

  “Follow the stone path just beyond the kitchen. That will take you through the hills. You’ll be able to see the tops of roofs just over the highest crest.”

  “What if I get lost?”

  Edwin laid a hand over his chest—over his heart. Nostalgia thickened the white haze that shrouded his eyes. His lashes were damp when he spoke again.

  “There’s nothing quite so pleasant, lass,” he murmured, “as spending a sunny day, lost beside the sea.”

  A breeze nipped at Lena as she strolled through the low smattering of hills.

  She folded her arms across her chest, thankful for the extra layer of warmth her apron provided. As a merrow, she’d never minded the chill of the sea—her thick scales had shielded her from the drafty current. Her human flesh was not so accommodating, it seemed. It rippled with goose bumps and trembled, shaken by the crisp temperature. Lena found herself sighing with relief whenever she happened to pass through a warm patch of sun.

  Her cautious, stumbling gait became smoother, the further she walked. Soon she was barely looking at her feet, lifting her gaze instead to admire the gently bowing blades of tall grass on either side of the path.

  Red-shingled roofs sprawled out before her as she reached the uppermost hilltop, just as Edwin had described. The guiding stones beneath her feet branched off toward a wider, dirt road which sloped gently downward, leading into the village below.

  Edwin’s coins jangled in the shallow pocket of her apron as she descended. She repeated his instructions under her breath—Bror Boghandel. Soren Emil. Retrieve Edwin’s package, then return to the inn.

  She twisted her fingers together, wondering if Mrs. Wyatt would ask where she’d gone. This wasn’t exactly keeping Edwin company. It was the opposite, in fact. She’d traipsed off to town and left him behind. Left him alone.

  Well, she resolved, if she didn’t run this errand, Mrs. Wyatt would have to. Or Jace. She was doing what she’d promised—earning her keep.

  The crash of distant waves reached her ears as the dirt road leveled off. A sting of longing prickled Lena’s skin, every nerve ending desperate to dive into the wind-rustled sea. Would the yearning to be herself again—to be a merrow again, ever cease?

  She imagined what the seafloor would look like today—beads of deeply reflected sunlight shining on the sand, coaxing swarms of starfish and crabs out of their hiding places. Her mouth watered at the thought of the white, juicy crab meat she would be feasting on if she were home. She could see the shape of Javelin’s mouth, smiling at her; the crinkle of Carrick’s eyes as he commended her catch.

  Lena swallowed and adjusted the strap of the apron around her neck. She refocused her gaze on the village ahead. She had a task to complete, and it didn’t involve weeping in the middle of the street.

  The square was crowded with bodies and voices, men and women calling to one another, shouting and laughing and haggling, negotiating the cost of one item or another. It was somewhat like the market in Sogen Hav.

  She squeezed through the busy street, coughing at t
he dust that hovered on the air, scanning the meat-laden carts that lined the curb. Vendors snared her attention as they lifted their wares into the air—jewelry and brightly dyed strips of fabric and sleek figurines.

  Lena’s heart surged into her throat. It was as if her secret grotto had come to life. Here, human treasures weren’t buried in the sand or hidden in caves. They were admired, bought and sold, and touted about.

  She wandered to a nearby stand heaped with woven baskets of dead mackerel. Fishing nets were strung from its posts. Behind the counter, a wooden barrel was stocked with spears, each one tipped with a gleaming iron blade.

  Her stomach rumbled. “Bror Boghandel?” she asked hopefully. Perhaps Edwin had sent her after sea fare. She was beginning to feel the effects of her skipped morning meal. Her muscles were sore, her stomach noticeably empty after her short walk through the hills.

  The man behind the stand laughed and lifted his hand. “Don ye lane, missy.” His cackle revealed a long line of broken teeth. “Bror Boghandel is all ’he wey down.”

  Lena followed the direction of his pointed finger and gave a nod of thanks.

  “Don do ye no good ta be walkin’ ’round ’ere without no gen’man, missy,” the man continued. “Ya look a wee bi’ los. Are ye?”

  Lena shook her head, unnerved by his yellow-tinged stare and the stench of his breath as he leaned toward her. She turned on her heel, doing her best to move quickly away from him, though a part of her longed to stay and admire his collection of spears. His voice trailed behind her as she hurried further into the heart of the square. Lena dared to glance over her shoulder. She was dismayed to discover the man was following her.

  “Don run away so fas’, lass,” he teased, puckering his white-crusted lips.

  Lena couldn’t find her voice. Her stomach twisted into knots. The man couldn’t know what she was . . . he couldn’t. But perhaps being discovered wasn’t the only evil she had to fear.

  “Soren Emil?” she called out. Her eyes scanned the crowd. She realized suddenly that she had no idea what sort of person she was looking for. Would he be like Edwin, old and hunched over? Would he be like the many sailors renting rooms at the inn—dressed in worn, white shirts and dirt-stained trousers?