Between the Sea and Stars

by Chantal Gadoury

  “Come back, lass! I ain’ goina hur’ ye.” The man’s curdled laughter grated against Lena’s ears. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. Had Poseidon’s anger followed her here, to the shore? Was barring her from the sea not enough for him? She recalled the old merrow woman’s story, her accusation.

  Mette’s heart had betrayed the water, and the sea changed the heart of the man.

  Could she have enraged the sea god so severely? Would he fill the minds of those she encountered with suspicion and greed? Was death pursuing her still? A stream of hot, fearful tears filled her eyes as she tried in vain to quicken her pace. Instead of gaining ground, she stumbled and nearly fell to her knees in the dirt.

  “S-Soren Emil?” Her voice cracked as she rushed her gaze over nearby faces, desperate for help. “Soren Emil?” she called again.

  “Who’s looking for him?”

  Lena whipped her eyes to a darkened doorway. A tall, pleasantly dressed man with white-blonde hair emerged from the shop, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  “A-are you Soren Emil?”

  “I am.” His brow arched as he considered her, vague curiosity curving the corner of his lips.

  Lena paused, relief pouring through her. Edwin wouldn’t have sent her to a man who would harm her. She was sure of it.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin as the vendor closed in on her, his large, fishy hand latching onto her shoulder.

  Soren’s smile held as he glanced between them, though the brightness in his eyes seemed to falter.

  “Tak, Jepsen. The lass is here to see me.”

  He tucked his hands into his pockets, nodding toward the entrance of the Bror Boghandel, inviting Lena to enter. She did, lifting her skirt to keep from tripping as she darted out of Jepsen’s reach.

  The fish vendor swore. Soren chuckled dryly, but otherwise, declined to reply. He waited till Lena was safely inside his shop. Then he followed behind her, and clapped shut the latch on the door.

  15

  Lena jolted at the sound of the lock clicking into place.

  “To keep Jepsen out,” Soren assured her. “Not to keep you in. You’re ruining your apron.”

  Lena realized she was clutching the flowery fabric at her waist. Edwin had sent her here. Edwin had called her his friend. Edwin could be trusted. She smoothed the apron over her skirt and tried her best to think reasonably. To subdue the terror pulsing against her chest.

  “For someone who came looking for me, you sure don’t seem pleased to have found me.” Soren’s soft eyes held her gaze, stunningly green, the color of sea glass shining in the sun.

  “I’m here for a package,” Lena managed to say. “For Edwin. Edwin Wyatt.”

  Soren’s brow darted to his hairline. His whole face brightened, in fact, mouth lifting into an easy smile.

  “Now that’s a name I didn’t expect to hear,” he said, amusement faint on his tongue.

  “What did you expect?”

  He slid his long fingers into the pockets of his pale blue trousers and considered her question.

  “You know, I’m not sure,” he decided. “Edwin usually sends his grandson after his orders. I’d rather you come ’round from now on, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “I know Jace. That’s reason enough to prefer a visit from . . . anyone else.”

  Lena blushed, waiting for Soren’s gaze to dip lower. His eyes remained trained to her face, his good-natured expression never wavering.

  “Speaking of not knowing you,” he started, and Lena raised a brow. “Edwin gave you my name. Shall I ask him for yours, or . . .”

  Warmth poured over Lena’s skin, furious and delightful. “Lena,” she said.

  “Are you staying at the inn?”

  “I am.” Lena worried her bottom lip. “The Wyatts . . . took me in.”

  “Took you in?” Soren lowered his brow, waiting for her to explain.

  I was shipwrecked. I was shipwrecked! Lena knew she should say. But lying to so many people was becoming exhausting. And Soren Emil hadn’t forced her hand. Not exactly. Not yet. So she said nothing. To his credit, Soren didn’t press her for answers. Silence stretched between them instead, like ripples of expectation—thin and delicate and swift to vanish. Lena’s stomach growled, and she clutched her belly, embarrassed.

  “I’ll put a kettle on,” Soren said. “This way.”

  He moved past Lena, making a wide berth, as if afraid his nearness might send her darting away. He kept his eyes level with the dim corridor ahead, leading her toward the back of the shop, not once glancing over his shoulder to see if she’d followed him. Still, Lena felt his attention, the inexplicable awareness that binds two people when they are wholly alone together in close quarters.

  Her eyes adjusted slowly as they moved into the increasing darkness of the hall. The walls on either side were lined with shelves, and on those shelves were . . . books. Dozens upon dozens of books, stacked one on top of another, or pressed together between sturdy figurines.

  Lena gaped. She’d seen books before—thin and waterlogged, the parchment contained by their leather bindings half-dissolved by the sea. Humans recorded their legends instead of memorizing them. They encapsulated their thoughts and memories with ink, which was inevitably washed away by the sea.

  Dry books, she realized, were something else entirely. Treasure chests etched from end to end with stories. She caressed her fingertips over their sturdy, majestic spines, volume after volume titled in swirling, gold thread.

  “What is this place?” she breathed, her body nearly floating with awe.

  “Bror Boghandel,” Soren replied, his voice low. Lena dashed her gaze to the far edge of the corridor, where he now stood, staring at her.

  “What does that mean?”

  Soren chuckled. “It means we sell books.”

  The room beyond the corridor bore a humble hearth and two separate, broadly paneled doors. It was laddered from floor to ceiling with more shelves—more books, and among them, remnants of the sea. Lena’s eyes passed over chipped fragments of obsidian, conch shells, and the skeletons of fish.

  “My private collection,” Soren explained. “Mostly ship logs.”

  “Are you a sailor?”

  “Bookkeeper.” Soren plucked up a kettle from a crude, unfinished table tucked beneath a blue-shuttered window. “And a bit of a collector,” he shrugged. “Ship logs don’t usually sell. But I like them.” He knelt beside the low-burning hearth and adjusted the kettle over its embers.

  “Sailors come into the shop wishing to exchange their logs for shillings. Most of them need to pay off their debts at the pub down the way. What started as a bit of generosity has turned into somewhat of a habit . . .” He smirked at himself, playfully astute, and rose to select two sturdy mugs from a high cupboard.

  He was quite tall, Lena realized, his pale hair nearly brushing the ceiling when he reached overhead.

  “Have my seat,” he offered. “I’ll stand.”

  “That’s alright,” Lena hurried to say, and he cocked a brow.

  “I’m going to stand either way, Lena,” he smiled. “You’re a guest in my shop. Sit, or don’t sit, whichever you wish. My father, rest him, would have my arse if I claimed the only seat in the room. Excuse my language.”

  Lena couldn’t prevent a laugh bubbling over her lips.

  “Fine,” she agreed, and let Soren pull out the single chair for her. It was uncushioned, rigid and hard, but she didn’t mind. Relief rushed through her the moment she was off her feet.

  “Should be just warmed,” Soren said, retrieving the kettle and filling her mug to the brim. “No milk, I’m afraid.”

  Lena took a sip. Bitterness stung her tongue, and she wrinkled her nose. Soren winced, apologetic, though his green eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “Black tea’s an acquired taste, I’ll admit. I usually drink mint, but I’m all out, and a man can’t go a day without his tea. This is my emergency s
upply.”

  Lena shook her head, not wanting to be impolite, and nearly managed another sip—though she coughed as she swallowed.

  “You,” Soren chuckled, sipping from his own mug with ease. “My father would’ve liked you.” He snapped his fingers. “Edwin’s order. Excuse me.”

  He slipped through the doorway nearest Lena, leaving the scent of wood smoke behind. Lena could hear him shuffling about in the room beyond.

  A moment later, he reemerged with a thick, flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He offered it to her. Lena tucked it into her lap. A book. It had to be a book. She wondered how Edwin would read it. She fished the coins from her apron.

  “Edwin said this would be payment enough.”

  Soren shook his head. “Foolish old man,” he replied, his voice thick with affection. “If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times. He owes me nothing.”

  Lena hesitated. Soren stepped forward and curled her fingers around the coins. His skin was warm against hers. Warmer than yesterday’s bathwater, warmer than the glow of Edwin’s fireplace. Her pulse stuttered.

  “I hope you’ll come back to the Bror Boghandel, Lena,” he murmured. “Next time, perhaps you’ll bring my dear old friend with you.”

  16

  The sun-washed sky had faded to gray by the time Lena returned to the inn. She crept through the kitchen door, hopeful that no one had noticed her absence, and was met with a grumble of disapproval.

  “Glad to see you’ve finally decided to join us,” Jace muttered. He was up to his elbows in bubbles, hands submerged in a sink full of dirty dishes. He shook the bangs out of his eyes, swearing when they immediately fell back over his brow. “Where were you?”

  Lena shut the door gently behind herself. “Edwin had me run into the market on an errand.”

  “Run? You?” Jace sneered. “You can barely walk one step without my help.”

  Lena straightened. “I made it there and back, didn’t I?” The moment the words slipped out, she regretted them. Without Jace, she might still be sprawled on the beach, unable to move. But . . . she’d spent the whole day on her own and hadn’t fallen once.

  Jace raked a hand through his hair, leaving a stripe of white froth behind. “Let me guess,” he snorted. “Pops sent you to Soren Emil’s shop to pick up another book.”

  Lena chewed her bottom lip, suddenly very aware of the package tucked beneath her arm. What was the harm in delivering a story to a lonesome old man?

  “And how much coin, exactly, did that cost us?” Jace queried, jerking his chin toward the paper-wrapped parcel.

  “Soren . . . Mister Emil wouldn’t take Edwin’s money,” Lena replied, unable to stifle her smugness. “It didn’t cost you a cent.”

  She gasped as Jace slammed a dish into the sink and whirled his midnight-blue glare in her direction.

  “Isn’t our money good enough for Mister Emil?” he growled. Lena took a cautious step backward, though there was already a wide gap between them. “He only said that Edwin didn’t owe him anything.”

  “We can pay for a book. We don’t need his charity.” Jace returned his red-veined gaze to the water. A shiver slipped over Lena’s spine, tightly twined with a thin ribbon of dismay. She couldn’t fathom why he was so angry. Carrick had never minded Asger’s gifts, his generosity. Was charity something to be disparaged on the surface? Did Soren’s kindness deserve to be mocked?

  “I don’t understand,” she began. Jace interrupted her with an exaggerated sigh.

  “You wouldn’t, would you?” he mumbled. “Wherever you come from . . . it must be better than this place. I’ve seen the way you stare, Lena—at our home, our belongings. At us. Just because we don’t have a lot of money doesn’t mean we don’t have pride.”

  Heat filled Lena’s cheeks. She clutched her jaw shut, afraid she’d reveal herself if she dared to tell him just how wrong he was. How utterly, miserably, moronically wrong. She knew what it felt like, to ache for a meal, to sigh at her surroundings, to want a different sort of life. And she hadn’t judged him or his family, not once.

  Lena strode past him, head held high, praying she wouldn’t trip over her own feet as she passed him by. She made it safely through the kitchen and into the dining hall before she stumbled.

  The front door was once again, propped wide. The breeze had lessened, and the warm, evening air filtered in. A small clutch of sailors with damp shirts and straggly, sweat-soaked hair gathered together, muttering over their steaming mugs.

  “The sea was unkind again, as it would seem,” one was saying. Lena steadied herself and darted her gaze in his direction. His skin was brown, his dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck with a bit of frayed rope. “The Gyldne Havrue took a beating in the night.”

  “It’s bad luck,” said the slender sailor beside him. “The Fosse-Søfolk must be at their games again.”

  Lena’s heart plummeted into her stomach. She set Edwin’s parcel on a lower stair and snatched up a rag that had been draped over the banister, forgotten. She made a show of scrubbing the unoccupied tabletops, listening as discreetly as she could manage.

  “Were there any survivors?” a red-frocked guest inquired.

  “Not a one,” the dark-haired sailor replied. “’Tis a pity. They had barrels upon barrels of fish, all lost to the sea. Babes’ fathers were on that boat.”

  “They were fools to raise anchor after dusk. Everyone knows the Merrow Queen does her haunting at night.”

  Lena’s ears perked, and her grasp tightened on the rag.

  “You and your merrow stories,” scoffed the slender fellow, clapping his comrade on the shoulder with an oil-blackened hand.

  “They’re true, you fool,” he growled. “The sea god has a stick in his arse about something. I haven’t seen so angry a sea since the storm last season.”

  Lena lifted the rag to her chest. Another shipwreck . . . more lives lost . . . more markings for Asger and his clan. Did it mean the Fosse-Søfolk were nearby? Would Asger come looking for her? Perhaps if she went to the sea, perhaps if she waited . . .

  She could ask him how her father fared. She could ask him—

  “You, girl,” the red-frocked man called out to her. “Where is Mrs. Wyatt? We’re starved.”

  With a bob of her head, Lena retrieved the parcel from the stairs and hurried toward Edwin’s room.

  “Ah, there she is,” Edwin said with a sure grin. “Found your way back to us, did you?”

  Mrs. Wyatt was standing at his side, fluffing a quilt over his lap. She slanted a side-long gaze at Lena, disapproval wafting away from her in sheets.

  “I know what you’re up to,” she murmured, so quietly, Lena pretended not to hear. “You’re far too old for such tricks.”

  “They work as well now as they ever have,” Edwin winked. “Age doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it.”

  Mrs. Wyatt uttered a short humph, and smoothed the edge of the blanket over his slippered feet.

  “Stop fussing with me woman,” Edwin chuckled. “My helper has returned. Go back to tending to your customers.”

  “Have your fun,” Mrs. Wyatt sighed, “Though your grandson might boil you alive for it.” She pressed a soft kiss to his temple and swept out of the room. Lena was silent, Mrs. Wyatt’s remark repeating in her ears.

  “Figure of speech,” Edwin grinned, waving her forward with his crooked fingers. “Come, lass. I’ve been eager for your return.”

  “I’m sorry I was gone so long,” Lena apologized, crossing to her usual chair and wrapping Edwin’s expectant hands around the parcel.

  “Hours tend to slip away in Soren’s shop,” Edwin replied, wholly unbothered. “How was my young friend? Did you find him well?”

  “I think so,” Lena replied. “He seemed to be in good spirits, although . . . he wouldn’t take your money, Edwin.” She scooped the coins from her apron and deposited them onto the footstool in a small heap.

  “He’s too good to me,” Edwin s
mirked. He made no move to reclaim the shining, silver pieces, working at the bindings of his package instead. His quivering hands betrayed his age as he tore the paper wrappings away. Although perhaps he was merely excited. Lena hadn’t noticed him trembling before.

  She watched as, swiftly, a leather-bound book was revealed. Its cover was textured with tidy, raised beads, but otherwise blank.

  “What are you doing?” Lena asked as Edwin moved his fingertips from spine to brim and back again.

  “Reading,” he replied. “Do you see?” He lifted a hand, searching for hers, and Lena slipped her fingers into his grasp. He lowered her palm to the bumpy leather, then tipped open the cover and passed her fingertips over the first, textured page.

  “They’re letters,” Edwin explained. “Letters for the unseeing. A world contained by invisible words, just waiting to be discovered.”

  He smiled as Lena danced her fingers over the page.

  “I used to put Jace to bed with a story,” he said, his voice dropping an octave at the memory. “He never liked them, even as a child.”

  Lena lifted her eyes, surprised. “I’ve always liked stories,” she remarked. It was a favorite pastime of merrow, to gather together and exchange favorite tales.

  “As have I,” Edwin nodded. “I’ve tried in vain to change his heart, to make him wonder, to make him dream. That boy knows how to argue, how to demand explanations. He doesn’t know how to believe.”

  “Do you believe in many things?” Lena asked quietly, clasping her hands together in her lap.

  “I do, lass. There are a great many things in this world that cannot be explained. The moon. The clouds. The sea. And you, my dear . . . you are a mystery. A miracle.” He chuckled. “I suppose a kindly woman always is.”

  “No,” Lena replied, swallowing tightly. She scraped a loose curl over her ear. “If only you knew . . .” She’d broken the laws of the merrow. She’d been rash and careless, and her brother had paid the price with his life.