Between the Sea and Stars

by Chantal Gadoury

  Nothing but silence responded.

  Lena took a step further into the foyer, shifting her curious gaze to the tidy rows of books stacked against the walls. Paintings were arranged between them, encased by simple, wooden frames—turquoise and sapphire renderings of the sea. She clutched her heart, dreadfully homesick.

  “Back so soon?”

  Lena startled, and spun around. Soren stood at the entrance to the hall, one shoulder braced against the wall. He nodded his greeting, and smiled warmly as Lena blushed.

  “Has Edwin finished his book already?”

  “It would seem so,” Lena said, taking in the sight of him—his unruly pale hair and deeply green eyes. He’d folded the white sleeves of his shirt to the elbow. A pair of vertical brown straps were strung over each of his shoulders, attached to his trousers by tarnished, brass clasps. “He’d like to order another.”

  “And I’d be happy to fulfill his request. Did he happen to say what sort of book he’d prefer?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Ah.” Soren slid a hand into his trouser pocket. “I’ll do my best to pick something he’d like. Or, if you have any suggestions . . .”

  Suggestions? Lena doubted he’d have merrow stories etched in any of his books.

  “None that I can think of,” she murmured.

  “Would you like to have a look around? Maybe you’ll find something you’d like to read yourself.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t. Thank you, but . . . no.”

  “How about some tea, then? I was just about to put a kettle on.”

  Tea. The bitter brown brew he’d made for her yesterday. Lena hadn’t liked it, but . . . she’d liked Soren’s company. She began to nod before she even realized what she was doing.

  Soren’s green eyes sparkled. He tilted his head over his shoulder, toward the darkened hall, beckoning her ahead of him.

  “After you,” she stammered, and he chuckled.

  “You’ll have my father turning in his grave.”

  He led her back into his living quarters, sliding the door shut with a thud. Then he crossed to the little table beside the window and pulled out its lonesome chair.

  “The paintings in the foyer are beautiful,” Lena said as she sat. She followed Soren’s gaze to a small portrait, framed in iron and positioned at the highest, tented point of the wall. A woman’s face, gazing serenely down upon them. She hadn’t noticed it yesterday.

  “My mother’s work,” he confessed. “I’m terribly biased, I suppose, but . . . they are beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Lena nodded in earnest, recalling each scene. Waves crashing along the shore, one during the day, with the sun high in the sky. Another with the moon full and bright. She’d seen paintings before—the palm-sized portraits Javelin collected from sunken ships; women, mostly, their long legs bared, their fingers and throats laden with jewels. But she’d never seen a painting of the sea.

  Soren tucked his kettle over a mound of red, hissing embers. He perched on the hearth and tracked Lena’s gaze to a shelf stacked with thick shards of obsidian.

  “It’s obsidian,” he said. “It’s . . . a rare item from the sea.”

  “Yes,” Lena breathed. Such treasures would have fed her family for months. “Why do you have it?”

  “I suppose you could say I’m a collector of sorts.”

  “Ship logs.”

  “Among other things,” he shrugged. “Things most people think are . . . useless. Odd. Unnecessary.”

  Lena scraped her chair away from the table, unable to resist stroking the sleek face of each obsidian piece.

  “Here,” Soren said, and came to stand beside her. He rose up on the balls of his feet and removed a large conch from the shelf above her head. “If you place it against your ear, you can hear the sea’s waves.”

  Lena raised a disbelieving brow, and he grinned. Slowly, gently, he lifted the shell to her cheek.

  “See?” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s almost as if you’re at the ocean.”

  Nerves buzzed in Lena’s belly. She pressed her eyes shut, listening carefully. The ocean roared through the wild pulse in her ears, and she gasped.

  “How?” she asked, her violet eyes bulging wide. Soren chuckled again, and shook his head.

  “My mother was the first one to show me that trick, when I was a child.” He replaced the conch on its shelf and returned to the fireplace. “She used to tell me that the sea was full of secrets, and that was merely one of them.”

  How right his mother had been about such things.

  “Edwin told me you’re especially fond of the sea.”

  “Yes,” he said carefully, and darted a glance in her direction. “I am.” He bent to retrieve the kettle. Steam collected beneath his chin, shrouding his face, as he filled a mug for each of them.

  “And you, Lena?” he asked, moving toward her. “Do you love the sea?”

  Lena gave a quick, silent nod. “It’s . . . my home,” she murmured softly.

  “I suppose it can feel that way to many,” Soren agreed. “It certainly tends to feel that way to me. Don’t worry,” he grinned, slipping a warm mug into her waiting hand. “It’s mint.”

  He took a long sip, eyes gleaming with laughter, as if to show her it was safe.

  “May I ask you a question, Lena? You may think it a bit . . . strange. I’m a bookkeeper, not a sailor, so perhaps it’s silly of me—to wonder about such things. I know it’s silly, in fact. The village has made that exceedingly clear . . . But you’re not from this village, are you?” He set his mug aside and raked a hand through his white-blonde hair. “Forgive me,” he sighed. “I’m rambling.”

  “Not at all,” Lena replied.

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re extraordinarily polite?”

  She nearly laughed, but shook her head instead, confused by his sudden hesitancy. “What was it you wanted to ask me, Mister Emil?”

  “Please, call me Soren.” He took up his mug again, and folded himself stiffly into Lena’s chair. “There’s a reason the sea feels so familiar to me. A reason nobody in this village wants to believe. But I believe it. I believe it,” he repeated, staring at his knees. He set his jaw, wet his lips, and lifted his gaze.

  “Do you believe in the folk stories about the merrow people?”

  Lena’s breath caught in her throat. Her stomach plummeted. She knew she should say no, but he was staring at her so intensely. And she hadn’t lied to him, not yet. She hated to start. So, she said nothing.

  “I do,” Soren continued, his voice low. “And Edwin does, too.”

  20

  “The merrow people?” Lena repeated his words as she lowered her mug from her lips.

  Soren’s hesitant smile slowly vanished. His emerald gaze flickered away. Lena held her breath, acutely aware of the distance between herself and the door. Did he know what she was? If she ran, would he lurch after her? Stab her, or strangle the air from her lungs? Slurp the blood from her veins until she was nothing but an empty, hollow vessel?

  A shiver of fear rolled over her spine. If she fled now, he’d suspect her for sure. She clenched her teeth and waited for Soren to speak.

  “Yes,” he said at last, staring into his cup. “There are people who believe, Lena. Especially here. Sailors mostly. Most people . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Most people only tell stories of the merrows for fun.”

  Lena passed her gaze over the shells and obsidian shards and fish skeletons which littered his shelves.

  “You believe,” she said quietly.

  “I do.” He paused, and forced an easy chuckle. “I really must apologize. We’ve only just met, and already, I’ve revealed myself to be a fool.”

  “No,” Lena insisted, touched by the disappointment in his eyes. “I . . . I don’t think you’re a fool.”

  Soren raised a brow. “It’s easy to see why Edwin’s taken a liking to you.”

  She blushed. Soren blew the steam from his mug and took another slow sip
.

  “The village laughs at us both, you know,” he confessed. “Me, especially,” he smirked, “For I have the grave misfortune of youth. They call Edwin a crazy old man, but me? They just call me crazy. So I keep myself tucked away in the Bror Boghandel.”

  He turned, motioning for her to follow as he pushed through another large door.

  Lena crept behind him, nearly forgetting to keep her distance. The small space was cluttered with crumpled sheets of yellow parchment. Faded maps and hastily scribbled notes were tacked to the walls. Soren crouched before a large leather chest and lifted its lid. Curiosity ached through Lena, tugging her further into the room.

  She bent beside him. She’d seen similar chests on occasion, submerged in the sand, heavy with gold and silver pieces, with intricately-embroidered sheaths of water-logged fabric, with jewels. Soren’s chest contained tall stacks of loose parchment. Sketches.

  Lena clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “I found these when my father died,” Soren was saying. “It’s my mother’s hand. There are dozens . . .”

  Lena lifted a small stack and fanned through the sheets. Each depicted an underwater scene. Cavern homes, schools of fish swimming nearby. Fields of coral. Crabs skittering across the ocean floor, too deep for a human to ever have seen.

  “This,” Soren murmured, passing her a new page. “The villagers can call me a loon till they’re blue in the face. But there can be only one explanation for this.”

  Lena’s fingers trembled. Before her was a sketch of two merrows, swirling together in the currents of the sea. Soren rustled in the chest again, and withdrew a shattered fragment of opal. A god’s stone. She gasped. How had Soren managed to possess such a thing?

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, his eyes hopeful. Lena darted her gaze away.

  “It’s the stone of the Fosse-Søfolk. I think . . . I think my mother was one of them. She came ashore, and met my father, and she . . . decided to stay.”

  “How?”

  “Beneath the full moon, the Fosse-Søfolk can rise from the water, disguised as humans. That’s what the legends say, anyway. They must return to the sea by the time the moon expires, or wait for the next full moon to rise. Some of them, one of them, at least, wanted to stay here. Forever.” He returned the fractured crystal to the chest.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” he murmured, “Just as I know that it’s true. My mother was a merrow. She never told us . . . never spoke of her life beneath the sea. I’ve been searching for a way to prove that this, all of this, is real.”

  “Perhaps it’s best to leave her secrets alone,” Lena breathed.

  “I thought so once, too,” Soren admitted. He slipped the sketch from her hands, his fingers careful, his touch like air. “She’s a part of me, Lena. Her world is a part of me, too. How will I ever truly know myself if I don’t know who she was, where she came from?”

  He tucked his mother’s drawing away and gently latched the trunk shut.

  “What happened to her?” Lena asked softly.

  “She died.” Soren passed a hand over the back of his neck and sighed. “I was a child. Much as I try, I can hardly remember her. After my father passed, Edwin Wyatt sought me out. Fed me a story about the Fosse-Søfolk. About a merrow who’d fallen in love with a human. About my parents. I thought it was nonsense, but then I discovered all this. And I began to wonder . . . what if it was true?”

  Lena clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

  “My father was never well liked, always kept to himself. Kept to his books, a bit like me,” Soren continued. “One night, two men came to our house, drunk. I hid beneath the stairs. My mother locked herself in her room. Sometimes, I think I remember . . . all the shouting. Covering my ears. But maybe that’s just Edwin’s tale masquerading as a memory in my mind.

  “The men claimed my father owed them a large sum. They smashed . . . everything. Everything we owned. They stomped the god’s stone underfoot, and when they did, my mother became a merrow once more. Edwin says he was passing by when it happened, on his way home from the pub. He heard my father’s screams, and broke through the door. The men were long gone by then, and my mother . . . my mother was barely alive, barely breathing. Edwin helped my father slip her body back into the sea.”

  He dropped his brow into his hand, as if he’d been there when it happened. As if he could see it all clearly in his mind.

  “Do you believe me?” he asked. “I won’t fault you, if you lie. I don’t think I can bear to have another person call me crazy.”

  Yes, Lena wanted to say. What a wretched thing, to be laughed at. To be ridiculed for his most precious belief. She parted her lips. Shut them again, fear slashing her will to ribbons.

  “I think I should return to the inn,” she said quietly.

  Soren held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded. He offered his hand and helped her to her feet.

  “Please don’t forget Edwin’s book.”

  “Of course,” he replied, clearing his throat.

  She gave a thankful nod and turned to leave before he could say anything more.

  21

  “Where have you been?”

  Mrs. Wyatt’s voice pierced through the busy kitchen as Lena slipped into the inn. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, her complexion striped red and black by the flickering flames of the hearth behind her.

  “Lord Jarl has been here for more than an hour. We’re about to serve dinner and he’s requested our presence. All of us, Edwin too. As if we don’t have a thousand other chores to do,” she added beneath her breath. “Go on! Go fetch him,” she barked, shooing Lena out of the kitchen, toward Edwin’s room. “Make sure he looks presentable!” she called, then whirled back around to deliver clipped orders to one of the cooks.

  Lena didn’t hesitate. She darted through the kitchen doors and slunk swiftly through the crowded foyer, keeping to the edge of the room, hoping to remain unseen. Jace and Lord Jarl were seated at one of the longer tables, deeply engaged in conversation. She was nearly into the hall when Lord Jarl noticed her, and smiled.

  She ducked her chin to her chest and hurried away, half afraid he would follow her. His dark gaze shuddered through her mind, refusing to dissipate. By the time she’d tucked herself safely into Edwin’s room, she was out of breath.

  “You’ve been away for a while, lass,” Edwin remarked as she thrust the door shut and snapped its clunky latch into place. “I was beginning to wonder if Soren had enraptured you with his collection.” His mouth curled up in a grin. Lena’s frown remained in place.

  “How did you know it was me?” she asked, raising a brow. Suspicion swam through her, an ugly feeling she did not like. Edwin’s grin only widened.

  “You have a special sort of light that I can see in my darkness,” he confessed. “Everyone has a sort of glow, a shadow sometimes. But you, lass. Yours is the brightest soul I’ve ever seen.”

  Lena swallowed. “Mrs. Wyatt wishes for me to bring you to dinner. Lord Jarl is here.”

  “Pleasantries for the peacock, hmm?” Edwin mumbled. “Fine, fine. Bring me my rolling chair, dear.”

  Lena followed the wave of his hand to the corner, where a wheeled chair was collecting dust, nearly hidden by shadow.

  “My son made it for me,” Edwin explained. “A first of its kind.”

  Lena glided the chair to his side. “Why do you not use this more? You could go into town. You could go to the sea!” Her voice drifted to silence as Edwin shook his head.

  “T’would break my heart, lass. I’ve seen the world, sailed from shore to shore. It would only be a reminder of what I cannot see anymore. So I stay here.”

  Lena hastened to help him as he pushed himself to standing. She guided him gently into the wheeled chair.

  “Are you comfortable?” she asked, and he nodded gruffly, his bones crackling as he shifted in the bowed, leather seat. She stripped a thick woolen blanket from the bed and smoothed it over his lap, tucking it tightly beneath his
knees. Edwin reached for her arm, and she paused.

  “Tell me Lena,” he said. “Am I a burden to you?”

  Lena lowered her brow. Edwin’s thin, bottom lip was quivering. His colorless eyes were bathed by a thin sheen of tears.

  “Not at all,” she promised. “You’re my friend.” She knelt at his side, cupping his trembling hand in her own. “You remind me of my father,” she admitted softly. “It’s . . . nice to take care of someone again.”

  “But who is taking care of you?”

  She smiled. “I have a home here,” she said. “Meals, shelter.”

  Edwin waved her words away. “Takes more than a roof and a bowl of dismal stew to make a home,” he muttered. “The world has more to offer, lass. Much more.”

  “Wanting more can be a curse,” Lena murmured. “I’d rather be . . . content.”

  “Content, or afraid?”

  She stared at him. The moment stretched long.

  “Come,” Edwin sighed. “Let’s not be late.” He gestured to the handlebars behind his head. “Give the ol’ girl a push, lass. Onward, to the pompous—”

  “Edwin!” Lena giggled, even as her wary eyes flicked to the door. What if Lord Jarl was just outside, listening? She rolled Edwin into the hall, and nearly ran right into—

  “Jace!”

  He skipped backward to keep Edwin’s wheels from crushing his toes. A new silk cloth was wrapped around his neck. Had it come from Lord Jarl?

  “Mor was wondering what was taking you so long.”

  “We’re coming lad,” Edwin smirked. “Or has the food already grown cold?”

  “You know mor,” Jace insisted, his blue eyes snapping to Lena’s face.

  “I know Lord Jarl just as well,” Edwin replied. “He’ll have a come-apart if things aren’t exactly as he wishes.”

  Jace shushed him, and glanced over his shoulder. “Just, come on,” he mumbled, guiding them back toward the makeshift dining hall.

  “Ah, Edwin Wyatt,” Lord Jarl purred as Lena pushed the rolling chair to the far edge of the table. His gaze floated between the two of them, dark eyes sparkling with a cruel delight. “And my little pearl,” he added. “Have you been enjoying your stay?”