Between the Sea and Stars

by Chantal Gadoury

  Lena kept her gaze low as she took her seat beside Edwin.

  “Such long faces,” Lord Jarl crooned. “And on an eve when I’ve brought such happy news.”

  “Perhaps you could tell us, then, and let us eat in peace,” Edwin snapped.

  “Perhaps I should count my losses and have this wretched inn shut down.”

  Mrs. Wyatt appeared at the table almost instantly, smacking a dish in front of Edwin.

  “What’s that about happy news?” she asked, forcing a cheery tone.

  “I suppose it’s really Jace’s news to share,” Lord Jarl remarked.

  Mrs. Wyatt sat and turned her attention to her son. Jace cleared his throat, darting his eyes from Lord Jarl to his mother and back again.

  “Well, speak up boy,” Edwin cajoled as he leaned his elbows on the table. “My stomach is growling.”

  Jace sucked in a breath. “I’ve accepted Lord Jarl’s offer,” he began, his voice much too loud and a bit unsteady. “He’s extended an opportunity to me . . . one I would be remiss to turn down.”

  Lord Jarl nodded deeply, and Lena had the distinct impression that every word had been rehearsed.

  “I’ll be educated,” Jace continued. “I’ll learn a trade.”

  “His trade,” Edwin corrected, and Jace nodded.

  “Yes. In exchange, the debt owed on the inn will be paid in full.”

  Silence settled across the table. Lena’s gaze flickered from Mrs. Wyatt to Edwin, then back to Jace. His lips were pressed in a firm line, his eyes wide and desperate.

  “Please, mor,” he murmured.

  “You’re a young man, Jace,” Lord Jarl remarked, and took up his cutlery. “You don’t need your mother’s permission.”

  “That’s enough out of you, Jarl,” Edwin glowered. Mrs. Wyatt cleared her throat.

  “Jace, I cannot ask you to pay for this inn with your . . . your life. Your future.”

  “Madam, if I may,” Lord Jarl interrupted. “Jace will be receiving the best education one can receive in this town. If all goes well, I may even decide to claim him as my heir.”

  “Claim him?” Edwin snarled.

  “It’s what I want,” Jace said softly.

  “It’s what you all should want for him,” Lord Jarl declared. “A chance to rise from the ashes. To make something of himself.”

  “To take your name. Carry out your wickedness, your gluttony. Is that the future you want, Jace? To be this devil’s errand boy?”

  “Enough.” Mrs. Wyatt’s complexion had paled. “Lena,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “Return Edwin to his room. Now.”

  “No skin off my back,” Edwin huffed as Lena rose from her chair. “I’d rather starve than sit through another meal with this—”

  “Pops!” Jace interjected sharply.

  “Hop to, lass,” Edwin muttered. “Wheel this cranky old loon to his room where no one will hear him.”

  “Scurry along to your cards, Wyatt,” Lord Jarl sang, his tone dripping with pleasantness. “You’ve clearly forgotten how to speak to your betters, but perhaps the spirits will remind you.”

  “You’re a curse, Jarl,” Edwin growled over his shoulder. “A curse on more than just my family.”

  Lena clutched the handlebars of his chair and wheeled him quickly down the hall, desperate to separate the two men before they came to blows.

  “Bring me to my desk, lass,” Edwin said as she pushed through the door. “My cards . . .”

  Lena guided his hand to the proper drawer, nearly yelping when he yanked it open and prowled his fingers about for the black satin pouch. He snatched it out, and dumped the vibrantly painted deck into his lap.

  Lena backed away from him, retreating to the door, alarmed by this new, violent attitude. She’d never seen Edwin in such a terrible temper before. With feverish fingers, he sifted through the cards.

  “A curse,” he muttered. Lena inched into the hall on the balls of her feet.

  “A curse on the land and the sea.”

  22

  “What did he mean by that?”

  Lena was perched on her bed, knees tucked against her chest, violet eyes pinned to Jace where he stood beside her hearth with a bundle of kindling.

  “Being a curse?” Jace shrugged, and dropped a thin log onto the glowing embers. He peered at Lena over his shoulder. “The gods only know.” He crouched and shoved in the rest of the kindling, then stirred up the flames with a sharp, iron poker.

  “He hates Lord Jarl. Most people do.”

  “Don’t you?”

  He heaved a long exhale. “How can I turn him down, Lena? He’s giving me a chance at a different sort of life. A better life.”

  Lena bit her bottom lip and shifted her gaze to the glaring fireplace.

  “There,” Jace muttered. “A cold snap’s coming through, but this ought to keep you warm.”

  “Thank you.” She curled her fingers into her palms. What would it feel like, she wondered, to pass her hands through the flames?

  “Sure.” He glanced at the open window, then crossed the room and clapped it shut. “Autumn’s almost done,” he noted. “Cooler tides will be here soon.”

  “Cooler tides?”

  “Aye.” Jace stared wistfully through the foggy windowpane. “Winter’s always been my favorite season, you know. The skies turn dark, the air nips at your skin. The land becomes so bitterly cold that even the heavens crack open, scattering the earth with perfect flakes of white ice. Then spring creeps in, and new life rises from those barren fields of snow.”

  His cheeks flushed suddenly. He shoved his hands awkwardly into his trouser pockets.

  “Well,” he said. “I suppose I should let you get some rest. I’m sure this evening’s theatrics were exhausting.”

  He rocked forward on his heels, as if he were waiting for something. A moment passed, and his cheeks burned scarlet.

  “Jace, wait,” Lena said, halting him halfway to the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you be inviting Lord Jarl to dinner again?” She tried to make her voice light, tried to mask her apprehension.

  Jace winced. “Not if I can help it. Our meal this evening didn’t go exactly as I’d planned.”

  “I’ve never seen Edwin behave like that.”

  “Lord Jarl has a certain . . . effect on people, I guess. Sometimes, I’m glad Pops is so decrepit. I’m sure he’d throttle the man if he could manage it.”

  Lena raised a brow, amused. “I’d like to see that,” she said.

  Jace chuckled. “It would be a sight, wouldn’t it?”

  She nodded, pleased by his laughter, his smile. She pushed out of the bed and crossed to the hearth. The flames warmed her skin, warmed her very bones. But her heart remained lonely and cold. Jace filled the space beside her.

  “I know what it’s like to make a decision without thinking it through,” she murmured.

  “I have thought it through. Completely. I don’t need Pops or mor or you, telling me what to do. I’m a man, Lena.”

  “You’re not much older than I am, are you? I think we’re more alike than you realize.”

  He huffed. Lena drew in a breath, and reached for his hand.

  “I made a mistake once. Not so long ago, actually. I . . . I didn’t think of my father, or my brother. I made a choice which I can never take back.”

  “Is that why I found you washed up on the beach?”

  She lowered her gaze. Jace stroked his thumb over her knuckles.

  “It wasn’t your responsibility to save them, Lena,” he sighed. “When a ship goes down, when you can feel the whole world sinking around you . . . all you can do is try to save yourself.”

  23

  Lena didn’t go to Edwin’s room the next morning after she’d slipped into a pale blue sundress and tugged on Jace’s old boots. The inn was more crowded than usual—common for a Sunday, Mrs. Wyatt remarked, so there would be more meals to serve, more dishes to clean, more chores to do.

  Ex
tra chairs were crushed around the dining tables, filled with rowdy sailors. They smashed food into their mouths and argued over gambling debts. Occasionally, one would cause Lena to jump as he slammed down his mug of ale—a crude show of satisfaction, Mrs. Wyatt reassured.

  Lena did her best to ignore the commotion, though it was shockingly uncouth. Much as she tried, she couldn’t quite close her ears to the mainstays of the morning’s conversation: record-breaking hauls of fish, shifts in the weather, and women.

  Lurid stories of loose, unmarried girls confused and frustrated Lena. She might not know the ins and outs of human courting, but she cringed at the throaty guffaws that sent food spraying out of sailors’ mouths. She worked quickly to clear soiled dishes away; quicker still, when the men began to whistle and wink at her.

  The inn felt cramped and confining with so many guests stuffed inside it. A desperation to escape built in Lena’s body, in her mind, till she could barely stand it anymore. Her head throbbed with a dull ache as she cleared away the last of the plates. Her gaze flitted again and again to the window. Before she knew it, her feet were guiding her through the front door, over the dying meadow, and down to the sandy beach.

  The sun was bright this morning, the late autumn breeze barely a ghost against her lightly fluttering clothes. Lena closed her eyes, listening to the whispering song of the sea. It emitted a breathy lullaby, like the ones Carrick had hummed when she was young.

  Sunlight wrapped around her body, lush ribbons of heat, and the memory of Asger’s moonlight-stained face filled her mind. She remembered the warmth of his skin. How his hands had twined possessively with hers. How the queen’s shell had burned against her throat, nearly scalding her. She clutched the delicate conch, which had cooled quickly at Asger’s retreat, then pulled shut the wool shawl she wore around her shoulders.

  The echo of her name drifted into her ear, muffled by the rush of the tide, so she almost didn’t hear it.

  “Lena!”

  She turned and was startled to see Soren Emil approaching from the distant end of the beach. His hair was nearly white, paled by the glare of the sun. His brows were raised with surprise, but his smile was warm.

  “I didn’t expect to find anyone here,” he explained as he neared. “Normally, I’m quite alone on these shores.”

  Lena’s gaze darted to the waves, wondering if Asger was hidden beneath them. If he might lift his eyes just high enough to spy on her. A strange sensation of guilt rippled through her chest.

  “That’s not to say I’m not pleased to see you,” Soren added. He’d come to a stop, a polite distance away.

  Lena couldn’t help but think of Asger’s firm embrace. Of his strong hands, clutching her forearms; how he’d tightened his grip on her, so insistent, even as she’d struggled away.

  A part of her was happy for the comfortable space Soren maintained, but another part wished he’d come closer . . . Just a little bit closer . . .

  She tried to shake off the feeling, but it remained.

  “I hope I didn’t ruin things when we spoke the other day.” Soren paused, his eyes dipping to his feet. “I have a tendency to scatter new friends to the wind, simply by wagging my tongue. We’re hardly friends yet, I know that,” he hurried to say. “But . . . I’d like us to be.”

  Lena blushed and clutched her fingers at her waist. She wanted fiercely to admit that she believed him—believed every word of the story he’d told her yesterday. To swear that she would never call him crazy, or try to humiliate his convictions away.

  She thought of how exasperated Javelin and Asger had been by her insistence that humans were just like merrow—some of them bad, and some of them good.

  “You haven’t ruined things,” she said.

  Soren lifted his gaze. Skepticism dimmed his emerald eyes. “You’re kind, Lena.”

  “I mean it,” she promised. She took a step toward him, desperate to convince him. He was a person, like any other, and he deserved friendship, validation, belief.

  “I’m happy to see you,” she confessed. “I had to get out of that inn.”

  “Oh?” He tucked his hands into his pockets.

  “Mrs. Wyatt’s guests were especially lewd this morning.”

  “Ah,” Soren chuckled. His body relaxed, and easiness returned to him. “Sunday sailors. They can be a bit . . . enthusiastic, can’t they?”

  “I might choose another word,” Lena grumbled, and was ridiculously relieved to see him grin. “What’s brought you here so early in the morning?”

  “I thought I’d do a little scavenging,” Soren shrugged. A breeze ruffled his hair, lending a boyish charm to his pleasant face.

  “Scavenging?” Brightness speared into Lena’s tone.

  “For shells,” Soren explained, “though it’s usually my luck that I end up with a bunch of rocks and folly.”

  “The best shells are found in the shallows,” Lena advised, and he nodded.

  “Alas, we’d sink quickly if we waded into the ocean, fully dressed. And good society demands that neither one of us part from our clothing or shoes. I, for one, should never see the delicate areas of your ankles.”

  Lena wrinkled her nose. “That’s absurd,” she blurted out.

  Soren laughed. “It’s civilized,” he corrected her, “which I suppose is a word often synonymous with absurd. Even so.”

  Lena rolled her eyes and shucked out of her shoes.

  Soren’s smile vanished. “Lena . . .” His gaze punched upward, away from her feet.

  “Edwin’s cards are absurd,” Lena reasoned, “but I believe in them, just the same.” She realized, with a start, that it was true. “The things you told me yesterday, Soren . . .”

  He parted his lips, as if he might take it all back; every word about his mother, about the merrows. But he couldn’t. That, Lena noted, was the steadfastness of his belief.

  “Your story was absurd,” she decided—for what human would disagree? “But I . . . I believe in it, too. I believe you, Soren.”

  He stared at her. Behind his clear green eyes, awe warred with disbelief.

  “Now let me be absurd,” Lena smiled, “and bare my ankles. It can be our little secret, if you wish.” She pinched up her skirts and started for the surf, calling over her shoulder, “No civilized person shall ever hear of this!”

  Soren kept his chin high, overtly averting his eyes, and she smirked. She recalled Mrs. Wyatt’s mouthy sailors. Thought of Jace—who’d all but seen her naked already. Of Lord Jarl’s unwanted attention, and even of Asger, commanding her body against his, though she’d tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

  By human standards, Soren Emil might be the only civilized man she’d ever met.

  She couldn’t prevent a happy sigh as her bare feet breached the frothy tide. She raised her hem higher, curling her tip-toes over the cold, wet sand. She scanned the crystalline water for hidden treasures, wondering what Soren might like. An unfractured conch, perhaps, or a handful of oysters. Maybe they’d be lucky and pry one open to find a glossy-pink pearl.

  She scooped up a yellow fan-shaped shell, the same shade as the dandelion weeds she’d admired in the meadow. It was as broad as her palm and completely intact. She tossed her head over her shoulder, raising the shell for Soren to see.

  He was staring at her.

  She ambled back to the shore.

  “You’re like a wild merrow,” Soren teased softly. “You looked as though you’ve always belonged out there, in the sea.”

  His fascination should have unnerved her, but instead, Lena felt pleased. She tucked the shell into his hand, her wet fingers leaving trails of water droplets on his skin.

  Soren cleared his throat and lifted the shell to the sun to get a better look at it.

  “Lovely,” he decided. “Perfectly sweet.” He glanced at Lena, and she blushed. “What else are you good at?”

  “I’m quite good at crabbing.” Somehow, it didn’t feel like a boast.

  “Crabbing?” Soren’s surprise mad
e her smile. “I must admit, it’s a rare meal for me. Soft-shell crab costs a pretty penny at market.”

  “But you can find them right here!” Lena replied, gesturing to the packed sand beneath her feet.

  Soren ducked his gaze, forgetting himself for a moment—forgetting to be civilized.

  Lena giggled

  “That’s a fine trick,” he remarked, flushing slightly and leveling his gaze with haste. “I wonder, could you teach me?”

  “To trick men into admiring your ankles?”

  “To catch crabs.” He bit back his grin, though his voice was thickly amused.

  “It’s not so hard.” Lena hesitated for the barest of moments, then grabbed his hand and tugged him down to his knees. “They linger just beneath the sand. Look for bubbles, and you’ll discover a crab buried just below.” She spoke quickly, eagerness dancing into her tone, and tapped her fingertips over a cluster of telltale pinholes carved into the beach.

  “You’re going to soil your dress,” Soren murmured.

  Lena winced, examining her knees. Mrs. Wyatt would be cross that she’d dirtied the garment. Perhaps she could wash it herself in the sea . . .

  “Look!” Soren’s hand sprang to her arm, and her worries dissolved. A scaly, red leg had emerged from the sand.

  “Catch it!” she giggled. “Catch it!”

  Soren blinked, then fumbled a pocket knife out of his boot. The crab dashed toward the edge of their shadows, making haste toward the sea.

  “Quick!” Lena cried, tears of laughter filming her eyes as Soren hustled after it. He clapped a hand over its shell and slid his knife into its belly. The crab ceased its flailing in an instant.

  Soren glanced at her, heaving breaths. “There,” he panted. “Easy.”

  “We can catch a few more, if you’d like.” Lena nodded to another smattering of bubbles, teasing him.

  “I think one is enough for me,” Soren replied. “I’m clearly a natural. It’s almost unfair, the advantage I have.” His mouth broke into a smile. “Besides,” he continued, “I shouldn’t want to ruin my supper. I thought I might join the festivities this evening at the inn.”