Between the Sea and Stars

by Chantal Gadoury

  “You’re coming to the inn?”

  “Haven’t you heard? It’s Samhain. The whole town will be wild with drinks and dancing and fun.”

  Lena nearly groaned at that. She’d seen quite enough of wild villagers that morning. But . . . dancing. That was a particularly human thing to do. Something she’d heard of but had never seen. Something . . . romantic.

  She recalled the stories of the queen and her human lover, swaying together beneath the moonlight on the beach.

  “Samhain.” She tested the word.

  Soren nodded. “It’s a common festival in port-villages like this one, where sailors ship off and never return, claimed by the sea. We celebrate the memories of our loved ones with music and feasting. The lost souls join us, or so people say. We can’t see them, but we can feel them. They’re with us, within our reach.”

  Javelin.

  Lena folded her arms over her chest. Would he be within her reach?

  “Edwin tends to read his cards to those who wish to hear their fortunes told,” Soren went on.

  “Have you ever . . .?”

  “Had my fortune told?” Soren asked. “No, I can’t say I’ve ever allowed my old friend the pleasure of reading my cards.”

  “Why not?”

  “I suppose it goes back to my mother.” He peered up at her. Hesitation edged into his tone. “What happened to her . . . I can almost picture it, even though I didn’t see it. The way she died . . . drowning in the open air. Gasping for water. Suffocating. It must have been horrible.”

  “But didn’t Edwin and your father return her body to the sea?”

  “Whether they did so in time to save her . . .” Soren trailed off. “I’d like to think that, if she were alive, if she’d survived . . . somehow, she would have returned to us. To me.”

  Lena bit her lip. She’d survived, but she could never return to her father, no matter how much she loved him, ached for him. No matter that she missed him every hour of every day.

  Soren sighed. “It would dampen every joy of my life, to know such horrors awaited me. And if I discovered that a different future, a better future, lay ahead, could I ever really be content with the present?” He shrugged, as if the answer were clear. “I’d rather live day by day. Relish every moment. Especially moments like this one.”

  He met Lena’s violet eyes, then tilted his chin to the sky, basking his face in the sun. Lena watched him, envy creeping into her heart. She bowed her thighs against her chest and gazed anxiously at the sea.

  “And you?” Soren asked after a moment. “Would you wish to know your future, if you had the chance?”

  She shook her head. “I already know it,” she breathed. “And I already know there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

  Soren glanced at her. She could feel the weight of his eyes, but she kept her gaze straight ahead, and folded her elbows tightly around her knees.

  “I’m alone, Soren,” she confessed.

  “I’m here with you now.”

  “No.” She swallowed. “My father . . . my brother . . .” She trailed off. The burden of guilt was excruciating. “I’m alone,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. “I deserve to be alone, and that’s all I’ll ever be.”

  24

  That evening, the inn bustled with excitement. Mrs. Wyatt decorated the house with colorful wreaths and lined the windowsills with candles. A clutch of sailors lounged on the lower steps of the staircase strumming crude instruments with bows—the same sort Lena and Javelin had once unearthed from a small passenger ship for their grotto. Then, the wooden artifacts had been fractured or reduced to rubble. Now, beautiful melodies drifted through the halls. Music spun through the air like a swirling current and seemed to fill the empty spaces in Lena’s heart. She wondered if her brother’s ghost would return this evening to hear it too.

  Mrs. Wyatt was in high spirits, which only added to the strangeness of the day. She chirped her instructions rather than barking orders, and hummed along when the sailors began to sing.

  “Place these outside the door,” she said, extending a tray of sweetbread to Lena, who accepted it with eyebrows raised. “Treats,” Mrs. Wyatt explained, “to appease sulking spirits and keep any hauntings at bay. Samhain is a time of celebration, after all!”

  Lena did as she was told, though she couldn’t help but wonder . . . Would Javelin sulk if he came tonight? Would he blame her for his death?

  She sighed. She blamed herself. That was all that mattered. Javelin would still be alive if she’d merely been content with her life the way it was.

  Content, or afraid? Those had been Edwin’s words.

  Well, perhaps a little fear in one’s heart was a good thing. Fear of the surface, instead of curiosity or envy, would have kept her brother safe.

  Lena felt a warm hand on her elbow and turned to see Jace standing beside her, a slim white candle glowing in his hand. He was wearing a sleek new jacket with a high collar. The scarf Lord Jarl had gifted him was neatly tied around his neck.

  “Would you help me light the rest of the candles?” he asked, tilting his head toward an adjacent room.

  Lena nodded, wishing away the tears that had begun to form behind her eyes. She followed him into the window-lined parlor, where rows of candles were arranged on the edges of every sill and shelf. Jace crossed to the first and lowered his candle to its unlit wick. The little dewdrop of fire moved effortlessly, wick to wick, one flame becoming two.

  “Do you like to celebrate Samhain?” Jace asked, offering the new candle to Lena.

  “I’ve never celebrated it,” she confessed softly.

  “No? Well, I suppose this can be a first.” He dipped his candle to another and motioned with his fingers for her to do the same. “Mor will serve everyone a warm meal. The villagers will sing their songs. Some guests will wear masks, to prevent the ghosts of their loved ones from following them home.”

  “Why should they want to do that?” Lena wondered.

  “Not everyone who dies is happy to go, I suppose,” Jace smirked. “It’s just for fun, Lena,” he added, nudging her playfully. “I would say it’s a waste of time, but it brings a lot of money to the inn.”

  “You don’t believe that lost souls truly return, do you?”

  He gave her a pointed look, then returned his eyes to his task. “The dead are dead,” he said dryly. “Gone for good, like a shipwrecked vessel. They don’t come back.”

  She thought of Javelin, dissolving to sea foam, and sighed.

  “Don’t look so disappointed,” Jace teased. “Is there a lost soul you were hoping to see? A . . . suitor, perhaps?”

  She stared at him, brow tugging together over the bridge of her nose. “I would want to see my brother again,” she answered.

  Jace blushed. “Of course,” he rushed to say. “I wasn’t thinking . . .” He chewed his bottom lip. “I guess, if the dead really did come back . . . I’d want to see my father. When I was a boy, I spent every Samhain in hopes that he’d appear. That he would give me a sign, tell me . . . tell me that Pop’s predictions were true. That I really was destined for something greater. Ridiculous, right?” He grinned—an unaffected gesture, but Lena felt compelled to touch his hand.

  “Maybe he will.” The words hardly seemed enough, but it was all Lena could think to offer.

  In the room beyond, the musicians had begun a new melody. Guests could be heard bustling through the doorway, shouting greetings to one another, clapping along with the sailors’ song. Lena turned and saw Lord Jarl in the distance, his posture proud and stiff, so at odds with the happy atmosphere. His dark eyes met hers, passing over her face before sliding to Jace. She shivered.

  “Sounds like the celebration is beginning,” Jace said quietly.

  Lena turned back to find that he’d straightened his spine and planted his hands on his hips. His stance looked alarmingly like Jarl’s. Her heart staggered over a beat. Jace extended his hand out to her and tilted his head toward the dining hall.


  “Do you want to dance?”

  She blinked. She’d only ever heard of lovers dancing together—the queen and her beloved.

  “You want to dance with me?”

  “Sure.” He beckoned her into the fray with a grin. Lena hesitated a moment before following him. A few villagers were already dancing, arms linked as they swung one another around and around. Others whistled and stomped their feet to the beat. Jace grabbed Lena’s hand, and she froze.

  “I don’t know the steps,” she stammered, a tentative smile on her lips. She did want to dance, and this seemed like a friendly number, if there was such a thing.

  “I’ll teach you,” Jace snickered. “Just follow my lead.”

  He tugged her forward, pinching her fingers in his. Around them, heels clopped and frilly dresses swished. Elaborate masks glittered beneath the fully lit chandeliers.

  “Try to keep up,” Jace teased. “Come on.” He pressed a hand against the small of her back and pulled her into his embrace. Embarrassment crept over Lena’s neck as Jace guided her into an awkward sway.

  “That’s it,” he encouraged, and led her swiftly across the room, timing his steps to the cheerful cadence of pipes and violins and drums. More guests joined in, and soon the whole room was laughing and spilling their foamy drinks as partners jostled against one another.

  “Hold on!” Lena giggled, tripping over her feet as Jace attempted to twirl her. Her head fluttered with dizziness as she stumbled back into his arms. The rowdy song came to an end and the crowd erupted into applause. Lena panted for breaths as a gentler melody began to play.

  Guests strolled to their seats to nibble on sweets. Lena spotted an empty chair and had taken a half step toward it when Jace latched onto her again.

  “Where are you going? Wouldn’t you like another dance? You can’t be finished already.”

  Lena glanced at those who remained on the floor. This was what she’d envisioned when she heard the stories of the queen—couples bound tightly together, whispering affectionately into one another’s ears. Jace pulled her back against his chest and wrapped his arms around her hips.

  “Now put your hands on my shoulders,” he instructed. Lena obeyed, though she felt a bit odd. This dance was clearly more intimate. Jace smiled, pleased to have gotten his way. He took the lead again, guiding her body. This dance was slower and certainly easier, but Lena found herself reminiscing about the first.

  Jace’s eyes fused to her face, but Lena couldn’t quite meet his eager gaze. Instead, she looked about the room. Mrs. Wyatt was making small talk as she passed out steaming plates. Just beyond her, Lord Jarl loomed in the doorway, his presence dark and foreboding. A shadow on the brightly lit hall. The soft melody died away and another jaunty, quick-paced tune began. Lena slipped out of Jace’s arms as resting onlookers joined back in.

  “I need a few moments to catch my breath,” she reasoned. Jace trotted along beside her as she crossed to the far corner of the room.

  “Where’s Edwin?” she inquired, scanning the crowd for him.

  “Pops normally stays in his room until the noise dies down a little,” Jace answered. “He says the spirits have a better chance of finding him there, apart from the masses.”

  “But I heard that he tells fortunes?”

  “Oh, that he does.” Jace emitted a rueful laugh and plucked up a pitcher of mead and two cups from a nearby table. He poured a drink for each of them, passing the honey wine along to Lena. She took a whiff of it and wrinkled her nose.

  “Try it,” he insisted.

  Lena took a careful sip. The drink was sweet, and had a sort of zest and sting as she swallowed.

  “Good, yes?”

  “It’s . . . different.”

  Jace seemed satisfied with her answer. He took a hearty gulp and dabbed the froth from his lips. “Ready for another dance?” he asked her.

  Lena raised her brows, alarmed. Her heart was still thundering with exertion. In spite of the warm refreshment, her breaths came short. She drifted her gaze over the tireless guests—kicking up their heels, tossing their partners into their air, singing and carrying on.

  She paused on a tall, familiar figure, fair-haired, dressed in soft gray and ocean blue.

  Soren Emil.

  His green eyes caught hers, and he lifted a hand in greeting. Lena ducked her chin and smiled shyly in reply. He was her friend, but Jace was her rescuer. She suddenly felt very aware of the boy at her side. Jace tracked her line of sight and groaned.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “But Samhain’s only just started!”

  “I guarantee you won’t miss anything. The dancing will continue all throughout the night. None of the festivities will end until the sun rises again.”

  Lena glanced at Soren once more. He was watching the dancers, hesitation faint in his eyes, a pleasant smile on his face. Would he wish to dance with her, she wondered?

  She felt Jace’s hand on her elbow, nagging her away.

  “Take a walk with me,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly, boy,” a deep voice purred.

  Lena’s breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she turned to see Lord Jarl standing just behind them, eyes slit with amusement. His movements were slick and deliberate as he unfolded the slender arms strapped across his chest. With a long finger, he slipped a lock of hair over Lena’s ear.

  “Such a pretty little pearl,” he sneered. “It’s no wonder young Wyatt wants to steal you away before anyone else gets their hook in you.”

  “What do you mean?” Lena stammered.

  “Haven’t you noticed how the men admire you, my sweet?” His breath was hot on Lena’s face. Beside her, Jace was frowning, though he couldn’t quite muster the nerve to speak. Or perhaps . . . perhaps he cared more about his apprenticeship than Lena’s uneasiness.

  Perhaps he truly only cared about himself.

  But that was silly. He’d rescued her. He might have a short temper, but he was helpful and kind.

  Lena begged the little flame of dismay in her heart to blow out. Hadn’t she been just like Jace once? Thinking only of herself?

  “Are you enjoying your Samhain?” Lord Jarl’s eyes raked over Lena’s body, tracing her curves. A cruel smile spread across his jaw. For the first time, Lena was thankful for her cumbersome clothes.

  “You know,” he went on, leaning dangerously close to her ear, “You remind me of someone I once knew.”

  Lena’s stomach twisted into knots. She stifled the urge to bolt for the door, though everything was telling her to run.

  “It’s no wonder you’ve bewitched my simple apprentice,” Lord Jarl teased. He flicked his dark gaze to Jace, who flushed red. “Just as a merrow lures unsuspecting men to the sea.”

  25

  Lena sucked in a breath. Panic shuddered down her spine.

  He can’t know, she assured herself, though her body was reeling. He can’t know. But if she lost her composure, she might give herself away.

  A soft hand cupped her shoulder and she jumped.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Soren’s flushed faced greeted hers, and she could have collapsed with relief. He dipped a welcoming nod to Jace and Lord Jarl, then returned his warm attention to Lena. “Would you care to dance?”

  “I’m quite terrible at it,” Lena admitted softly. Soren’s smile was kind as he leaned forward to whisper into her ear.

  “I am too. But I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

  “She doesn’t want to dance,” Jace burst, stomping forward. Soren straightened and arced a brow at Lena, confused.

  “I apologize, Mr. Wyatt,” he began. “I noticed Lena standing apart from the crowd and thought to ask her. I didn’t realize the two of you were here . . . together.” It was more question than statement. Soren tilted his gaze to Lena, inviting her to nod, or shake her head. Lena’s lips parted automatically. Would it be terribly rude to disagree?

  She held her tongue.

  “We’re not—” Jac
e huffed, cutting his own words short. “She’s not missing out on anything.”

  A knowing smirk slithered over Lord Jarl’s jaw. He glanced among the three of them, then quietly excused himself and slipped into the fold. Lena thought he looked somewhat like a shark gliding among happy schools of brightly colored fish, contemplating which of them to gobble up next.

  Jace jerked his gaze after his new master and scowled.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Soren was saying.

  “If you want to avoid any more disrespect, I insist you leave.”

  “Jace!” Lena snapped her gaze between the two men, and noticed Jace’s fists tightening at his sides. Soren seemed to notice too, for he took a step back and lifted his hands in defeat.

  “I apologize, Mr. Wyatt.” His nodded deeply, then tilted his green eyes to Lena, as if he might say something more. Hopefulness glowed at Lena’s core—for what, she couldn’t be sure. Another invitation to dance, perhaps?

  But Soren only said, “Lena,” uttering her name as if it were a good-bye, and walked away.

  She whirled on Jace. “You had no right to treat Soren Emil like that,” she insisted.

  “He didn’t need to come over here and barge into our conversation.”

  “He was asking me to dance,” she retorted. “He wasn’t barging into anything.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so . . . so angry. It was strangely gratifying to be consumed by something that wasn’t sorrow or fear or despair. She spun on her heel and pushed through the crowd.

  Jace trailed closely behind, calling after her, but just then, the band sprang into a rowdy number. All around, guests rushed to take part, laughing and swerving and twirling. Lena peered over her shoulder, but couldn’t spot Jace anywhere.

  Good, she decided, and slipped into the kitchen.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Wyatt started, lifting a tray of beverages toward her, but Lena breezed right past. A flicker of guilt warmed her cheeks, but she ignored it, crossing to the door and storming out into the cool, night air. She wasn’t in the mood to serve anyone this evening, and she certainly wasn’t going back into the dance hall to be accosted by Jace or Lord Jarl again.