The waterfall was incredibly loud this close; she pressed her cheek to his as they passed under it, the cascade of water almost bruising against her bare skin. Unable to restrain her curiosity, she looked around. The small cave behind the fall was coated in pale green moss, the air inside much cooler and scented with some indefinable wild tang.
"Why are we—"
"Privacy," he said, kissing the side of her neck. "Do you ever find yourself listening to a music no one else can hear?"
It was becoming increasingly more difficult to concentrate on his words when his hands were sliding over her body like that. "Music in the wind? On the waves?"
"Yes. A song without words. A melody you feel in your very bones?"
"Yes! God, I mean, yes. Sometimes I—I can." Her back was pressed against the wall of the cave, the sharp edges of the rock cushioned by the soft moss.
"When I saw you, I knew. I could see it in the way you swam, how the water welcomed you. You have the sea in your blood. Humans usually cannot hear its song, but you can."
"Here, right here," Harry said breathlessly, guiding his hand. She was incapable of getting her legs to cooperate any more, and surely would have sunk to the bottom if he wasn't bracing her so effortlessly. "Oh, God..."
"I have you," he promised.
"Yes, yes, you do."
He whispered something, another language, something so musical that no human could repeat it, and she felt as if she was melting and flying and drowning all at once. The green light of the cave, the rain-like patter of the waterfall, the warm weight of him against her, the scrape of his beard on her cheek, the delicious pressure of his fingers, his inhuman voice in her ear: it all bled together in an overwhelming rush.
And afterwards, when she had time to reflect, she would swear that yes, she heard the song of the sea. She felt it as if it were an inextricable part of her, an impossible sixth sense that told her where the whales sang in the deepest trenches and how the light glistened on the backs of breaching sharks. In that moment, with Kai, she had a sense of the magnitude around her and how her single note fit in to the wild symphony.
Bravery and Trust
How could something feel both right and completely wrong?
In the weeks since the reunion with Agnessa and the rescue from his blighted ship, Alvar had found it difficult to step out of the shadows and back into the light. The loss of Sven, of his whole crew, weighed so heavily upon him. Such an experience was not one that could be easily shaken off.
And then there was the profound and very familiar shame that had been dormant for months, only to burst back into full flames: that he had never been as strong as his sister.
Agnessa had always refused to blindly submit to Father's orders. She had dared his displeasure, defied all polite society, and run away to sea rather than accept the unacceptable. She had been true to herself no matter what it cost her, willing to toil and endure all manner of distasteful things, because she had a core of steel.
And Alvar? Was all jelly and no spine.
When he should have raised his voice, he whispered. When he should have stood firm, he stepped back. And when he should have accepted who and what he was, when he should have been proud of his feeling, passionate heart, he hid it all beneath bland smiles and obedience.
The only time he had ever been truly brave had been with Sven. For the first time in his life, he had embraced his nature and dared to love another man, and had been well-loved in return. It had been impossibly freeing, for all that they had been forced to keep their love secret. Just being together had been enough, even with all of the subterfuge and snatched moments.
Now, with the portrait of Sven that Silence had drawn hanging on the wall of his compact bunk as a talisman of comfort; with all of his secrets bared to a sister who understood and accepted; and with all of the pain and horror receding further into the past, Alvar was trying to reclaim his sense of self. Or perhaps he was trying to discover who he truly was now that he was no longer suffocated by Navy or father.
For the very first time, he could live without strict regulations. He could openly show his feelings and desires.
So why was it that his desires were now muddled and confusing?
All his life, he had found himself drawn to men. His most passionate dreams had involved large hands, muscled torsos, and... other, decidedly masculine, pieces of anatomy. He enjoyed the rasp of a bearded chin when he was kissed and the heavy pressure of firm thighs against his.
Since puberty, such things had been exceedingly attractive to him—and on the flip side of the coin, he found himself completely uninterested in all things female. The idea of laying down with one thrilled him not at all; in fact, he was certain that he would be unable to perform with one, at least not in the way society expected. He might be able to touch a woman, perhaps even kiss her, but he would never be able to make love to her. That would require a stiffening of certain muscles that would refuse to cooperate unless properly aroused. And no woman had ever aroused him.
Until Marcella.
It happened so gradually that he hardly noticed it. That first week on the black beach, she came to sit with him every day to discuss their shared interest in music. She showed him how to play the pipes she carried with her at all times—rather like the panpipes of ancient Greece and carved from whalebone, she told him—and he in turn taught her how to coax a melody from a stringed instrument.
They discussed composers and their preferred styles. Debated the merits of classical training (him) versus being self-taught (her). She told him about the sirens and mermaids she had seen while sailing on The Sappho and described the unique sounds of each pod and tribe; some merfolk sounded like choirs of celestial angels, others like loud parrots, and some clicked and screeched like dolphins. She had a rich singing voice and an incredible range; she would often accompany him when he played by the fire after supper.
Little by little, he opened up to her—and she returned the favor. She told him of the chaotic, sprawling family she had left behind when she took up with Harry's crew, the dozens of aunts and uncles, the hundreds of cousins. He shared embarrassing anecdotes of his private school years: how he was frequently taunted by bullies and even more frequently sought solace in the quiet music classroom with an understanding, if ancient, professor. She showed him the piece-of-eight threaded on a leather cord that she wore around her neck at all times, a bit of luck her favorite uncle had given her as a child. He explained how his fear of heights had started after being chased up onto the roof of the naval academy by the other cadets, a prank that ended when he very nearly fell through the crenellations.
In a matter of weeks, Marcella had become an intrinsic part of his life. Yes, the entire crew was a part of his life now, too—but none of the others came close to approaching the importance she had unexpectedly gained. He would wake up in the morning and one of his first thoughts would be about her: a question to ask her, an opinion to share, a thought to discuss.
They would sit together by the fire, at the trestle table in the galley, and share loaves of bread and cups of ale. No matter what mood he was in or how the day was faring, his spirits would always lift at the sight of her. Soon, a thrill would shoot up his spine when she approached or flashed him a quicksilver smile. He became acutely intuitive of her thoughts, able to read the slightest expression on her face: he learned that her pointed chin would cant to the right when she was worried, that her left eyebrow would arch up when surprised while the other remained fixed in place.
"You and Marcella are thick as thieves," Agnessa commented one cool night as they tacked eastward through a sharp wind. Both of them were at the helm that evening to keep The Sappho on her course as a gale brewed on the horizon. They were only a couple of hours away from Nalani and everyone was hoping to make landfall before the rain fell. "I'm glad."
"Because I've made myself a friend?" he asked with a laugh. He'd always found it difficult to make friends; Agnessa had never had that trouble. Funny ho
w that was, given that he was forever eager to please while she was obstinate and outspoken. Perhaps it was more because he was afraid to fully trust people, with so much of his life a secret, and others could sense that reticence, while Agnessa didn't care what anyone thought and so was wholly unaffected, her sincerity and honesty drawing people in like moths to a flame.
"Yes, but I was thinking more that she finally has a friend," his sister replied to his surprise.
"She's been on the crew for years," he said, confused.
"Yes, and the rest of us have always been friendly to her," Agnessa explained, "and she's been friendly back—but none of us have ever truly been taken into her confidence the way you have. She and Zora are fond enough of one another, but they're not exactly close. And Lizzie, well, you know how welcoming Lizzie is. But even with her there's a distance, as if Marcella is afraid of her. She and Jo understand one another, I think, because of their faith, but they're both so stoic. It's hard to tell if they share anything more than Sunday prayers. I tried to talk with her, the first few weeks I came aboard, and it was like trying to hold onto an eel. She was always slipping out of our conversations, finding something that she needed to do. She's an extremely private person—I know next to nothing about her beyond the fact that she's a Christian and plays the pipes."
"She's never spoken of her family? All of her mad aunts and uncles?" Alvar said. "Or how she's afraid of reptiles, even Tazu?"
Agnessa shook her head. "All news to me, brother."
He mulled that over. Clearly, Marcella had trusted him when she trusted very few people—that was a warming, somewhat giddy thought. She'd chosen to confide in him, to befriend him, when none of the others had managed to scratch beneath her surface; he had never been someone's first choice before.
For a moment, he felt special.
He hadn't felt special since Sven.
And that was when it hit him: he was falling in love with Marcella. But how had it happened? Surely, he couldn't be attracted to a woman—but no, that wasn't entirely true. He was attracted to her, he realized with a gulp. She had such arresting eyes, and thick black hair, and skin that was golden and smooth in the sun. As he mentally assessed her he felt his cheeks flush and his heartbeat quicken. There was an electrifying energy about her when she moved and the features of her face could be staggeringly beautiful in the right light, in the sway of her quicksilver moods. That pointed chin, the full bottom lip, the rounded cheeks—she was so youthful and vital, and yet, she could smile or laugh or frown and everything would sharpen to a razor's edge. Even the crescent scar high on her cheek was appealing, a reddened curve that would darken when she was angry and blanch when she was worried.
Alvar knew that some people felt attraction for both genders, but never, not once, had he felt even the slightest of stirrings for a woman before. He didn't know how to handle such a revelation.
In fact, he even wondered if there wasn't some external force causing this. Perhaps a bit of Hope's magic had gone awry, or one of the many blessings she'd given him over the weeks had had unforeseen side effects. Could it have anything to do with the healing Silence had done to save his life? Could the siren have unintentionally reworked some fundamental part of him?
He began to doubt his own feelings; they were so contrary to his past experiences. In his emotionally-fraught state after the burning of The Princess Ilsa, had he latched onto Marcella in an unhealthy way? What if this love was only misplaced gratitude and friendship? After all, the loss of Sven was still fresh and sharp; he couldn't possibly be in love again, not truly, not so soon.
Because if he was, what did that say about his heart? That it was inconstant and weak; that he had never deeply loved Sven, not in the way he deserved.
With these heavy, dark thoughts to brood upon, Alvar hardly noticed the anchoring at Nalani and the clamor of the crew disembarking. He found himself jostled along in the general bustle, climbing out of a landing craft with no recollection of who else had been rowing beside him.
In the months since discovering this particular spot of paradise, The Sappho's crew had done much to entrench themselves. There was now a tiny village of wooden huts on raised stilts dotting the beach, more permanent protection and far sturdier than tents, especially in a downpour. The watchtower had been ringed in a tall protective fence. Bamboo shoots had been planted and cultivated at the edge of the tree-line, to provide cover and windbreakers for a small vegetable patch that flourished without any human assistance.
As the crew ran across the beach with their arms laden with supplies and heads bent against the whipping wind, a scaly delegation appeared to greet them. Tazu's people made a point of welcoming them every time they landed. Wil said they claimed it was a sign of respect, but she suspected they simply worried about one of their hatchlings and wanted to assure themselves that he was still whole and able. The Chief ducked his head and flicked his back frill at Lizzie with a pleased burble—ever since she had carved a huge stone altar for his impressive pearl collection, she had earned herself an honorary position in the Clan, not to mention his undying respect.
"We will feast tomorrow," Wil promised the Clan as thunder crackled overhead. "A huge feast, with many stories."
"We shall begin preparations," the Chief agreed, before turning sharply and disappearing back into the trees. The other iguanas followed, glad they had done their duty and eager to reach their warm caves at the base of the volcano before the rain began to pour in earnest.
"Alv, are you okay?" Agnessa asked, catching his expression as everyone dispersed to their respective huts.
"Of course," he said, flashing a quick smile. "Stay dry. Good night."
He ducked quickly into his shelter as the sky opened with a roar. It would be a cold and solitary supper tonight. Some of the other huts had been polished enough that they had fire pits or tiny charcoal braziers to cook meat and boil water over, but his was a very simple, somewhat ramshackle affair, being more recently erected than the others. He hadn't had the time yet to add many creature comforts, so he would just make do with day-old biscuits, an apple and carrot, and some dried beef.
As he chewed on the apple, he considered lighting a candle end and reading for an hour or two. But he was thoroughly tired from the day's journey and didn't want to risk falling asleep beside a lit candle—with his luck, the hut would catch fire. So he made himself comfortable on his thin pallet of blankets and took up his violin.
It was an old, battered instrument he had rescued from a market weeks ago. With Miss Euphemia's help, he had restrung and tuned it, but it still had a plaintive whine that was more suited to folk music than classical compositions. But that mattered little to him: it was music. He could coax sincere emotion out between bow and strings. And he could play in the dark, without a candle or audience.
He was one of the few alone right now; Agnessa had Hugh to keep her warm, Maddie had Franky, Deborah and Katherine would be very warm indeed, and Lizzie and Zora shared a hut—though not a bed—so they at least had companionable conversation to fill the evening. Harry had a little nook on the edge of the lagoon where she could sleep close to Kai (and Isabelle); Miss Euphemia was no doubt continuing Silence's lessons, tempest be damned; and Wil had Tazu and her books for company.
All he had was a violin and his thoughts, and the latter was very poor company indeed. He seemed to be caught in a spiral, constantly circling the same point, going nowhere while he exhausted himself. He tried to break free, tried to focus wholly on the melody he cut from the strings beneath his chin, but he found he could not abandon himself wholly to his playing.
When the knock rattled the very hinges of the door, he was almost relieved. Anyone would be a better distraction right now. "Come in," he shouted over the drumming of the rain and the crashing of thunder overhead.
The door swung open, revealing a cloaked figure, momentarily silhouetted by a flash of lightning, and then banged closed. The darkness filled with the sound of heavy breathing; whoever it was had
made a mad dash through the storm. "Agnessa?" he asked, unsure.
A match flared with a sharp pop and hiss and was pressed to a candle. By the flickering light, it was obvious that it wasn't his sister. "Is it alright if I sleep here tonight?" Marcella asked, pushing back the hooded, waterproofed cape she was wearing. "There's a huge crack in the roof of my hut and the whole floor is already inches-deep in water."
Alvar forced himself to swallow despite his dry mouth. "I've only two blankets," he managed to say in a steady voice.
"We can share," Marcella said blithely. "We're both of us scrawny enough. What were you playing just now? I heard a snatch of it over the storm just before I knocked."
"I don't know what it's called," he said. "I picked it up in Cameroon. When I heard it, it was played with drums and pipes. I've been trying to fine-tune it for the violin for months."
"Play a little of it and I'll try to join in," she said eagerly, pulling out her panpipes.
He started from the beginning and was halfway through when she began to accompany him, an octave higher and in a counterpoint that made the music feel wilder and untamed. It was what had been missing, a second voice to carry the raw energy. The musicians who had played it in Douala had been part of a welcoming committee when the Ilsa had docked for minor repairs; the language barrier had prevented either group from being eloquent, but the music had spoken volumes. This was a song about unfettered joy and excitement; perhaps it was played at weddings or feasts, to chase away evil spirits and bad energy. With Marcella's accompaniment, Alvar could feel the rhythm work its way into his bones. He wanted to get up, to move, to do something worthy of such an ecstatic beat.
"Did you feel that?" Marcella asked, a little breathless, when he stilled his strings abruptly. "It was like I could feel the drumbeat in my chest. Was that a ceremonial song?"
"I don't know," he said shortly, setting aside his bow and looking away from her face. She was too bright in the candlelight, her eyes glittering and smile crooked. The effort of playing had darkened her cheeks and lips a ruddy red. Wet tendrils of ink-black hair clung to her forehead.
The Search for Aveline Page 26
