“Mhm, except for that fisherman. He’ll still pay, just not with his blood,” she mumbled with her eyes closed, another yawn breaking up her speech. “Do you promise?”
I couldn’t promise such a thing. If it came down to it, I had no qualms about relieving the man of his life if he attempted to claim the woman in my arms. She wasn’t mine, and that was the whole point. She wasn’t anyone’s, and I’d kill that man to have it remain true.
“Sleep, little droplet,” I cooed, stroking back the baby hairs that invaded her forehead. She was always beautiful, but in this state, it did more than drive me mad with desire. Her beauty shone from within, and the grief mixed with it made my very heart ache for her. “There are far better things to dream of than this.”
When Breena’s eyelashes began to flutter, I pursed my lips together and focused on what sleep would sound like: peace personified. A soft song flowed from my lips, swirling around Breena and sinking into her temples. The dark blue, shimmering magic penetrated her skin, her mind. I closed my own eyes as I continued to sing, and I thought of flat, warm rocks baking under the summer sun. I thought of the brilliant waves of the sea misting them, kelpies and selkies darting around in a perfectbalance of peace and life. I thought of her home, what I imagined the cove looked like based on all she had told me of it.
When Breena’s breaths deepened and she lost all awareness, I let my mind slip into a beautiful dreamscape full of music and freedom. I hoped that, if we slept close enough, we could live in each other's dreams, and I could keep her tears at bay there as well.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHORTBREAD AND SHORTCOMINGS
Iwoke to what I think was supposed to be a bowl of eggs on the side table next to me. Propped up against it was a fork and a well-loved recipe card for berry custard. I flipped the worn card over to discover a note from Breena scribbled on the back in crude lettering. It read:
Sid,
I’m out chasing down a lead on the docks and didn’t want to wake you. Thank you for singing me to sleep last night. Your song felt like home…
Meet you at our spot on the fourth strike.
-Breena
“Felt like home,” I repeated to myself out loud. As I did, my fingers found my lips, as if I could reabsorb the sentiment into my fingertips instead of letting it slip away into the morning air. Those three words replayed in my mind as I ate the watery eggs in bed and changed into a flowy white dress that hit my ankles instead of the floor where it was meant to.
Those three words replayed in my mind as I ambled through town, taking in the scent of freshly baked bread and sea salt that lingered in the air where the village met the misty shoreline. They replayed in my mind as I walked through the doors of Muliver’s Glass Masterpieces.
“Sidra! You came,” my grandfather called out, that jolly smile of his spreading ear to ear. He scrambled off his stool behind the register and worked his way around the counter towards me.
“I suppose I did.” I allowed the edge of my mouth to curl upward for a moment in hopes of easing the man’s nerves.
“Come, the workshop is far more exciting than up here with all these knickknacks.” He waved his hand dismissively at his work. When I nodded my head with yet another curl of my lips, he all but skipped to the front of his shop, where he flipped his sign over to “closed”.
“You’re not going to have much business if you keep flipping that sign over,” I said, attempting to be charming, but instead, my words came out like a chastisement.
My grandfather directed me to the back with a nervous chuckle, dismissing the awkward interaction. I cleared my throat and followed him through the door behind the register.
He broke the tension by showing me the project he was working on. He’d prepped for a commissioned bowl and had already picked out the blue and white glass. He laid out the appropriate tools for turning the colored pieces into a cohesive unit, explaining what each tool was and its purpose in glassblowing. I’d been familiar with some of these tools from my father’s many detailed stories about his work, but it was much different seeing them before me, having my grandfather place them in my hands.
My arms were speckled with raised bumps at the mere thought of a past version of my father using the same tools I now held in my hands. I’d been staring down at them, lost in my ownworld, when I realized his father had been talking to me, asking me a question.
“Hmm?” I mumbled, tearing my eyes from the metal clamps I gripped.
“Do you want to try?” His eyes flicked to the piece of curved metal in my hand. “If you’re anything like your father, you’ll be a natural.”
I wanted to tell the man “No” and explain that I wasn’t a natural at anything. I didn’t want to disrespect my father’s craft and taint my memories of it, but the way he stared at me expectantly dissolved my internal protests.
“Yes,” I blurted before I could change my mind. “I’d love to.”
“Alrighty then.” He didn’t fight his contagious smile as he tinkered with a piece of brass on the table. “You just made this old man real happy.”
“Where do we start?” I asked, inspecting his shop with increasingly eager eyes.
“First, you’re going to want to tie that long hair of yours back. My wife, your grandmother, used to like making a big bun right at the base of her neck. Don’t want to catch yourself on fire, do you now?”
“I suppose not.” I took a silky blue ribbon from his outstretched hand and began twisting my hair back the way he’d suggested. If anything, I could at least offer him nostalgia for the woman he loved.
“Ah, perfect. She was blonde like you, you know,” he said with a big smile. I thought for a second that he was going to ask me to perform a twirl, but he simply took me in, his hands clasped in front of him. He seemed… proud. This man I barely knew stood before me looking proud, and all I’d done was tie my hair up. This kind of appreciation was only followed by love, and the feeling that filled me reminded me so much of my father’s.
