A shiver runs through the ship as the sails catch the wind. Isabel follows Jack into the cabin. A set of documents sits on top of the desk tied with a yellow silk ribbon and kept in place by the weight of the inkwell. Next to it is a parcel wrapped in cream muslin.
“But this is extraordinary,” says Jack, inspecting the papers by the light of the lantern.
“Is everything in order?” she asks softly, taking care not to get any of the crusted blood from her hands on the parcel.
“How did you get these?”
“Harriet,” she says.
Jack laughs. “Lady Darby got these for us? With Sir Hugh’s seal?”
“She helped me cut my hair, too.” She opens the muslin wrapper. Folded up inside is Mrs. Dowling’s wedding shawl with a note on top. In flourishes and curls, it reads:
Dear Isabel,
I expect you may have need of this. I wish you both every happiness. That you may always live outside your walled garden.
With love from your friend,
H.A.
P.S. I found this letter when I folded your dress. As it is unopened, I thought I’d best include it.
She places the muslin cloth holding the shawl on Jack’s desk, careful not to touch the wool, and lifts the note. Underneath is a smallenvelope, the paper creamy and textured,stampedRoscoff.She breaks the wax seal and withdraws the letter. Jack is still examining the ship’s license. She turns away from him, and by the light of the moon falling in through the skylight, reads:
My dear Mrs. Henley,
As promised, I write to you regarding your possible family, the Du Ponts. While I have yet to gain intelligence about any living relatives or the family’s estate, I have come across the most curious of stories. Numerous people have told it to me; there are some variations in their telling, but in the main it is this:
Long ago, in the time of Tristan and Iseult, it is said there was a woman who formed a union with a merman. A child sprang from this union and was called Du Pont, for she formed a bridge between our world and that of merfolk. According to the tale, the child’s descendants possess the ability to transform into merfolk at will or in times of great need—the stories vary on this point—but if they keep to their aquatic form too long, they find themselves unable to change back. One member of the family, a Jean-Jacques Du Pont, who lived until 1712, is buried in the cathedral of Saint-Pol-de-Léon. I have visited Monsieur Du Pont’s grave and found an image of a merman carved in the stone.
I hope you won’t think me fanciful in relating this tale to you. It is but a story, and in this age of reason appears unlikely to be true. However, as Captain Carlyon mentioned the Sea Bucca in connection to your appearance in Cornwall, I felt it too great a coincidence to ignore.
I hope you will visit Roscoff again soon. I shall be glad to show you the cathedral if you like.
With warmest regards,
your friend, Lucie Cuvelier
She lowers the letter, the phrasein times of great needrevolving in her mind. Outside, the water of the cove laps at the hull of the ship. She has but to think of it to feel it: the sea’s cool embrace, the underwater breathing, the swish of a tail. Memories drift closer until she can touch them. They’re memories she did not know she possessed.
A raging sea and a fear so deep not even the voice crying out for her can mitigate it. It’s a voice she knows well, crying a name she hasn’t heard in years: Aurélie. Then the suck of the water, cold and dark around her. Everything is calm. The storm still rages above, but under the surface she’s safe. The fear leaves her. Her dress is a sail, a veil. It blooms around her. There’s a flash of scales and someone is saying, Aurélie, it is time to swim. Hands push her back up to the surface. She doesn’t want to go, but they insist.
Don’t leave me, she says in words made of water. The voice flows, ebbs, swirls: I must find your maman. Did her father speak the words or the sea itself? The ocean breathes deeply. It’s about to spit her out, back into the place where things are hard and harsh and bright. I want to go home, she says, but the voice of the sea answers: swim, my child.
“What have you got there?” Jack, behind her, a hand on her shoulder.
She folds the letter and shoves it into the pocket of her breeches. She turns to him, smiles. “Nothing.”
The memories hold her, but Jack is here, holding her, too.
Reaching for her hand, he catches sight of the cuts. “My God, Isabel.” He takes both her hands in his and inspects the palms. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There wasn’t time. And it’s fine, the cuts aren’t deep. See? The blood has already dried.”
“I wish Rowell was here to take a look at them.”
“It doesn’t hurt. Not much, anyway. I could always see a doctor in France, if need be. That’s where we’re going, isn’t it?”
