“I understand,” she said. That stutter had been inadvertent, a product of his pain and the weakening state of his body. She tried a second time, and was rewarded by a weak nod.
When Brida pointed to the merchild, the merman replied with a another higher whistle, one that made the child open her eyes and chirp at him. He chirped back, lifting one hand to cup the small face in comfort.
Brida’s eyes teared up, and for a moment she could neither whistle nor speak. Somehow she had to find a way to save these two. With a series of hand gestures, spoken word and the whistling of their names, she tried to convey the beginnings of a plan to get them both to the water.
He passed out in the middle of her oration, and Brida gasped when his body went slack. The merchild echoed her alarm, tiny fluke slapping the seaweed mounded under her. Brida promptly forgot the last consequence to her mistake of getting too close and rushed forward to lift the merman in her arms. He was monstrously heavy, and her arms strained under the weight as his head lolled back.
“Oh no,” Brida whispered. “No, no, no, no. Don’t you dare die on me.” She bent lower to listen, tears streaming down her face when no sound issued from his nose or mouth. She shook him as much as her strength allowed. He didn’t even flinch, body limp as a sack of grain. The child’s anguished mewing was nonstop now and growing louder.
“It’s all right, little one,” Brida lied. “He’s just sleeping.” The long sleep. The death sleep. Brida shook him even harder, panic giving her strength. A faint gasp followed by an even fainter exhalation gusting across her cheek sent a surge of relief—no, joy—coursing through her. She whistled his name, and his eyes opened. This time his pupils had changed shape, dilated so they converged to create a black horseshoe that almost eclipsed his pale irises.
Brida braced his torso on her knees and gently turned his head so that he faced the frightened merchild. His slippery hair spilled through her fingers where she cupped the back of his skull. “Show her you live.”
Whether or not he understood her words, he comprehended their intentions and issued a series of weak chirps that calmed the merchild. Brida carefully lowered him to his side on the seaweed, noting for the first time the ridge of a small dorsal fin that ran the length of his spine. The change in position exposed more of the grievous bite wound but also eased his breathing.
The merman reached for the child, and Brida helped him, careful only to touch his arm as he nudged the mergirl onto her side as well. Like the adult, the child’s breathing grew less labored. Brida sat back on her haunches and exhaled. Maybe, just maybe that small position change had bought them time.
She had an idea, one that held no guarantees of saving the pair, but it was better than nothing, and leaving them here on the beach. They’d be dead by the next day. If she could get both back in the water, they at least had a chance.
She spent the next hours keeping the two wet and cool with water from the diminishing tidal pools and hauling cut seaweed to the wagons farther down the beach. Brida declined offers to join others for lunch or a quick rest when she emptied her baskets at the wagon. By the time the harvesters called it a day, she was nearly seeing double from exhaustion. Still, her charges clung to life.
Cloud cover pillowed a sky the dull color of flint. Brida was grateful for it. Right now, the sun was an enemy, its warm rays punishing splinters on the beached merfolk. She briefly considered covering them both with a blanket of wet seaweed but discarded the idea. Their bodies gave off a feverish heat now, the shimmering sea colors streaking up their skin nearly gone, leaving their bodies and faces ashen. Piling on wet seaweed might camouflage them from passersby, but they’d overheat even more without the cooling breeze from the Gray drifting over them.
Brida crouched before the merman and whistled his name. His eyelids twitched but didn’t lift. She touched his cheek, unsurprised at how hot it felt beneath her finger. “I’ll be back when night falls. Hold on a little longer. Both of you.”
It was hard to walk away from them, even harder to pretend with her brother that nothing unusual had happened while she harvested. She glanced up at the dreary sky, silently counting the hours until nightfall when she could return to the shore unobserved.
Laylam side-eyed her curiously as he drove his wagon back to the village, its box piled high with dripping seaweed. “You’re far away in your head, Brida. Quieter than usual. You feeling peaky?”
She patted his arm, offering a tired smile and a yawn that was far more sincere than affected. “Sorry. I’m just sleepy. I might even nod off on your shoulder before you drop me home.” She resisted the temptation to look back to the beach slowly disappearing behind the feathery barricade of salt grass.
“Janen kept you and the others at the castle too long last night. He knew we had harvesting to tend to today.” Laylam flicked the reins, coaxing the horse into a faster clip. “Don’t worry about feeding me supper. Norinn said she’ll have a plate ready for me when I get home. One for you too if you want.”
“I just want to sleep. Tell Norinn thank you and that I’ll see her tomorrow to help you both with laying out the seaweed to dry.” She didn’t lie. If she didn’t have two merfolk to try and save, she’d fall into her solitary bed without undressing and sleep until one of her nieces or nephews pounded on her front door the next morning. But slumber was a luxury that would have to wait.
The obscured sun bloodied the western horizon by the time Laylam delivered her to her door. She waved to him from the doorstep until the wagon turned a corner and disappeared behind a row of houses along Ancilar’s market road.
Hinges squeaked softly as she pushed open the door and paused. A scent of exotic spices mixed with perfume teased her nose. She’d smelled that scent before, though the memory only skated the edges of her mind before flickering away.
The house she once shared with her husband Talmai was small and sparsely furnished, the line of sight from the door stretching into parlor, kitchen, larder, and bedroom. Silence rested within the empty rooms as if waiting to greet her the moment she crossed the threshold. Dust motes danced in the air, illuminated by the last bits of fading light that speared the front window. The pair of buckets she’d set out to catch the rain from her leaking roof stood undisturbed, nor had the book she’d left in her chair by the fire been moved. Still, she hesitated at the doorway, sensing a difference in the feel of the house from when she’d left it hours earlier.
She crept across the parlor on quiet feet before easing the poker from its stand by the hearth. Only her heartbeat sounded in her ears, and she gripped the makeshift weapon with both hands, ready to bash or stab anything that leapt out at her. Fear sent a trickle of sweat down her spine despite the house’s chill, but anger at the thought of someone robbing her pushed her deeper into the rooms. She refused to abide a thief. If she caught one, they’d regret ever crossing her doorstep.
No one. There was no one. Neither in the bedroom nor the larder. Not lurking under the kitchen table or hiding behind the two thorny bushes in her garden. Still she couldn’t shake the sensation that someone had been here, creeping about, touching things. The thought made her skin crawl.
She closed her door and threw the bolt home. Ancilar was a small village where most everyone knew each other. People didn’t steal from their neighbor, not if they wanted help for some calamity later. That someone might have done so here didn’t bode well for her or anyone in the village.
Sick dread roiled in her belly. She returned the poker to its spot by the hearth and strode to the bedroom. The floorboard under her bed hadn’t been moved, and she exhaled a hard breath when her hand dipped into the hiding space beneath the floor and felt the pouch of coins.
Her relief died a swift death as the memory of Lord Frantisek’s aggressive guest blossomed in her mind. The nobleman named Ospodine had stared at her flute with the fixation of a zealot.
The scent. She knew it now. Ospodine had reeked of it.
“Oh gods,” she muttered. “Not the flute! Not the flute!” She raced from the bedroom into the kitchen, stopping in front of the cupboard where she always stored the instrument. It lay as she’d left it, still within its protective cloth. Brida’s hand closed around it in a death grip, hesitating when more of the perfume and spice combination buffeted her nose.
She almost tossed the flute from her then, furious at the idea that anyone would dare enter her home and rifle through her things while she was gone. It didn’t matter that nothing was taken, she felt violated. The urge to torch the house warred with her reason that reassured her a hard day’s worth of scrubbing, mopping and washing would take care of the smell.
Still clutching the flute, Brida double-checked the bolt on her front door and did the same for the back before inspecting the latch at every window.
