Upon A Starlit Tide

12. Of the Sea

12

Of the Sea

Of everyone at the ball, Morgan was the only one who knew Luce for who she truly was. Even her own father, a masked Gabriel Daumard looking rather dashing at his side, was looking at Luce as though he had never seen her before.

Won’t people see me?

Not if you don’t want them to.

It was just as the groac’h had said. Luce’s will, her willingness to be seen, dictated who might recognise her. And Morgan... Morgan had seen her because she wanted him to. A strange little shiver, at the thought.

Dancing with Morgan was not like dancing with the others. The air around them was heavy with more than just the scent of flowers and fire. Magic had settled over the dance floor, polishing the stars, gilding the night. And all the while Morgan was sweeping around her, his fingertips touching hers, his hand brushing her waist, his eyes fixed only on hers.

‘You were dancing with my sister, earlier,’ Luce said airily, as the music drew him close. ‘Veronique.’

‘Your sister?’ He frowned, as though trying to remember. ‘Ah. Yes. Politeness dictates that I dance with all the young ladies here tonight.’

Relief, double-edged. On one hand, that her beautiful sister was simply another young lady. On the other, disappointment that he would soon part with her. Several young women were already watching Luce enviously, clustered on the edges of the dance floor like waiting gulls.

‘And will you?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely not.’ He turned her smoothly. ‘I intend to enjoy three dances with you. Perhaps four. And then’—his voice lowered to a whisper as he circled her, his breath warm on her neck—‘I intend to steal you away. If, of course, your father doesn’t see and call me out.’

‘My father doesn’t know I’m here,’ Luce said quietly. ‘None of my family do. There was a... misunderstanding today over my gown. As far as any of them are concerned, I am at home. It is, of course, the advantage of a masked ball. I would be grateful if you kept my presence here to yourself.’

Morgan gave a wicked grin. ‘Of course.’ His fingertips trailed down the inside of Luce’s arm as he placed it atop his own for a graceful promenade. Sweeping to a stop, he moved lightly away, spiraling through the other dancers. Luce turned to curtsey to another gentleman, his appreciative glance sweeping over her as he raised his palm to hers. Behind him, the guests lining the dance floor looked on.

‘Who is she?’ a young woman asked her maman. Her pink lips were puckered in frustration. ‘She has had three dances with Monsieur de Chatelaine now. Three! ’

Luce swept back into the dance, and found herself with Morgan once more.

‘Everyone is staring at us,’ she told him worriedly.

‘Are they?’ His gaze swept over her appreciatively. Her blood, her body, warmed in reponse. ‘I’m almost certain they’re looking at you, not me. Not that I blame them; you do look awful.’

Luce laughed. Around them, the rest of the couples stilled as the music drew to a graceful close.

‘That was three minuets,’ she reminded Morgan.

‘Was it?’ He lifted her hand to his lips, unperturbed by who might see. ‘That’s my limit, I’m afraid. Come. Let us see if we can elude the gulls.’

Luce giggled.

Morgan placed her hand casually in the crook of his arm and led her off the floor.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘Didn’t you want to see my father’s cabinet of strangeness?’

They moved toward the gardens, swiftly falling in with a group of guests about to take an admiring turn through the topiaries.

The gardens, like everything else at Le Loup Blanc, were magnificent. Gravel paths meandered through elaborate parterres, the boxwoods within carved into patterns and spirals as delicate as Gratienne’s embroidery. A pond shimmered out of the darkness, reflecting the lights from the house. Benches rested among beds of roses and lavender, while sculptures edged the path. The most beautiful of these depicted the four seasons. Luce was admiring the flowery wreath adorning the youthful head of Spring when a familiar voice caught her attention. She left Morgan contemplating Old Man Winter and followed the sound, arriving at a small wood at the far edge of the garden. More than one young couple was strolling dangerously close to its shadowy depths.

One of them was Charlotte and Gabriel Daumard.

At the sight of her sister, Luce’s hurt and shock at Charlotte’s betrayal lost some of its power. There was something in the way Monsieur Daumard bent low to hear Charlotte speak. In the way Charlotte looked up at the young tutor...

‘Someone you know?’ Morgan enquired, appearing at her elbow.

‘No,’ Luce said quickly, turning him toward the house. ‘For a moment I thought it was. I was mistaken.’

She followed him along a path heavy with the scent of magnolia, resisting the urge to go back. To step between her sister and Daumard and warn them that they were courting scandal of the most spectacular kind. To remind them that aristocratic young women like Charlotte did not allow their tutors to woo them. Morgan’s presence, and the look of happiness on her sister’s face, stopped her.

Besides, Charlotte was not the only one drifting too close to the shadows this night.

‘The domestiques are all busy with the party,’ Morgan said, opening a small, plain door that was obviously meant for the servants. ‘We shall not be disturbed.’

Luce nodded, suddenly nervous. Other than Samuel, she had never been alone with a man in this way.

She followed Morgan inside, skin prickling at the sudden presence of the storm-stone in its walls, then halted, frozen by the sound of her glass shoes upon the flagged floor. Each step was like a cannon blast in the dark, echoing through the shadowy house.

‘God above,’ Morgan muttered, glancing down. ‘What...?’

‘My shoes,’ Luce breathed. A winding stair of dark wood loomed in the shadows to her right. Servants’ stairs, narrow and steep. She edged toward them and sat, her gown foaming around her, then bent, raising the hem of her skirt. Moonlight spilling from the landing above illuminated her feet, glittering like diamonds on the seafloor.

‘Are they... made of glass?’ Morgan’s voice was soft with awe.

A groac’h shaped them from the sea. Right before she sent me to the ball in a witch-boat. Luce tried, and failed, to imagine his reaction to the truth. ‘I shall have to take them off,’ was all she said.

She waited for Morgan to look away, step back courteously, as Samuel always did. Samuel. Guilt rose in her at the thought of him, sudden and painful. What was she doing ?

Take hold of yourself, ordered a small, stern voice deep within her. Why shouldn’t she be here with Morgan if she chose? Besides, the little voice reminded her, Samuel doesn’t want you. Hasn’t he made that clear?

The pain Luce had tried so hard to ignore, to push beneath the shifting waters and swirling sands of her mind, rose to the surface. It stayed with her as Morgan knelt before her, slowly reaching for her hem.

She drew away instinctively. Her fine silk stockings ended above her knee. Even so, she did not want him to see her feet. ‘Morgan...’

Of the sea, the word meant. An image of him on the beach, his cold hands, his warm mouth. He had wanted her.

‘Let me help you, Lucinde.’ Her name, the three beats of it, sweet and soft against his lips.

‘But...’

It was too late. He had already laced his fingers about her foot. Luce could scarce breathe as he slipped the shoe free and held it up. Light glittered on its curves as he turned it this way and that. ‘Exquisite.’

He looked about for a place to put it, then, with a slight shrug, slipped it into his coat pocket. Luce peered over her skirts, saw that, in moonlight and silk, her foot looked no different to any other woman’s. When Morgan reached for the second shoe, she let him.

‘We should go,’ she said, when the second shoe was safely stowed in his coat.

Morgan’s hand, however, remained on her foot, his fingers running lightly over her ankle.

‘Do you remember,’ he said, quietly, ‘when we first met? On the beach?’

There, in the darkness, Luce’s heart hammered and leapt. ‘You do remember.’

‘Of course I do.’ He looked up, moonshine shadowing his cheekbones, playing in his hair. ‘The most beautiful girl I ever saw, saving me from the sea. How could I forget?’

Oh, how her heart beat. Harder and harder until it must surely burst through her ribs.

‘Why...’ She swallowed. Tried again. ‘Why did you kiss me?’ Her voice was but a whisper.

Morgan ducked his head. She was certain, even in the darkness, that he was blushing. ‘Oh, Lucinde. Do not make me say it.’

‘I want to know, Morgan.’ Just the two of them, here, face to face in the shadows. ‘Please. Tell me.’

Music wafted from the ball, a distant quadrille. ‘Please, Morgan.’

‘There are two reasons,’ he said, at last. ‘The first is that... I kissed you because I could not help it, Lucinde. I had nearly died. And you looked so...’

‘So?’

‘So wondrous. In truth? For a moment, I believed you were a seamaid.’

Fire burned through silk as he stroked her ankle again. His fingers skimmed over her calf. Luce could barely breathe.

‘And what was the second reason?’ she managed.

‘Does it matter?’ Both hands on her calf, now, smoothing the silk. Soft as a butterfly, barely touching, as though it were not a touch at all, but merely the thought of one. Harmless. Inconsequential.

‘Yes.’ Even as she said it, Luce was struggling to remember just what it was she had wanted to know. The air around them had thickened and slowed, water-soft. Part of her wanted him to move away, stand up and help her to her feet. But another, darker part of her longed for... something else.

When Morgan’s hands slid over her silk-clad knee to the ribboned garters holding the silk to her bare thighs, however, the spell broke. As much as Morgan’s touch thrilled her, Luce was all too aware there were certain things respectable young ladies simply must not allow.

‘Morgan...’

His eyes gleamed hungrily for a heartbeat or two. Then he smiled, releasing her.

‘Come,’ he said, rising and reaching down a hand. ‘The oddities await.’

Morgan led Luce through the silent rooms of the malouinière, the sea-glass slippers clinking softly in his pockets. Monsieur de Chatelaine’s cabinet was on the far side of the house, furthest from the river and the ball, and the rooms surrounding it lay in shadow. A single candelabra glistened on a side table near one of the enormous salons, and Morgan scooped it up with one hand, using the other to open a nearby door with a flourish. ‘Voilà!’

The room beyond was large, and very dark. Luce stayed close to Morgan as he prowled effortlessly through the shadows, lifting the candelabra high.

‘Can we be expecting your father any time soon?’ she asked. ‘I doubt it.’ A pool of golden light rose around him as he lit a pair of candles in a sconce set into the wall. ‘My mother will expect my father to do his duty and remain with our guests tonight. I cannot guarantee he won’t come in, though; he does love to show off his collection. It is, of course, the reason he keeps it. What better way to remember his adventures? To reveal the marvelous scope of his empire?’

Luce nodded. Her father had a similar, smaller, cabinet in the town house in Saint-Malo. He was not, however, the collector that Castro de Chatelaine was. This room was known to be the finest cabinet of curiosities in all of Bretagne, its wonders and marvels a spectacle for the senses. At the thought, she ceased following Morgan and came to a standstill in the center of the room, closing her eyes.

‘You sound as though you would like to do the same,’ she said.

‘I suppose I would.’ Morgan’s voice faded as he moved farther away from her. ‘If I were perfectly honest.’

‘And will you?’

‘I will try.’

‘ Try? ’ She managed, with some difficulty, to keep her eyes closed. ‘It seems to me that you will have little need for such efforts. Isn’t it your destiny to be free, and to do as you please? To go to sea, and travel and trade?’ She could not keep the envy from her voice.

‘I suppose it would seem like that to you.’ More light, pinkish gold against her eyelids. ‘But I am not as free as you might think.’

Luce huffed a bitter little laugh. ‘I doubt that.’

‘It’s true. I’m the youngest son. The barest sliver of my father’s wealth will trickle down to me. I must make my own fortune, find my own way. I thought I had begun, too. I had the Dauphin, and my father’s support. But now...’ Even with her eyes closed Luce knew his thoughts had turned once more to the ill-fated Dauphin. What had happened aboard the ship that stormy night? Was it as Bones and Samuel had said? She thought again of the wraith-like forms roaming the shore in the sea fog. Sightless, lost. She longed to ask Morgan what he remembered of the wreck, but found she lacked the courage to do so.

‘And what would you do if you were truly free?’ she asked instead.

‘Truly? I would go raiding—like Surcouf, and our fathers, and the other great men of Saint-Malo. I would chase glory and greatness to one horizon, then turn my ship and chase them to another.’

Luce said nothing. His words had woken a longing in her, a wanting and an ache so bright and true, they burned her soul. She, too, longed for adventure, to see the seas, to sail into the horizon.

‘And if I had to marry,’ Morgan said, his shoes whispering across the polished floor as he came back to her, ‘I would choose someone who longed for adventure as much as I. Someone who would sail beside me, toward distant shores, without fear, or doubt. Someone... brave.’ He was very close to her now. ‘Why are your eyes closed?’

‘I’m waiting.’

‘For what?’ She felt him smile.

‘For the light.’

Morgan leaned in, filling the space between them with the scent of clean linen, his earthy-sweet pomade. She felt his fingers in her hair. Felt the mask fall away from her face.

‘Open your eyes,’ he whispered.

The cabinet of curiosities was easily thrice the size of her father’s, and far grander. Every surface—from the walls to the ceiling to the specimen tables set neatly out about the room—was covered with preserved fish, stuffed animals, strange and beautiful shells (some of which Luce recognised and some she did not), plants, and dried flowers. There were bookcases, too, but unlike her father’s shelves, they were bursting with specimens: dried corals, stones, feathers, and minerals. The walls teemed with flocks of stuffed birds, wings outstretched.

‘See the alligator?’ Morgan said, pointing above Luce’s head. He had removed his own mask, and was all cheekbones and dark eyes, thick hair falling across his forehead. She dragged her gaze away from him and looked up, flinching at the sight of an enormous, scaled creature, murky green and forbidding, its long snout opened to reveal rows of greenish, pointed teeth. ‘Papa brought it back from the Americas. Isn’t it hideous?’

He trailed Luce as she walked slowly through the room. Starfish, crabs, seahorses, and shells. Sculptures and paintings, ancient jewelery, coins, and fossils of every description. Clocks and scientific instruments, their brassy surfaces glinting among antlers, insects, shark teeth, and beads. There were even pieces of sea-silk, the rarest and most valuable textile of all. Woven from the long, silky fibers of rare deep-sea molluscs, they shone like watery rainbows, pearlescent and tinged with magic.

A painting caught Luce’s eye: Gradlon, king of the famous drowned city of Keris, sacrificing his daughter, Ahez, to the sea. Keris, a beautiful city that had once existed off the coast of Saint-Malo, was built on land stolen from the Manche. To keep the waters at bay, Gradlon’s forefathers had constructed a complicated series of water-gates, which he controlled with one single, masterful key. Keris had prospered for centuries, rich in trade and fishing, until Gradlon’s wayward and spoiled daughter, Ahez, stole the key and— persuaded by her lover—used it to unlock the sea-gates. The ocean reclaimed Keris at once, flooding its streets and markets, its gardens and cathedrals. Gradlon and Ahez escaped on the king’s mighty steed and rode hard for the shore of Bretagne, the churning waves threatening to overtake them. The horse, however, soon struggled under the weight of two riders, and Gradlon pushed his beloved daughter from the saddle and into the waves, saving himself.

‘Do you know what they say about Ahez?’ Morgan came to stand behind Luce. He looked up at the painting, his breath warm on her neck.

Luce shivered. ‘What do they say?’

‘That she was a harlot, full of lust, and that she lay with as many men as she liked, as often as she liked.’ He stroked the black ribbons on Luce’s mask, still in his hands. ‘They say that when she tired of them, she bade them wear a black satin mask, which was specially designed to poison them. When they were helpless, she would strangle them with the ribbons and toss them from the walls of Keris into the sea.’

‘Morgan!’ Luce giggled, shocked.

He laughed, too. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Do they... do they say anything else?’

Morgan grinned. ‘They say that she did not drown at all. That when she fell into the sea, she grew a tail in place of her legs, and became a seamaid. From then on, she used her wiles and her beauty to lure unlucky sailors and fishermen to their deaths in the drowned city. Just as she had when she lived there before.’

‘I would like to hear her side of the tale.’ Luce walked on, browsing a lifetime’s worth of collecting, from countless trading voyages and privateering runs. Oh, to visit such places! To see such wonders alive, and whole. She could not deny that the sight of them, lifeless and still, filled her with an aching sadness. It was, after all, a collection of death, of wild and beautiful creatures stolen from their lives and fixed with hook and pin. Trapped, sightless, joyless forevermore. The groac’h’s words on the beach came back to her. Too much has been stolen.

She had reached a series of jars, some small, some as long as her arm. Inside, floating in a viscous, murky fluid, were a multitude of unsettling specimens—foetuses, brains, and organs. One item, however, caught her attention more than the rest. It was a human hand, cut off at the wrist. Its liquid bath was dim and cloudy, but Luce could see that the fingers were webbed, semi-circles of skin stretching from knuckle to knuckle, like a seal’s flippers.

‘Ah.’ Morgan came to her side. ‘You’ve found the seamaid’s hand. Father’s favorite.’

‘A seamaid?’

‘Of course. Have you never seen one?’ He bent down, examined the jar. ‘Vain, useless creatures, by all accounts. Spend most of their time gazing at their reflections and combing their hair. See the webbing between the fingers? Very helpful in the water, I imagine.’

‘One would think so,’ Luce said faintly.

Morgan was already moving. ‘There’s a unicorn horn and some phoenix feathers, too, if the mystical interests you. And over here...’

But Luce had had enough of the cabinet and its grisly contents.

‘Morgan... do you think we might go back and dance, instead?’

He smiled, offering her his arm. ‘What a charming idea.’

It was a relief to be out of the house and back in the beautiful gardens. Morgan helped Luce to a bench, then knelt before her and drew the sea-glass shoes from his pockets.

‘May I?’ he asked softly.

She nodded, deliciously, dangerously wordless as he lifted first one foot, then the other, slipping the glittering shoes into place.

‘Extraordinary,’ he murmured. He raised himself on his knees, until they were face to face. Luce could barely breathe as he smoothed her mask back over her eyes, tying it deftly into place, his fingers lingering in her hair. Her heart quickened as he leaned forward, his lips almost brushing hers.

‘Do you know,’ he murmured, ‘how often I think of that kiss on the beach?’

Intention was writ upon every part of him; his eyes, his hands, the angle of his jaw. Luce leaned forward, ready to meet his lips with her own. So close, they came; so very close. And then a sudden sense of loss, of failing, swept over her, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Like a sail emptying of wind, or the last moments before the setting of the sun.

The tide had turned.

The tide will not wait, the groac’h had warned. The faster it ebbs, the quicker the magic will weaken. You must not linger.

Luce leapt to her feet. She glimpsed Morgan’s confused face as she picked up her skirts and dashed away. Down the magnolia-scented path, and the secrecy of the woods; past the fountains and the roses, the stony faces of the four seasons looking on in blatant disapproval. She dodged parterres and skirted topiaries, her feet in their enchanted slippers light and strong, the rapid pace of Bach’s Paris Concerto urging her on.

Morgan caught up as she burst onto the crowded dance floor.

‘Wait!’ he cried. Luce, weaving between the rows of dancers, risked a backward glance. He was surrounded by a gaggle of young, masked women, his mother striding accusingly toward him. Luce plunged on, a trail of missed steps and broken poses strewn in her wake. On, past the musicians and the laquais with their sparkling wine. On, down the long, winding path to the river.

No time, no time.

She was almost at the stairs when Morgan reappeared, a dark silhouette before the oak trees and their festoons of light. He left the path and dashed across the wide, rolling lawn, meaning, she had no doubt, to cut her off before she reached the Rance.

You must not linger.

Luce gathered her skirts against her and ran, her slippers clinking on the path, her breath aching in her chest. Her right stocking was slipping—her garter must have come loose—and she hitched at it clumsily, losing precious moments. Somehow, she reached the stone stairs leading to the river. Somehow, she made it down them without falling and breaking her neck.

The dock was blessedly empty. She lurched toward it, past a single laquais dozing against a bollard. Onto the sea-washed timbers, the Rance waiting in the dark.

Hurry, hurry, it sighed. The tide will not wait.

‘Lucinde!’

Hurry!

She had moments, only, before Morgan reached the dock. Luce clattered along it, near-tripping as her loose stocking caught on the heel of her other shoe. Silk ripped as she stumbled, righted herself, ran on. One sea-glass slipper lay on the timbers in her wake.

Hurry, hurry...

The witch-boat was nosing its way toward her. Luce tore along the dock to meet it, her bare foot whimpering with pain, her heart thudding in time with her steps and the frenzied pace of Bach.

‘ Lucinde! ’

Morgan was on the dock, his buckled shoes clattering like ballast in a storm, waking the sleeping laquais. He, in his turn, startled so violently that he lost his balance, slipped off the bollard, and toppled backward into the Rance. Morgan slowed, distracted, and Luce seized her moment. She gathered her wide skirts and leapt off the edge of the dock, landing rather gracelessly on the witch-boat’s deck.

‘Hide me, please,’ she gasped. ‘And take me home as quickly as you can.’

The boat obeyed, turning for the open water as though a storm-wind filled its sails.

Luce peered over the stern. Morgan had run to the edge of the dock, the very picture of confusion as he scanned the seemingly empty water. In his hand, glinting like a star, was Luce’s lost slipper. As she watched, he yelped softly in surprise and looked down, eyes widening as the shoe turned to water in his hands. He clutched at it desperately, to no avail: in moments there was nothing but seawater running through his empty fingers.

She saw no more then, for the little boat was skimming over the smooth, dark water, starlight glimmering in its wake.

They had passed Saint-Malo and were sailing along the coastline of Clos-Poulet when the lanterns hanging from the canopy above Luce’s head began to gutter. The sails slackened and the boat slowed, its timbers creaking wearily.

‘Please, keep going,’ Luce whispered. She could see the cove ahead, a pale blur beneath the cliffs. Onward went the little boat, shuddering with effort, its sails ruffling sadly as the magicked breeze died.

Luce’s dress began to change. Silk lost its shine. Threads unraveled. Her hair fell from its bindings as the pins disappeared; her mask turned to sea mist on her face. She watched sorrowfully as the remaining slipper melted from her foot.

And still the witch-boat sailed valiantly on. Its mast teetered and fell, slipping beneath the waves. Its deck began to shudder. Yet onward, it plowed, and on, until water clawed between the planks, soaking Luce’s skirts, rising to steal her bodice, the lace at her sleeves, the pearls at her throat. Returning them to the deep, one by one, until she was clad in her underclothes once more, the same chemise, petticoat, and stays she had worn when she had cried salty tears into the sea, mourning a lost gown and sister, both.

A watery glint caught Luce’s eye. The groac’h’s mirror, bright as the moon against the sinking velvet. The thought of such a lovely thing returning to the cold dark of the sea-bed caught at Luce, would not let go. As the boat’s broken keel scraped against rock and the last of the deck howled its demise, she snatched up the trinket and dived. Starlight lit her way as she swam for shore, the final, eerie moans of the caravel as it returned to its grave loud in her ears.

Luce staggered onto the sand, panting. Looked out at the water, the stars, the memory of the wondrous night. Then she turned and trudged up the beach, feet already protesting, body shivering beneath her sodden clothes. Her tricorn and overcoat were waiting for her, completely dry and folded neatly atop a bank of sea thrift. She put them on, slipped the mirror into her pocket, and limped home.