26. After That, the Stars
26
After That, the Stars
Impossible to say how long Luce slept. An hour? A week? The first thing she heard, as she drifted toward wakefulness, was Samuel. ‘If this has something to do with that bastard de Chatelaine...’
‘I have told you thrice, storm diver,’ the groac’h said patiently. ‘It has not.’
Not a week, then, though it surely felt like it. Luce’s body was anchor-heavy, her mind shrouded in weariness. Yet the sound of the sea, the colour of the cave’s walls behind her eyelids, revealed only an hour or two had passed since Samuel had found her on the shore.
‘How can you be certain?’ Luce sensed Samuel rise restlessly from where he had been sitting near the bed. She herself had sat in that same seat—a scratched and faded armchair that had washed up on the beach years before—when she was watching over him in those early days after the Lucinde .
‘Reasons.’
‘Reasons? You’ll need to do better than that, Margot.’
Margot? Luce stirred, closer to full wakefulness now. She knew Samuel and the tide-woman—or, apparently Margot—had formed a friendship of their own. Often, when she arrived at the cave, she found them sharing a companionable meal or pot of tea, or, when Samuel first became strong enough to move about, resting in the sun at the cave’s mouth. She opened her eyes and sat up, pulling the blankets against her bare chest and throwing the groac’h a wounded look. ‘You never told me your name was Margot.’
‘You never asked.’ It was clear the shore-woman would say no more upon it. She merely handed Luce a cup of water and waited, patient as ever, while she drank.
‘How are you feeling?’ Samuel took the empty cup, placed it on a small tea crate serving as a table, and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. ‘What in Christ’s name happened, Luce? Did something go awry at the wedding?’
‘You could say that.’ Luce turned to Margot. ‘Do you...?’ She hesitated, at once aching for the truth, and fearing its bite. ‘Do you know who destroyed my blue dress, the day of the ball?’
Margot nodded.
‘You saw them do it?’
Another nod.
Luce swallowed. ‘Was it—was it Charlotte?’ Margot shook her head slowly.
Luce swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She had suspected for some time that Charlotte had not been the one to betray her. Which meant...
‘Then who?’ she rasped. Unwilling, even now, to admit the truth. Beyond the cave, the sea sighed sadly.
‘You already know,’ Margot replied. ‘The sea told you its secrets, did it not? Why else would you come here as you did? Wounded and betrayed?’
‘I want to hear it from you,’ Luce said. ‘I want to know what you know.’
Wind rushed along the passageway, disturbing the thread-bare hangings lining the stony walls, the curtains beside the bed, as though it, too, searched for answers.
‘You already know who stole the blue gown,’ Margot said. ‘It was the same person who stole you . He knew what a blessing a sea-child would be. His ships would be safe through the grimmest of storms. His cargoes would remain intact. No weather, no enemy, no ill luck would threaten his trade. He—and all that was his— would pass safely across the face of the oceans as though the gods of the sea themselves commanded it. You know who hid your sea-silk, your mother’s precious gift to you. And you know who made every step you take an agony. All this he has done for selfishness and greed. He kept you close, kept you from returning to the sea, knowing your presence, your magic, would fuel the storm-stone and his fortune. He took the dress to ensure that you would not leave him, nor lend your powers to any of his rivals. Everything he has, everything he owns, is his because of you. You are his greatest treasure.’
Samuel’s eyes widened.
‘I saw my mother in the mirror,’ Luce said. ‘I saw myself with her. I—I watched her die.’
Margot nodded. ‘We all of us mourned your mother. But no one as much as your father.’
‘My father ?’
‘Your true father. His grief, when he found your mother on the shore at Chausey, was boundless.’
Your true father.
‘Did you say Chausey?’ Samuel asked. ‘You mean, the Storm Islands?’
‘It was once a stronghold for the sea-folk,’ Margot told him. ‘Many lived there.’
He nodded. ‘It is the reason storm-stone quarried at the Islands is best.’
‘It is the reason, too, why the sea-folk chose to leave. Luce’s parents were among the few who remained.’ Margot turned to Luce with a weary sigh. ‘When your father returned and found your mother’s body on the beach, her comb and mirror beside her, his grief was matched only by his rage. He discovered the name of the ship, and then the man, who had stolen you, and followed you to this very cove. Male sea-folk bear no silks—they cannot change their shape as the women do. He could not walk upon the land and take you back, and he knew that you were behind high walls, out of reach. Out of everyone’s reach. For years your father waited, hoping for a chance to take you back, even as more and more of the sea-folk left these shores. Until, one day, he was the only one who remained. Overcome with sorrow and loneliness, he finally left Bretagne. He trusted me with your mother’s comb and mirror, and bid me give them to you, should you and I ever chance to meet. I promised him I would do so—and that I would watch over you in his stead.’
‘You should have told me all of this long ago,’ Luce said. Your true father.
‘Would you have believed me? Taken my word over that of a man who, until very recently, you loved above all others? No; far better for you to learn the truth about Jean-Baptiste Léon yourself.’ Luce thought of the hand in the cabinet of curiosities at Le Loup Blanc. She had no doubt that it belonged to her mother, and that the friend who had gifted it to Monsieur de Chatelaine was none other than Jean-Baptiste. She thought, too, of the sea-silk— her only means of returning to the sea—hidden away between walls of stone. The lutine and the jetins, always so kind to her, had doubtless known the truth. Thievery, the water sprites had cried, again and again. Luce had thought they feared that she might steal from them, but now she realised they were simply trying to tell her what her father—the man who claimed to treasure her—had done.
Everyone wants a bite.
She curled her hands around her belly, wondered if she might be ill.
‘The seamaid’s kiss,’ Samuel said slowly. ‘Every time Luce kissed her father goodnight, or thanked him for some gift or kindness, she was gifting him with good fortune.’
Give your papa a kiss.
Margot, watching Luce, nodded. ‘You yourself have benefited from the seamaid’s kiss, storm-diver. She did much more than dive beneath a ship when she saved you from the wolf.’
Luce, pressing her mouth to Samuel’s in the bloody shadows beneath the Lucinde.
Morgan, opening his eyes as he lay on the sand. The way he had looked at her, with such wonder and greed.
In truth? For a moment, I believed you were a seamaid.
‘And then there’s the matter of storm-stone,’ Margot was saying. ‘Jean-Baptiste Léon is known for having the very best, no matter the scarcity, no matter the cost.’
‘He let you help him with his ships,’ Samuel said, his voice soft with dismay. ‘Invited you to join him at the dockyards, to look over the construction. Took you into the holds where the storm-stone was stored...’
Luce stared at him. Her horror was a live thing, cold and slimy in her gut.
‘He was using you to keep his storm-stone strong,’ Margot said. ‘Why, just by living in his house you were protecting him.’
The betrayal was worse than anything Luce had imagined. Every conversation about navigation and trade, every map and book gifted to her, every new ship her father had proudly taken her to inspect, had been for his own benefit. He had never had any intention of letting her sail on the Lucinde. Had never intended her to go anywhere. Every promise he had made, every word he had said, had been a lie.
Have you had any adventures today, mon trésor?
And she, a mere child, had trusted him. Loved him.
Give your papa a kiss.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of cannon fire stopped her: three distant booms.
‘The guns at ?le Harbour,’ Samuel said softly.
‘Men and their g—’ Margot got no further in her grumbling, for three more shots cracked the air, followed by three more.
‘La Conchée and La Varde,’ Luce said, imagining the men at the forts hurrying to load the guns, bracing themselves for the fire, smoke rising over the battlements. She waited, and heard still another repeat, and another—the forts dotting the coast to Cancale repeating the signal.
‘They’ve spotted enemy sails,’ Samuel said.
‘Yes.’ Jean-Baptiste had explained the warning system to her when she was a child. ‘As soon as one fort along the coast spies an unknown sail, they signal by firing a cannon three times. They continue to fire three shots every hour, until the two nearest forts to the east and west repeat it. And on, and on.’
‘And when does it stop?’ Luce had asked him uneasily, flinching as another cannon roared.
Boom, boom, boom.
‘It stops when the threat has passed, or the ships have landed,’ Jean-Baptiste had said. Seeing the fear in Luce’s eyes, he had leaned down and put his arm around her. ‘Have no fear, mon trésor. No harm shall come to us.’
‘Why, Papa?’
‘Because we are Léons , ma chère. Blessed by the sea. It will protect us always.’
Boom, boom, boom.
A new cannon awoke, quieter than the others, and farther away. By the time the last of its pounding had faded, the entire coast between Saint-Malo and Cancale would have woken to the danger.
‘Luce?’ Samuel touched her arm. ‘Tell me what you want to do.’
The mood in Margot’s dwelling had changed. The sense of peace and comfort—the slow ebb and flow of a simple, hidden life—was gone. Beyond the curtains, Margot was moving about, mumbling to herself, hastily gathering items and stowing them in a pair of canvas sacks.
‘What are you doing?’ Luce asked the shore-woman.
‘Leaving,’ she replied simply. ‘Like the rest of our kind. The time for dwelling in Bretagne is over.’
Boom, boom, boom.
‘You’re going? Just like that?’
‘If I stay, I will die,’ Margot said simply. ‘The land is weak, its magic fading. I have kept my word to your father. Told you the truth, given you your mother’s things. My promise was all that tied me to this place.’ She looked from Samuel to Luce. ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘The world is large, the oceans endless. There is magic left in it, still. Let us find it.’
She blinked, her tusks pearlescent in the lantern light. And then she moved away, distracted with her preparations.
‘What do you want to do, Luce?’ Samuel asked. ‘Say the word, and I’ll ready the Dove. We can sail west, to Saint-Malo; check on your family, do what we can to help. Or we can bear north, for Dorset. I’ll need to speak to my brother, make arrangements... But after that? We can sail anywhere. Go with Margot; find a fair breeze and a path of stars. Whatever you want.’
Luce looked at him. At the still-healing wounds on his shoulder, visible beneath the collar of his shirt. At his beautiful eyes, gold and grey.
There are still places of beauty and wonder left in the world. Places that men in their death-ships have not despoiled. A fair breeze and a path of stars is all that is required to find them.
Boom, boom, boom.
What do you want to do, Luce?
She thought about that as she pushed aside the blankets and reached for the salvaged clothes Margot had left on the chair. As she accompanied Samuel out into the gloaming and fetched her sailor’s bag and treasures—the sextant she had found in the cove that long-ago day, her earnings from storm-diving with Samuel, her charts and maps—from her sea-cave, stowing them in the Dove. As she gathered up a badly beaten tricorn and overcoat, rolling them tight and laying them on top. As she checked the belt at her waist, where the sea-knife, comb, and mirror hung.
What do you want to do?
The question was overwhelming in its simplicity. It was what she had wanted to be asked so many times, over the years. And of course, she knew the answer. She had had enough of walls, of the fanciful, yet stifling, society that bound her and her sisters—stays and panniers, tiny shoes—within its narrow confines. She had had enough, too, of Jean-Baptiste Léon’s lies. (Never again would she call him ‘father’.) She was ready to chart her own course; to chase the horizon she had craved for so long.
She had every right to go.
Even so, as she helped Samuel rig the lugger, the Manche and its veil of early stars glittering with promise, doubt shadowed her steps. She pushed it aside. She owed Saint-Malo nothing. She owed Jean-Baptiste nothing. The sooner she removed her presence from his life—and the fortune she had brought him all these years began to dissipate—the happier she would be.
And yet.
And yet.
Jean-Baptiste was not the only one who would be affected by her leaving Saint-Malo. Her mother and her sisters were in the city, too. The city which, due to the negligence and arrogance of its leaders, including the man who had stolen her, was unprepared for an invasion. True, the walls were high, the stone strong—Luce tried not to think of all the times Jean-Baptiste had asked her to walk around the ramparts with him, pretending to admire the ships coming in and out of the harbour—and the garrison well-manned. Reinforcements would come. Her family would stay within the walls. And the walls, when the English began their bombardment from both land and sea, when they hoisted their ladders and climbed to the top of the ramparts with sword and pistol, would hold.
Wouldn’t they?
‘Ready?’ Samuel pushed the vessel into the shallows. He lifted Luce onboard, catching at her knotted skirts before they could drag in the water. An old habit; it no longer mattered if Luce’s clothes got wet, if anyone knew she had been on the water with him.
She was free.
She settled herself in her usual place near the bow, took up the jib sheet in readiness for departure. Margot’s little black witch-boat was already drifting in the darkness beyond the cove’s rocky embrace. When the Dove remained motionless, Luce looked astern and saw Samuel standing in the shallows.
‘Before you decide on our bearing,’ he said quietly, ‘you need to know that the invasion may not go well for the people of Saint-Malo. The women, especially.’
The sheet slipped from between Luce’s fingers. What would happen to Gratienne, to Veronique and Charlotte, if the city fell? Would Jean-Baptiste protect them? Once, Luce would have trusted him with her own life, and each of theirs as well, but now...
Samuel shoved the lugger onto the water, hauling himself aboard.
‘It’s still your choice, Luce,’ he said, settling at the tiller. ‘Say west, and we’ll bear west. Say north, and we’ll bear north.’
The dusking horizon was hers. The last of the light, the scent of salt on the wind. The Dove shivered and creaked, impatient.
‘I want to be sure my mother and sisters are safe,’ Luce said, at last. ‘And then, I want to see the endless oceans. Find the magic left in the world. With you.’
‘West, then.’ He smiled. That new, careful smile that broke her heart. ‘Then north.’
‘Then north.’ Luce whistled, low and sweet, and wind filled the sails. ‘And after that, a path of stars.’