Upon A Starlit Tide

27. Sharp Teeth

27

Sharp Teeth

Saint-Malo hunkered in the dusk, preparing to defend itself.

The Sillon, the single roadway joining the city to the mainland, was all but cut off, with only a narrow, straggling line of people fleeing the countryside still able to make the crossing. Soldiers were working by torchlight to establish fouglasses, improvised mortars, on the quays. The ramparts were bright with flickering torches, moving hither and thither as soldiers and volunteers scurried to and fro, readying the cannon. Even the tide was on the rise, covering the sands as if it, too, knew that an enemy approached.

Luce and Samuel secured the Dove on the beach at Rocabey, then joined the line of terrified people filing into the city. Luce scanned the waters beyond Fort Royale as they went; Margot and her witch-boat were waiting for them there. The shore-woman had refused to sail anywhere near the city. ‘Saint-Malo will burn,’ she had said quietly to Luce, before they left her. ‘The sea, the sky, the stone... all will be flame and ruin. I have seen it.’ She had leaned in, lowering her voice, so that Luce, sitting alongside the witch-boat in the Dove, was forced to pull the little vessel closer. ‘Have a care with the storm diver. There is a new, and very old, darkness within him.’

At Saint-Vincent Gate, the last to remain open, they were forced to wait while a company of mounted volunteers—some of whom Luce recognised from receptions and suppers at Le Bleu Sauvage— rode out to defend the Sillon. Armed with double-barreled rifles, pommel pistols, and swords, the men urged the fleeing villagers to hurry, hurry. When they reached the end of the Sillon, they would cut it off completely.

Inside the walls, the streets were barricaded with furniture, wagons and barrels. Fear hung, thick and soupy, in the air. Luce and Samuel hurried along the torch-lit cobbles, passing the empty fish market and Our Lady’s Gate. A crowd had gathered there, praying to the marble statue of the Lady herself, nestled in her niche above the gate. Luce did not need to go near the cathedral, or any of the city’s smaller chapels and churches, to know that it, too, would be filled with Malouins seeking such comfort. She sighed. Fools .

‘They think they are doing what is best,’ Samuel murmured, steadying her as she stumbled on the slick cobbles.

‘Margot spoke the truth,’ she said bitterly. ‘They do not deserve the protection of the Fae.’

They pushed on. Away from the flurry of movement near the fortress and the Sillon, the city was eerily quiet.

The Rue Saint-Philippe was in turmoil, the elegant street buried beneath hastily-constructed barricades. Luce rushed through the open gates of the Léon town house, through the little garden and up the curling stairs to the grand salon. The beautiful room was silent and dim, the candles unlit, the fireplaces grey and cold. She checked the rest of the rooms and found them all empty. The paintings, the candlesticks, and the best furniture had been removed, no doubt locked away in the cellars.

‘Maman?’ she called, in the vestibule. ‘Veronique?’

There was no answer.

Panicked, she ran out to the street, Samuel close behind. A group of soldiers barreled past, torches flickering in the damp. They reached the steep stairs leading to the ramparts above and began to climb. A handful of armed Malouins trailed behind; Luce, pushing through a broken dining table and three of its erstwhile chairs, recognised one of them.

‘Gabriel!’

He turned on the stairs, peered into the gloom. ‘Lucinde? Thank God. Charlotte was so worried when you disappeared at the wedding. We all were...’

‘Where are my sisters, Gabriel?’

‘They’re safe. They’re up above, on the walls. Your father thought it best to stay out of the house in case of a barrage.’

‘The house is made of the best storm-stone in Saint-Malo,’ Samuel said, flicking Luce a sideways glance. ‘Surely he has faith in its protection?’

Gabriel frowned at him. Had they met under different circumstances, Luce was certain he would have demanded to know exactly who Samuel was. ‘Perhaps he thought it best not to test the stone’s strength with his family—and my wife—inside.’

Or perhaps he fears the sea and the storm protect him no longer. ‘Is my father with them, Gabriel?’

‘No. He was at the fortress helping with the artillery when last I saw—’

A chorus of shouts erupted from the battlements above. All three of them hurried up the stairs, where the walkways were crowded with people—soldiers and Malouin volunteers, but also women and children. Jean-Baptiste, it seemed, was not the only one who feared an English bombardment. To the east, a line of torches had appeared on the slope above the harbour. Snatches of shouted commands and war drums drifted on the breeze.

‘They’re here,’ Luce said.

Samuel took her hand. ‘They’re here.’

‘ Luce! ’

Charlotte pushed her way through the crowded walkway and seized Luce in a fierce embrace. ‘I’ve been so worried—you disappeared from the wedding! Simply disappeared ! It was as though you’d fallen overboard!’ She released Luce and stepped back, her keen gaze roving over Samuel.

‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ she said, with a significant glance at Luce. ‘Monsieur...?’

‘Samuel Thorner, madame.’ He cleared his throat. ‘At your service.’

Luce’s heart clenched protectively. Despite everything, he was nervous. She tried to see Samuel as her sister might—hair unbound, battered greatcoat salvaged from Luce’s sea-cave. Beneath its dim folds he wore a pistol, knife, and sword.

If Charlotte was shocked, she hid it well. ‘Thank you for taking care of my sister this night, Monsieur Thorner,’ she said politely.

‘In truth, madame, it is she who has taken care of me.’

A company of soldiers hurried past, forcing them all to cluster together and make way.

‘One day, sister, you will tell me everything, ’ Charlotte hissed to Luce during the confusion.

‘One day,’ Luce agreed.

‘Maman and Vee are not far away,’ Charlotte said, louder. ‘It seems we’re all to spend the night up here. Can you imagine?’

She led them to a sheltered section of the ramparts, where Gratienne and Veronique were settled together in a nest of blankets and cushions, their maidservants and laquais around them. Both women leapt to their feet when they saw Luce, and Gratienne pulled her into her arms. ‘Thank God. We were so worried.’

‘I am fine, Maman.’

‘Where have you been? And what are you wearing ?’

Samuel, who had remained a discreet distance away, stifled a chuckle.

‘The wedding was spoiled, Luce.’ Veronique sounded close to tears. ‘And it was so perfect, too...’

‘I know, Vee.’ Luce hugged her sister tight. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Veronique sniffled. ‘Thank you. Morgan and I were supposed to be leaving for Paris in the morning. And now he is at the fortress defending the city, and I am sleeping on top of a wall! I am astonished, truly.’

Luce, glancing at Samuel, saw him tense. He never mentioned Morgan by name—had not, since the night of the Lucinde —but she saw his gaze slide to the northeast, where the fortress lay. Something in his face, hard and intent, unsettled her deeply.

‘Although,’ Gabriel said cautiously, ‘that’s not precisely what Morgan is doing.’

Veronique frowned.

‘There are more than a hundred ships anchored at Saint-Servan, Trichet, and Val, including several of your father’s,’ Gabriel explained. ‘The very ships that have been hounding the English Navy. To leave them defenseless would doom them to certain destruction. Morgan, his brothers, and several other captains have gone to Trichet. They plan to move the ships while the tide is high.’

‘The English could be there already,’ Luce said.

‘It’s a chance they’re willing to take,’ Gabriel said. ‘To lose so many would be devastating. Besides, the Lucinde —I mean, the Veronique, is there. Morgan refused to abandon her.’

‘Of course he did,’ Charlotte said tartly.

‘He knows the waters well enough to get safely out of the harbour,’ Veronique said, misreading her sister’s tone. ‘Have no fear.’

Luce, unwilling to discuss Morgan’s navigational abilities, remained silent.

‘You doubt him?’ Veronique demanded, glaring at them all. ‘You think him foolish to risk himself for a ship?’

‘No one suggested that,’ Gabriel soothed.

‘And what of you?’ Veronique rounded on him. ‘Why have you not gone to help him?’ She was frightened, for herself and her new husband. Gabriel seemed to understand this, for his patience did not falter.

‘I am afraid I would be of little use in such an endeavour.’

‘Gabriel is a scholar, Vee. Not a sailor,’ Charlotte snapped.

‘Besides,’ Gabriel said to Veronique, raising a placating hand. ‘Morgan asked me to stay behind and protect you.’

A lie. Luce saw it in his eyes, along with his pity. Veronique, however, softened. ‘He did?’

It was Charlotte’s turn to frown. ‘Surely it will not come to that? Surely the English commander—’

‘Lord Marlborough,’ Luce offered.

‘Surely Lord Marlborough will try to negotiate?’

‘He did,’ Gabriel said. ‘He sent a summons to the Marquis de la Chatre asking him to surrender the city or capitulate.’

‘And?’

‘The Marquis replied that capitulation was in the mouth of his cannon.’

There was a silence, punctuated by echoed shouts and footsteps on the ramparts, the beat of distant drums, and the nervous sigh of the sea below. The light from the nearest torches wavered eerily. Veronique had complained about sleeping on top of the walls, but Luce could not help but think there would be no resting this night, not while the threat of the English cannon lay so close.

She went to her mother’s side. ‘I have something for you, Maman.’

‘Oh?’ Gratienne’s seemed small and frail in the half-dark.

Luce slipped something soft into her mother’s hands. ‘It’s your baptismal gown, Maman.’

Gratienne frowned, looking from the gown to Luce’s face and back again. ‘How did you get this?’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’ The domestiques had been in an uproar when Luce had returned to the malouinière for her mother’s treasured gown. Word had arrived that the English had landed at Cancale and were marching across Clos-Poulet, burning and looting everything in their path. Taking the gown from her mother’s armoire and telling the remaining domestiques to lock the gates and get themselves to safety were the last things Luce would ever do at Le Bleu Sauvage.

‘I suppose it doesn’t.’ Gratienne pulled her into a long embrace. ‘Thank you.’

‘It is I who should thank you, Maman.’

‘Indeed? For what?’

For taking a stranger’s child into your home without question, even when the rumours swirled that your husband had been unfaithful to you. For caring for her, keeping her warm, fed, and clothed. For doing everything you could to ensure she might have a chance of a safe, strong marriage—the best and only gift you could have given her, in such a world as this. For loving her like she was your own.

‘For everything.’

‘Is that Maman’s baptismal gown?’ Veronique asked, drawing near. She reached out, touched the fine fabric. ‘You saved it for her, Luce?’

Charlotte, too, was there. ‘She saved it for us, ’ she said, slipping her arms around Luce and Gratienne. Veronique did the same, and the four women held each other closely, heads bowed. The gut-wrenching boom of a cannon ripped through the night. Screams of panic fluttered over the city. A wave of movement on the walls as people surged to see what was happening.

Boom, went the cannon. Boom, boom.

‘That’s Fort Royale,’ Luce said. From where they stood, on the northern side of the city, it was impossible to see the fort, which had been designed to cover both the Sillon and the city’s southern face. If the gunners there were firing, there was every chance the English had reached the Sillon and were attempting to cross the causeway.

‘They must be at the Sillon.’ Gratienne had reached the same conclusion. Her voice quavered with fear.

‘They will not get across the causeway, Maman,’ Luce assured her. ‘Fort Royale is well able to cover the Sillon and Saint-Vincent’s Gate.’

Another bone-jarring boom, then another. Luce gave Gratienne’s shoulders a comforting squeeze, looking around for Samuel.

He was gone.

She moved through the crowds, searching for him, hope battling the dreadful certainty that he would not be found. The weapons he wore, the way he had not tried to convince Luce not to return to the city, despite the danger, the risk for them both. The way he had looked when Veronique and Gabriel had spoken of Morgan’s whereabouts.

Have a care with the storm diver , Margot had warned. There is a new, and very old, darkness within him.

Luce knew that darkness well. It was within her, too, ever-present in her waking thoughts, her dreams. An ancient temptress calling her with a sweet siren-song. Her name?

Revenge.

Luce swam between the ships moored at Trichet, her petticoat clinging to her tail. Samuel was close by; she was certain of it. The temptation of finding Morgan, of making him pay for what he had done to Bones, to Samuel himself, even to Luce, had proven too much.

There were men aboard some of the ships. Malouin, by their voices. She could hear them, could feel the vibration of their boots upon the decks. They worked in stealthy darkness, readying the vessels for sail, a handful of ship’s boats bobbing in the shadows.

The Veronique stood out against the rest, her rigging still thick with flowers and ribbons, the ladders from the wedding celebrations still in place. Luce’s heart skittered as she spied a lone ship’s boat affixed to its side.

Was Samuel already aboard?

Muttering came to her over the water, punctuated by the rhythmic slap of oars. She swam to the shadows at the Veronique ’s stern as Morgan and a handful of men approached. They made the boat fast and began to climb, disappearing into the darkness above.

Luce removed the sea-silk from her chemise and tucked it into her belt, away from her bare skin. Her legs thus returned to her, she followed Morgan up the ladder, cutting the journey short— and avoiding meeting him directly—by hauling herself into an open gun-port. Once inside, she slithered gracelessly onto the gun deck, then lay gasping in her wet underthings, blood pounding. Had the men above heard her? She lay very still, listening to the low voices of the men as they readied the ship.

She was safe.

She blew a warm breeze into her cupped hands, quickly drying her chemise, stays, and petticoat. She tucked the now-dry silk between her breasts once more and got to her feet, ensuring her knife was within easy reach. Then, as quietly as she was able, she climbed the stairs to midships.

There were men nearby. She could hear them, their urgent whispers, the creak of rope and sail as they worked. Was Samuel among them?

The thud of a fist into flesh sounded near the mainmast, followed by a grunt of pain. Something heavy—an unconscious man, perhaps—hit the deck.

Yes. Yes, he was.

Luce crept to the mainmast, expecting to find Samuel there. The deck, however, was empty. The sound of further scuffling came to her from the direction of the quarterdeck, along with a whimper or two. She hurried toward it, flinched as a shout, quickly silenced, shattered the quiet.

The quarterdeck, too, was deserted. She opened the passageway to the officers’ quarters, a shiver of foreboding rippling through her. She had no interest in being locked belowdecks again. She closed the door, edged back toward the relative safety of midships, and froze.

Samuel stood beside the mainmast. He held a pistol, its iron grip gleaming in the half-dark.

The barrel rested on Morgan de Chatelaine’s chest.

‘We don’t have time for this, Thorner,’ Morgan said. As though to prove his point, an explosion thundered in the east. Luce ran to the rail and saw that flames smeared the water between the Talards and the ship. The English soldiers had reached the island, which contained a rope works, dockyards, and a powder magazine. The latter, now on fire, was no doubt the source of the blast. ‘Those redcoat bastards are coming.’

Samuel, apparently unmoved by this observation, merely shoved a length of rope at Morgan’s chest. ‘Tie that to your feet.’ Luce heard a muffled groan from the forecastle. Had Samuel truly disarmed every one of the men helping Morgan move the ship?

‘Samuel,’ she said uneasily. ‘What are you doing?’

He ignored her. Lost completely to the siren song of revenge. Morgan, however, gaped. ‘ Lucinde? What the hell are you—’

‘Tie it to your feet,’ Samuel repeated. There was a sharp click as he cocked the pistol. ‘Now.’

‘Are you mad?’ Morgan was trying, and failing, to contain his irritation. ‘They’ll burn the ship beneath us!’ He turned to Luce. ‘For God’s sake, Luce. Tell him.’

‘Tie the fucking rope to your feet,’ Samuel said. Gone was the warmth, the light, the smile. There is a new, and very old, darkness within him.

Luce’s gaze traced the length of the rope.

It was fixed to the block at the end of the yardarm.

‘Oh, Samuel, no,’ she said in dismay.

‘Listen to her, Samuel.’ Morgan had come to the same realisation as Luce. Concern had replaced annoyance; his face, in the fireglow from the Talards, was grave.

‘You don’t really want to do this,’ Luce said gently to Samuel.

‘Oh, but I do, Luce. My only regret is that I don’t have the men to help me run him over that lovely keel once or twice first.’ He jerked the pistol toward the rope. ‘ Tie it to your feet. ’

Morgan seemed to realise there was no way out. He lowered himself slowly to the deck, then tied the rope around his ankles.

‘Tighter,’ Samuel ordered. He crouched and checked the rope, the pistol never leaving Morgan’s chest, then hauled his captive, hissing in protest, to his feet.

‘Time to dangle,’ he announced, and punched Morgan hard in the jaw. Morgan’s head rocked back. One, two, three steps, and Samuel had dragged him, limp and whimpering, to the rail. He heaved Morgan over without hesitation.

Luce, watching it all happen as slowly as a dream, heard not the splash of Morgan’s body hitting the water, his strangled cry, but the sound of Veronique’s sobs. Felt not Samuel’s wrath, but his regret when he woke from the fever of grief and rage that consumed him, and realized what he had done.

A step or two of her own, a moment of freefall, and she was in the sea.

She felt Morgan before she saw him, his panicked struggles prickling against her skin. She swam toward the sensation, and Morgan appeared in the darkness, growing sharper as her sea-eyes adjusted. Stunned by Samuel’s blow, he was barely struggling, his bound feet twitching uselessly as he sank.

Luce caught the rope. Drew her blade, its wicked beauty reflecting fragments of her face, her drifting hair. Perhaps... perhaps Samuel had been right. Perhaps this was what Morgan deserved. Better than he deserved, really, after all that he had done.

A new, and very old, darkness was waking within Luce. An instinct born of hunger and desire that had nothing to do with her tail. A song as old as the sea, promising rapture and ruin. She wound her long, webbed fingers into Morgan’s overcoat, bunching it against his chest. He opened his eyes, beheld her, recognition, and then terror, bubbling out of him. Luce smiled.

Sharp teeth.

She had saved him once, when the sea would have sucked the marrow from his bones. Had plunged into the Manche and dragged him free of its clutches, pulling him toward the light. Now, all that she had been, all that she was, had upended, as though she glimpsed herself through a mirror, darkly.

Luce dived. Tail arching, fins flowing, thoughts of death filling her heart, she plunged Morgan into shadow and bore him down.

Down, down.

Down.