25. Other Things, Besides
25
Other Things, Besides
Veronique Léon and Morgan de Chatelaine were married in the cathedral on a sunny, Bretagne-blue morning. Luce, surrounded by her family in the Léon pew, was careful, for Veronique’s sake, to appear joyful and serene as she watched her sister say her vows. Her searing regret—that she had been unable to save her from Morgan, just as she had been unable to save Bones—was a relentless ache in her heart.
By early afternoon the cream of Saint-Malo society, including the commander of the city and his wife, were strolling down to the quay, where boats waited to deliver them to the wedding feast aboard the Lucinde. Or rather, the Veronique. The newly renamed frigate had been moved from its mooring at Saint-Servan, and now graced the blue waters of the harbour, her rigging, yards, masts, and rails festooned with flowers and ribbons. A quartet of liveried musicians was already on deck, the sweet notes of Vivaldi drifting across the water as the guests climbed, or, in the case of the ladies, were winched upward in specially made seats that could accommodate their wide skirts. The dark-haired figurehead in her blue dress had been repainted: yellow hair and a rose-pink gown to capture the likeness of Veronique. Luce felt a strange sort of relief, at that. Perhaps Morgan meant to consider his new wife’s feelings, after all.
As the boat bearing Luce and her family drew alongside the ship, a terrible dread rose in her chest. Once, the sight of that sleek, dark hull had filled her with hope. The sight of it now, taken from her, gifted to another, should have, by rights, broken her heart. However, Luce found she could scarce look at the ship without seeing Samuel or Bones hanging beside it, their hands bound, their bodies mauled and dripping as they plunged beneath the surface.
‘Come along, then,’ Charlotte said, taking Luce’s hand. The ribbons on her hat fluttered as she tilted her head to gaze up at the ship, then back at Luce, eyes widening as though to say, well, here we are. May as well enjoy it.
The Veronique ’s decks, freshly scrubbed, bore no trace of blood and violence. Garlanded chairs had been arranged in clusters beside long tables laden with delicacies: creamed scallops, fresh oysters and poached truffles, mille-feuille with marmalade and lavender cream, platters piled with lobsters and crabs, duck ballotine, quail stuffed with thyme, sparkling wine garnished with orange-blossoms, whole pineapples, and dainty meringues laden with crème Chantilly. The guests dined and chatted in their finery, as sleek and confident as kings as they admired the magnificent new addition to the Malouin fleet, supremely unconcerned about a potential English invasion. After all, why should they be? Hadn’t the English commanders determined to target Brest? And besides, was Saint-Malo not invulnerable? Even now the harbour seethed with ships, three of Jean-Baptiste’s most precious vessels—the Lionne, the Thétis, and the Fleur de Mer —among them. The sea had gifted the elite families of Saint-Malo with its bounty for generations: ships and cargoes, trade and riches. Surely it would not forsake them now?
Everyone clapped in delight when Morgan made a show of stealing one of Veronique’s shoes, silk stockings, and garter ribbons, as was the custom. Luce tried, and failed, not to imagine other garters in Morgan’s hands, in every shade of conquest. Veronique, glowing with joy, limped about on the deck until Morgan went to help her. He kissed his beautiful bride, while she, smiling, stroked his dark hair. Luce, unable to watch a moment longer, stole up to the stern. Found it, as she had hoped, to be blissfully deserted.
She crossed the deck, feet whimpering in the delicately-heeled wedding shoes Veronique had insisted she wear, and leaned on the taffrail, easing the slippers free.
‘Damn my soul.’ She sighed, reveling in the feel of cool timber against her stockinged soles. Absurd, that the wedding guests should be drinking orange-scented wine and eating pastries, when even now a fleet of English ships could be moving like sharks along the coast. She dragged her gaze along the horizon. The water, which had been calm and blue that morning, was now a steely grey, reflecting the clouds that were rolling thickly in from the north.
When the weather turns, the mirror had told her, and the groac’h had agreed. A week, perhaps. Maybe longer.
There was weather coming, no denying it. She could feel it in the air and on her skin, the same strange, faint prickling she felt when storm-stone was near. Luce threw her senses out into the Manche, tried to gauge its mood. She could have sworn it was holding its breath.
When the weather turns.
She glanced over her shoulder. She was utterly alone on the afterdeck, hidden from the other guests, still gathered at midships, by the height of the quarter deck below, the mizzen mast, and sheer distance.
To see the shape of the weather, to know if danger approaches. And other things, besides.
There was time enough, surely, to be certain. Besides, both the Marquis de la Chatre and Monsieur Mazin were aboard. If the fleet was approaching, both the commander of Saint-Malo and its chief engineer were only steps away.
Decided, Luce fished in her pockets—she had cut holes in the silk, allowing discreet access to the sea-silk belt at her waist—and slipped the mirror free. Turning her back to the sea, she held it up.
When a seamaid looks backward into her mirror, she sees therein that which she requires.
‘That which she requires,’ she whispered, focusing her thoughts on the fleet, the city, and her family. At once the reflection in the mirror changed. The glowering clouds behind her had made good on their threats, exploding into a storm both iron-grey and iridescent. Gulls wheeled, the last notes of sunlight harsh on their pale wings. And then—
Luce gasped. The sails, much closer to the city now, were as white as the gulls against the storm clouds. She turned the mirror slowly, the better to see the fleet in its entirety. Over a hundred sails, just as Samuel had said. At least twenty-five ships of the line, countless frigates, and three or four bomb ships, their telltale mortars gaping with infinite menace. There were many smaller ships, too. Fire ships, perhaps, destined to be set alight and sailed toward an enemy, or transport vessels. So intent was Luce on soaking in every detail of the fleet that she did not see the sliver of the Lucinde ’s deck coming into view behind her. Or the figure that stood upon it.
When at last she did notice her father, she flinched guiltily and went to pull the mirror down. In that moment, however, his reflection wavered, until he was standing not on the afterdeck of the Lucinde, the flowers decorating its yards bright against the coming storm clouds, but on a rocky beach beneath a clear, blue sky. The sounds of the wedding rising from the Lucinde ’s decks— laughter, chatter, the elegant strains of Bach—faded, along with Jean-Baptiste’s embroidered frock coat, satin breeches, and white stockings. Instead, he wore a serviceable shirt and sailor’s wide breeches, a heavy overcoat, and cracked leather boots. Gone was his fashionable, powdered wig. His hair was inky black, cropped far shorter than Luce had ever seen it. The weapons hanging at his belt, however, were familiar. She had seen them, many times, rusting and forgotten in the storerooms beneath the town house in Saint-Malo. A pistol, well-oiled; a short-handled axe; a fighting sword. He had a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, too; the kind sailors used for foraging on shore.
All this Luce noted in the time it takes to breathe in and then out again. Unable to look away, she watched as the strange, youthful version of her father moved along the unfamiliar beach, a tiny actor on a tiny stage meant just for her. The water behind him was a surreal turquoise blue, the sand clean and white. Luce frowned. Where was this place? And why did she feel as though she knew it?
Something small appeared on the sand ahead. As her father drew closer, Luce realised that it was a tiny child, perhaps one or two years old. It was naked, its softly-curling hair black. It looked up at her father’s approach, and Luce saw that its eyes were a startling— and familiar—shade of blue.
The sound of her shocked breath was sharp in her ears.
‘Lucinde?’ Jean-Baptiste’s voice carried across the deck, gentle and inquisitive, but Luce did not turn around. She could do nothing as her mirror-father approached the little girl and crouched beside her.
The child— Luce —was sitting at the water’s edge. Water lapped at her bare feet and legs, which, Luce saw with a pang, were perfectly formed. Whole. A piece of sea-silk trailed in the water beside her, its blue-green folds barely visible in that outrageous water.
She looked trustingly up at Jean-Baptiste and smiled, offering him a shell. Jean-Baptiste smiled back, his face softening. ‘Where is your mother, little one?’ At that moment the water pushed the silk against the child’s bare legs. Jean-Baptiste, his hand outstretched to take the shell, froze, his gaze caught on the tiny, glimmering tail that had replaced her legs. Emotions played rapidly across his face—Luce noted wonder and shock—before something distracted him. He turned in time to see a woman—no, a seamaid, her hair as black as Luce’s own, her face achingly similar—launch herself from the water as though the very ocean had risen at her command, her glorious golden-green tail splashing a wave of rage and seawater over the beach, her child, and the man who had dared to approach her. Luce’s mother had a sea-knife in her hand, and a look of pure fury on her face. She coiled herself upon the sand, took Luce protectively in her arms, and hissed.
Jean-Baptiste’s eyes widened in terror. For one endless moment it seemed that he might back away. Leave mother and child in peace, and return to his ship.
Then the sound of a gunshot pierced the air.
Luce flinched.
‘Luce?’ Her father had taken another step toward her. ‘You look lovely, I assure you. Put that away and come back to the party.’
Luce ignored him, unable to look away from the motionless seamaid, the blood staining the sand.
A look of speculation crossed young Jean-Baptiste’s face. Luce knew it well. Here, it said, was an opportunity.
He took his axe from his belt.
Luce did not look away as he cut her mother’s hand off at the wrist, then used the axe to prize away some of her scales, storing them, bloody-tipped and oddly colourless now that they were separated from her, in the canvas bag.
A lion knows nothing of pity.
‘Lucinde? Are you quite well?’
Luce watched, barely able to breathe as her mother’s murderer prodded at the comb and mirror hanging from a belt at her waist, then peered closer, examining the belt itself. Sea-silk. She saw, rather than heard, his lips shape the sound. He pulled it free, indifferent to the tarnished mirror and comb that fell onto the bloody sand. Like so many men before him, he had deemed them nothing more than women’s trinkets, and therefore, worthless.
When he had taken all of value, Jean-Baptiste went to leave. He took three or four steps before he looked back at the child sitting beside her dead mother. A look of pity crossed his face. He hurried back, snatched her up, and carried her along the beach.
A corsair lay at anchor beyond a rocky headland, its sails struck. Perhaps Luce knew that ship; perhaps she might have recognised the figurehead. As it was, she could not take her eyes off the blue-green sea-silk, still caught about the little girl’s legs. She winced as Jean-Baptiste leaned down and ripped it roughly away. Startled, the child began to cry. She reached over his shoulder, her small, starfish hands splaying for her mother, who grew smaller and smaller with every step Jean-Baptiste took. He held her tightly as she sobbed, tucking the piece of silk deep into his pocket.
‘There, there, mon trésor,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘You shall have a new family to love you, eh? A maman and a papa. And two sisters!’
‘Mon trésor?’
He was right behind her now. Luce raised the mirror higher, so he might view what she herself beheld: the lifeless body of a golden-tailed seamaid, her blood staining the sand, the sea, in an ever-widening arc. When she was certain he had seen, Luce turned around, lowering the mirror.
Her father’s face was bloodless.
‘Mon trésor—’
‘I am not your treasure.’ And then, before he could utter another lie, she swung herself over the taffrail and dropped into the sea.
All through the afternoon, the weather worsened. The wind whipped the face of the Manche into a frenzy, while waves drenched the coast, plunging into caves and coves, carving into the stone.
Luce delighted in the sea’s turmoil. She let it consume her, sinking gladly into its murky depths and then, just when she was certain she could not survive another moment without drawing breath, allowing it to push her back to the surface. Gasping in the spray, pale with the cold, she took a shuddering breath and plunged down once more, losing herself to the darkness.
Her dress and underthings were long gone, discarded beneath the Lucinde. Besides her scaled tail and Mother Aggie’s belt, where those three precious items—knife, mirror, comb— were secured beside the knotted sea-silk, she was naked. Barebreasted and wild, like the painting of the seamaid she had seen in Renard’s Poissons, Ecrevisses et Crabes .
Pain, sharp as a blade in her heart. She plunged once more beneath the churning waters, let them swallow her body and soul.
Somehow, she found herself back at the cove.
She hesitated before swimming to shore. Sculled in place upon the Manche’s heaving surface—her massive tail working beneath her, keeping her clear of the rocks—torn between salty oblivion and the comfort of dry land. How would it feel to keep going? To dive again and again, not looking back until Saint-Malo, Bretagne itself, was far from sight.
Only the thought of Samuel, waiting for her, uncertain of where she was or when she would return, stopped her.
In the end, it was he who found her on the beach, exhausted and cold as stone, limbs trailing weed, frighteningly wild in the storm-light.
‘Luce? What are you—holy fucking Christ !’
His hands were so warm, so warm. She lay very still on the sand, letting him gently untangle the sea-silk from her belt, lifting it away—like a fisherman freeing a seamaid from a line in an old tale.
‘Shall I give you three wishes?’ she croaked. ‘For your kindness?’
‘I’d be satisfied with you not freezing to death,’ he grunted, pocketing the silk and slinging one of her arms around his neck. The cold intensified with the return of her legs. Luce shivered uncontrollably as he hauled her against him, then pushed himself to his feet. She felt him tense, heard the sharp intake of breath as he strained his still-healing wounds.
‘Y-you will hurt your b-back,’ she said through chattering teeth.
‘Fuck my back.’
Movement, then. Swift, rough. The cold silver of evening went dark, and was replaced by the dimness of stone, the warmth of sea-scarred lanterns and salted firelight. ‘Found her on the beach,’ Samuel was saying, his chest rumbling against Luce’s ear. ‘She must have swum back.’ The groac’h’s voice, stern and reproachful, replied—‘not yet strong enough to swim such distances, and in such seas’—before Luce was laid somewhere soft—Samuel’s bed?—and enfolded in warmth. She nestled into it gratefully, pressing her feet against the utter deliciousness of what could only be heated stones.
‘Hand me her comb,’ the groac’h said.
‘Her comb?’ Luce heard the confusion in Samuel’s voice.
‘To dry her hair,’ the groach’h said. And then, lower, ‘And, perhaps, help with this weather.’
Gentle hands smoothed Luce’s brow, and then the comb was drifting through her hair. She exhaled deeply, as though she had stored all her shock and anger in her lungs, and the tide-woman’s touch had allowed her to breathe again.
‘Sleep, seamaid,’ the groac’h said, with surprising tenderness. Dimly, Luce heard the wind outside the cave ease, felt the Manche begin to settle. ‘When you wake, we shall speak of what has troubled you.’
‘You know.’ Luce, sinking into an oblivion of warmth and exhaustion and heartache, grasped at the words, muttered them before they slipped out of reach. ‘I think you’ve always known.’