Chapter Eleven Kit #3
Then there are the ones I think might be finfolk.
They are about the height of an average human, though their limbs are thin and just a bit too long.
There is an eeriness about them that’s subtle but unsettling.
Their skin is also similar to a human’s but touched by strange shades.
Vivid blue around their cheekbones or autumn gold at their fingertips.
Their clothing is made of a shimmering, scaly material that almost looks like fish skin.
Though the overall effect is silver, the material reflects a rainbow of colors whenever they move through a patch of light.
The tips of their ears end in a subtle point, sometimes decorated with gold hoops.
Though I search for him, I do not see Speir among the crowd.
The selkies are the shortest, some of them not even five feet tall.
They have luscious hair—normally black, but sometimes brown or golden—and wide, dark eyes.
Their clothing is like sea-foam silk, draped across their bodies in sensual folds.
The men are clean shaven, and the women don’t have so much as a freckle to mar their pearly skin.
Children dart in and round the dancers, sometimes stopping to spin with an adult or perform a cartwheel. They are not plump and toddling like human children—their lean bodies move with uncanny grace. Two children are occupied chasing a sparrow, waving a stick in the air at the bird.
I don’t spy anyone who looks like a small troll creature—a trow or hogboon—and I suppose they must be tied to their landlocked homes.
This dance is themed, I realize, with all the costumes in silvers and whites. I’m suddenly conscious of my dark-plum pelisse. Quickly, I undo the buttons at my chest and bundle it up in my arms. At least my dress is a delicate cream, instead of Catharine’s finer, darker gowns.
Idris isn’t hard to spot in his blue coat and breeches.
He is sitting on one of several luxurious chaise lounges near a long table piled high with food.
The sight of pink salmon and bread wrapped in crunchy seaweed and colorful pastries as fluffy as a cloud makes my mouth water.
A woman—a mermaid, I think—kneels in front of him in the tightly-packed white sand of the floor.
She bends over his feet, grinding pearls in a stone bowl.
I slide into the room and follow the wall, trying to get a better look.
The woman dips her hand in the shimmery white powder, then sprinkles it over Idris’s bare soles.
He stares past her at the dancers. The dull vacancy in his gaze sends a shudder down my back.
The woman rises and gives Idris her hand.
She is impossibly beautiful, with hair more golden than the sun, left loose in long curls down past her hips.
Her hand is delicate and skin a sun-kissed tan.
Idris lets her lead him into the dance. His movements turn fluid, naturally paired with every lift and fall of the dance.
The notes tug at me as I watch him, and I take an involuntary step from the wall. My bag’s contents clink against my leg, reminding me of the danger, and I hug my pelisse tighter to my chest as I retreat.
I need to find out how to break Idris’s curse, and my own.
But I’ve never been more conscious of my appearance.
In a room of these extraordinary beings, even Catharine’s beautiful body must seem ordinary.
Plain. Human. I’ll be spotted if I draw their notice, and I’m not eager to test the mercy of folk like Speir.
There is a small crevice in the wall, deep in darkness.
I climb into it, shoes slipping and sliding over the time-polished rock.
It’s wide enough that I can crouch and watch, with the rock ledge offering some protection.
True waits long enough to check I’m settled, then trots off to sit by Idris’s abandoned shoes.
No, don’t go! I want to shout after him. But I bite my tongue.
Maybe it’s better, anyway. Someone might notice if True stood guard by me.
Still, uncomfortably perched behind the slightly damp rock, I can’t help feeling alone.
I check the supplies in my bag, reassuring myself I should be able to leave, and turn my attention back to the chamber.
The dances are strange and lovely, a never-ceasing movement that flows from one partner to the next.
I blush a little to see how close the couples stand—the men’s hands on the women’s lower backs, sometimes on bare skin.
It is far more intimate than the balls I’ve attended.
Unbidden, an image of King Byrne surfaces in my mind. The tightness of his hand as I stepped into that last turn. The smell of him and the pain cutting through my wrist.
I close my hand over my wrist now, feeling the narrowness of it, the ease with which it turns and bends. A body that’s never been punished for simply existing.
A body that isn’t mine. That I’m trying to give back.
Again, bitter sadness rises in my throat. I swallow it down. Catharine does not deserve to be in my true body, my breaking body.
But do I?
I push the thought away. The wasting is mine. Bear what must be borne.
Someone dressed in color catches my eye as he appears from a side room. I hadn’t noticed, but there are low openings in the wall that must lead somewhere else. This man has to hunch to get through, and he straightens again, squinting as he surveys the dance.
Without his glasses, it takes me a moment to recognize him. Abram.
He looks unharmed, wearing a simple, unrumpled brown suit. He’s barefoot, like Idris. He’s too far away for me to see clearly, but I think from the intentional way he seems to be scanning the assembly that he is in his right mind. Looking.
True hops up and lopes over to Abram, wagging his tail.
I slide one foot out of the crevice and carefully begin to ease myself free.
Abram is kneeling to pet his brother’s dog.
I eye the crowd between me and him, unsure of the best way to attract his gaze without drawing anyone else’s.
But before I can decide, a selkie maiden catches his arm and tugs him into the dance.
He doesn’t resist, though he scans the faces of the people he passes.
I press against the wall and wait for another chance.
A few turns take Abram close to Idris.
Abram straightens, his face brightening. “Idris!” I see his mouth move, though I can’t hear the name above the sound of the music.
Idris doesn’t so much as blink. I watch disappointment and concern chase each other across Abram’s face. Then two more turns separate the brothers again.
But the dance is bringing Abram closer to me.
I lift my hand, waiting, waiting for my chance. When he turns in my direction, I risk a wave. He frowns, and I’m not sure he knows who I am. I lower my arm, not wanting the Folk to notice.
The dances don’t exactly end or change—they seem to meld one into the next. Partners are exchanged seemingly at random. It’s some time later when Abram reappears, moving along the wall to me. I exhale a relieved breath.
When he gets closer, his expression changes to surprise. “Catharine?”
“Ah.” The barb appears in my throat again, sensing my instinct to correct him.
He shakes his head. “Sorry. I mean, Kit?”
The barb sharpens. I don’t dare nod, but I hold out his folded glasses to him.
“Thank you,” Abram says eagerly, grabbing them and slipping them on. He blinks a few times, then turns his worried expression back to me. “Why in the world are you here?”
I briefly explain how Idris and his father figured out Abram had disappeared. How I had offered to come and keep watch tonight.
“It’s too dangerous,” Abram says. “You shouldn’t have. Catharine needs you.”
I’m surprised and a little touched by his concern.
“You’ll be trapped now, like me,” he goes on, his face etched with anxiety. “I can’t step out of the cavern. Not even onto the beach. Every time I try, I feel—I feel a bit like I’m unraveling.”
“I’ve taken precautions,” I assure him. “I should be able to leave.” I think. “Is Jay here?”
Abram’s brows lower again. “No. I haven’t been able to find him.”
I chew my lip. “Maybe he never made it this far.”
Abram doesn’t answer, but I can see in his uneasy expression that he has thought the same thing. I remember the rocks outside. The violence of the sea.
I shake away the thought. “How are you holding up?”
“All right, more or less.” His voice sounds dry. Now assisted by his glasses, he scans the crowd again. “I’ve managed to keep the mermaids from tricking me to drink or eat.”
“Mermaids?” I echo, curious to see if my guesses were correct.
“They untie their tails for the dance.” Abram gestures to the tall women in their long skirts.
“The fabric is their skin?” I ask, looking again at the strange material.
Abram shakes his head. “I’m not sure how it works. I’ve heard when they want to walk on the shore outside of the Hidden Land, they have to remove the tail entirely—like a selkie, I think. We have stories of men stealing tails to claim a mermaid in marriage.”
“That’s horrible.” I remember the selkie-wife tales. I know what it is like to feel a man claim your skin for his own. Now, standing in front of these real women, ethereal and otherworldly, in a skin that isn’t mine at all, I feel pity and anger. No one should have their body stolen, no matter why.
With some effort, I pull my thoughts back to the present. Idris is stumbling on the white sand, growing clumsier with every turn. I hug my folded pelisse to my chest.
“You said they were trying to trick you?” I ask Abram. “What would happen if you ate or drank?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Abram admits. “But I know in some stories, taking food in the Hidden Lands seals your fate as a captive. That hasn’t happened to Idris, obviously, since he is able to come and go, but I don’t know if I’m afforded the same protection he is.
And mermaids are known to enchant men if they can. ”
I glance at him questioningly.