Chapter Seventeen Kit
Chapter Seventeen
Kit
I realize too late that he’s gone.
My emotions are at war, too torn and splintered for anything to be clear. I cannot move from my spot at the cliff edge. Far below, a boat has set out from the bay. Idris. Idris, who likes my laugh and is amazed by my spirit. Idris, who thinks I’m mesmerizing.
Does he really? asks a voice that sounds like my stepfather’s. He couldn’t have meant it.
From what I know of Idris, he is kind and noble and good. A bit of a martyr and too impulsive, but someone so totally different from Byrne. A tiny, naive sliver of me brightens at the thought.
Do you know that? asks another voice, this one like my mother. Is any man truly not like Byrne?
Waves of shame and regret choke me. Guilt.
In any story shouldn’t this be a moment of triumph?
I like Idris. I don’t know if I love him—though just the thought of the possibility of it sends giddy warmth, followed by a streak of terror, down my spine—but I like him a very great deal.
If I were any other person, I would be happy now.
I would be warm and giggling and blushing.
I would have stopped him before he left and declared myself with sparkling words, maybe even with a kiss. I wouldn’t have raged.
What is wrong with me?
The boat, a speck against the shimmering blue of the ocean, shifts southward toward Stromwell. I should have accompanied him to the manor house, should have insisted he take his horse. He isn’t well—anyone could see that. He shouldn’t be alone.
And yet, I’m grateful he left. I don’t want to see him—not now, maybe not ever. I never want to feel this excruciating chaos again.
But he didn’t mean to cause this. He doesn’t know what he’s asking, what he’s said. Would he ask if he knew? Would he ever think any part of me is radiant if he knew?
I grip my fists against my forehead, turning from the view.
My breath comes in gulps, and I can’t get enough air.
My body shakes, and I sink onto the plush grass.
Deep in the core of me, there is a jittery instability that I recognize, though I’ve never felt it so strongly in Catharine’s body before.
Unsafe.
I force myself to sit straight. I’m not allowed to feel this way anymore. I’m in a perfect body, a healthy body. The turmoil in me radiates out from my fingers into the earth. I choke, squeeze my eyes shut.
A faint thrum answers me.
I draw another shuddering breath and open my eyes. It comes again, a distant thrum through the ground. A murmuring wail that matches the one inside me.
Still shaking, I run my hands across the grass.
The thrum morphs into a painful buzz, like an open burn that has been grazed by cloth.
I crawl across the lumpy ground, following the rising hurt, searching it out among the ruins.
When the feeling centers at a point below me, I claw through the grass and moss.
I dig with my fingernails, scraping away clay and rock.
My nails chip and skin breaks, but it doesn’t matter.
I am all instinct. Somewhere in this mess is a wound that feels like mine, and I urgently have to find it.
Perhaps one foot down, my fingers knock against something that is not soil or stone. A cluster of small roots? But as I begin to pull it aside, the thin threads tug. It is some kind of wider material. The hurt sings from it.
I dig around, carefully freeing the thing until I can lift it without tugging.
It comes up from the ground covered in red and brown.
I brush my palm against it to wipe it clean.
Velvety bristles rise and smooth depending on the direction I move.
Fur. Fur that is softer than the richest silk and moves just as fluidly.
I pinch a bit between my fingers, trying to feel resistance in the hide, but there is none.
The fur is short, like a seal’s, and under the stain of the dirt it is still silver as raindrops in the sun. I spread it out in front of me, wincing at the places it has been folded roughly, the places the skin puckers.
My heart nearly stops.
I recognize this. And I understand why it called to me.
“What did he do to you?” I whisper, tears blurring my vision.
I have found the selkie skin that Mervyn stole. Fury quivers under my grief, under the grief that radiates between me and it. He took something beautiful, something sacred, and he stuffed it in the ground like it was rubbish. He didn’t even place it in a sack to protect it. He left it here to rot.
I gather the skin gently into my arms and hold it to my chest. The wind dies around me, and suddenly the world is still. The air is comfortable and almost warm. Far away, the sea murmurs. The wild hurt quiets into a kind of calm.
I’ve found what Idris was looking for. I should spring up and ride after him, but I need a moment to just breathe.
Perhaps I should have just struck him with the wand, taken the decision out of both of our hands. I could still do it.
Frustration rises in me. He had no right to tell me how to use the wand—and I want to use it on him. I want to do the right thing. And going back to what I was—to my old body—can’t be the right thing. Can it?
Clinging to my growing, stony certainty, I gingerly place the wand in my reticule and fold the skin against my chest. I climb back to the main island and find Idris’s gelding.
He’s a mild horse, with delicate features and beautiful brown eyes.
His ears swivel as I approach, and he lifts his head curiously.
An empty saddlebag is attached to his gear, and I slide the selkie skin into it.
That taken care of, I take the reins and lead him to one of the nearby rocks so I can mount.
The horse isn’t trained for sidesaddle, so I awkwardly position myself with my skirt bunched up on either side.
I turn toward the west and begin my way back, alternating between a trot and a canter.
During the journey, I do my best to steel myself.
I’ll walk right up to Idris and smack him with the wand.
The curse will break, and that will be that.
We can decide how to return the skin afterward.
Then I won’t have the wand burning a hole in my reticule, whispering that I could use it on Catharine to cure the wasting and keep everything the way it is.
If I give up the cure to Idris, it means I am not being selfish in keeping Catharine’s body—at least for now. Right?
I take the back route the servants pointed out to me earlier to avoid parading through Stromwell on their prince’s horse.
The manor house is ahead. The sun is nearly set, though it’s not even late enough for the evening meal.
Red and gold streak the sky, and everything below sinks into violet shadows.
I ride into the courtyard and dismount with a little difficulty. A stablehand takes the reins and holds the horse steady while I unhook the saddlebag.
“Thank you.” I put the bag’s leather strap over my shoulder and use my newly free hands to tug my skirts into place. “Is Prince Idris back?”
“No, miss.”
I frown. I didn’t think it would take him longer by sea than it took me by land. But before I can decide the right course of action, the servant speaks again.
“Your stepmother—the queen—has arrived.”
My heart stutters. “What?”
The stablehand glances toward the house uncertainly. “We’re not meant to, um, know who you are, Princess Catharine, but … servants talk. The queen arrived this afternoon, and I thought you’d want to know.”
“What about King Byrne?” I ask, a rushing building in my ears.
“I believe he is at the Guildhall,” he says.
I exhale. But my relief is short-lived. I may not be in immediate danger of running into my stepfather, but I need to get Catharine and myself off Skyare as quickly as possible.
Perhaps I can give Abram the wand—get it as far from me as possible—and ask for his assistance to travel to one of the more remote islands.
The stablehand is still standing in front of me, waiting for a dismissal.
“Where is Prince Abram?” I ask quickly. “King Hugh?”
“Prince Abram is at the Guildhall too. The king left this morning for one of the islands, and we haven’t had word of his return.”
I want to swear. My stomach clenches at the thought of leaving Idris to his fate, despite all my fury with him for choosing it. But if I linger here—if we are caught—I don’t know what Byrne will do to us. And I can’t very well just leave the wand on Idris’s doorstep and hope he’ll use it.
“Daughter!” calls a voice behind me.
I freeze. My mother. There is a moment when I could run—just outright flee—but I hesitate. I don’t have time to know why. Then she has grabbed my arm and wrapped me in a hug.
My throat tightens, and my eyes burn. I bring my arms loosely round her to return the hug, wanting to pretend for a moment that we are as we were: just a mother and daughter reunited.
But in Catharine’s body I am too tall, and I cannot tuck myself under her chin like I used to.
I am the wrong size, and she did this to me, and I am longing and anger, betrayal and sadness all together. I pull away from her.
“You’re well?” Mother asks, brushing back my hair and looking me over head to toe. “I was so worried.”
My gaze catches on her stomach. The gown she wears bulges, and when she sees me look, she rests her hand on the bump.
“You—you’re with child?” I say, bewildered. I haven’t been gone long enough for her to have grown this much.
“This isn’t a conversation for such a public place,” Mother says with a glance at the stablehand, who bows his head quickly. “Let us walk.”
I need to get to Catharine. But, I reason, Abram and the king know that we are hiding from Byrne, even if they don’t know why.
The king gave his word he would not give us away.
Catharine has never even come into the city, so the chances of her and Byrne meeting are slim to none.
And this might be the last time I see my mother. Ever.