One Salt Sea
Page 102
I raised an eyebrow. “Driving you to Half Moon Bay wasn’t enough?”
“Just . . . please. Don’t tell them who I am.” Her expression turned pleading. “Most of them don’t know, and it’s not time for them to know yet.”
“I thought you couldn’t lie.”
“I can’t lie to anyone but them.” She stroked the silkwrapped bundle one more time. Something subtle shifted in her face, the bones rearranging themselves just enough to make her unfamiliar. When she looked up again, her eyes were a smoky driftglass blue, and she looked like another person. “Please.”
“Will you tell me why you can lie to them?”
“After we’re done here. I promise.”
“Then, yeah. I won’t tell them who you are.”
She smiled with obvious relief, and beckoned for me to follow up the long stretch of driveway between us and the house.
I could hear the music before we were halfway there, wild fiddling and the strumming of at least a dozen guitars. I blinked, but didn’t say anything. Not until the Luidaeg rang the bell, and the door was opened by a freckled teenage girl with Connor’s brown-and-silver hair and bluer eyes than I’d ever seen on a Selkie. She blinked twice, eyes darting from the Luidaeg to me. And then she burst into tears, all but flinging herself into the Luidaeg’s arms.
“Oh, Annie, Annie, is he really gone?”
“He is.” The Luidaeg patted the girl’s back with her free hand, and said, “Diva, this is October Daye. She was Connor’s sweetheart.”
Diva straightened, not bothering to wipe her eyes. Tears rolled unashamedly down her cheeks as she studied me. Then she smiled. “You really are a pretty one. He was lucky in the having of you.”
“I was lucky to have him,” I said, and extended my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Family never meets family,” she said, ignoring my hand. She hugged me instead, with surprising vigor. “Welcome to our home.” Releasing me, she looked back to the Luidaeg, and said, “Come in. Food’s in the kitchen. I’ll tell Mum you’re here.” Then she was gone, vanishing into the halfseen living room. The Luidaeg and I followed her inside, and into chaos.
Purebloods don’t have funerals, but they do have wakes—sedate, structured things, meant to tie off loose ends rather than to allow for public mourning. The Selkies must have missed that memo. Everywhere I looked there were Selkies and Selkies-in-waiting, their children who had yet to inherit a skin of their own. Some of them wept as unreservedly as Diva. Others laughed, or sawed away on their fiddles, filling the air with jigs and reels that had some people dancing, despite the nature of the occasion.
And all of them were thrilled to see the Luidaeg, even as their eyes sorrowfully acknowledged the nature of the bundle in her arms. “Cousin Annie” was apparently a valued member of the family, even if she didn’t visit often enough for most of them. She was stopped a dozen times as she led me toward the back of the room. Each time, she was hugged and welcomed, and each time, she told the ones who’d stopped her who I was, and each time, they told me they were sorry for my loss. They told me Connor was lucky to have had me. I was crying, too, before we reached the stairs . . . but they were good tears, because everyone in this house understood them.
We finally reached the door at the back of the room, and the Luidaeg led me into a narrow hall, where a flight of stairs led to the second floor. She put a hand on the banister, and asked, “Do you understand why we’re here?”
“I think so.” I wiped my cheeks with the back of one hand.
“Good. Come on.”
The sounds of the party fell away as we climbed higher, replaced by the deep, comfortable silence that only old, well-loved homes ever manage to attain. We met Diva at the first landing; she was going down much faster than we were going up, and barely managed to stop herself in time.
“Annie!” She stepped to the side. “Mum’s expecting you. She said October could come, if you thought it was appropriate.”
“I appreciate it, Diva,” said the Luidaeg, and hugged the girl quickly before resuming her ascent. I followed, giving Diva a smile as we passed her. Then the girl was gone, leaving the faint smell of seawater in her wake as she thundered down the stairs.
“Diva’s a good kid,” the Luidaeg said. “Her mother’s a Selkie, and her father’s Roane. They’re still waiting to see which she’ll take after—if it’s him, she won’t need one of the family skins.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what else was expected of me. “The Roane are . . . they’re pretty rare, aren’t they?”
“Now they are. And Selkies aren’t supposed to mate outside the family. Diva’s mother never cared much for rules. Diva’s father . . . well. He was just glad to have a child at all. When you’re on the verge of extinction, you’ll take what you can get.”
“Oh,” I said again.
The Luidaeg gave me a tolerant look, and kept climbing.
A single door was open in the hall at the top of the stairs, letting a warm, inviting light spill out onto the floor. The Luidaeg stopped in the doorway, rapping her knuckles against the frame. “Hello, Lizzy,” she said. “Mind if we come in?”
“As if any could stop you?” asked the woman seated behind the room’s carved mahogany desk. She looked to be somewhere in her late thirties, with ash-blonde hair that couldn’t quite decide between gold and silver, and a Selkie’s characteristic sea-dark eyes. A snifter of what smelled like brandy was in her hand. The light came from the oil lamps set on the desk’s front corners, well away from the papers in front of her, or the books that lined the walls. “Come in, come in, and bring your friend along.”
“It’s still polite to ask,” said the Luidaeg, stepping inside. “Lizzy, this is October Daye. October, this is Elizabeth Ryan, current head of this clan.”
“And much grief it’s given me,” said Elizabeth bitterly. She took a sip of brandy. “You are welcome here, the both of you.”
“No, I’m not.” The Luidaeg dragged a chair to the front of the desk, gesturing for me to do the same. She put her bundle down in front of Elizabeth before she sat, and said, “That’s two skins returned. Be sure they’re passed quickly.”
“Just . . . please. Don’t tell them who I am.” Her expression turned pleading. “Most of them don’t know, and it’s not time for them to know yet.”
“I thought you couldn’t lie.”
“I can’t lie to anyone but them.” She stroked the silkwrapped bundle one more time. Something subtle shifted in her face, the bones rearranging themselves just enough to make her unfamiliar. When she looked up again, her eyes were a smoky driftglass blue, and she looked like another person. “Please.”
“Will you tell me why you can lie to them?”
“After we’re done here. I promise.”
“Then, yeah. I won’t tell them who you are.”
She smiled with obvious relief, and beckoned for me to follow up the long stretch of driveway between us and the house.
I could hear the music before we were halfway there, wild fiddling and the strumming of at least a dozen guitars. I blinked, but didn’t say anything. Not until the Luidaeg rang the bell, and the door was opened by a freckled teenage girl with Connor’s brown-and-silver hair and bluer eyes than I’d ever seen on a Selkie. She blinked twice, eyes darting from the Luidaeg to me. And then she burst into tears, all but flinging herself into the Luidaeg’s arms.
“Oh, Annie, Annie, is he really gone?”
“He is.” The Luidaeg patted the girl’s back with her free hand, and said, “Diva, this is October Daye. She was Connor’s sweetheart.”
Diva straightened, not bothering to wipe her eyes. Tears rolled unashamedly down her cheeks as she studied me. Then she smiled. “You really are a pretty one. He was lucky in the having of you.”
“I was lucky to have him,” I said, and extended my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Family never meets family,” she said, ignoring my hand. She hugged me instead, with surprising vigor. “Welcome to our home.” Releasing me, she looked back to the Luidaeg, and said, “Come in. Food’s in the kitchen. I’ll tell Mum you’re here.” Then she was gone, vanishing into the halfseen living room. The Luidaeg and I followed her inside, and into chaos.
Purebloods don’t have funerals, but they do have wakes—sedate, structured things, meant to tie off loose ends rather than to allow for public mourning. The Selkies must have missed that memo. Everywhere I looked there were Selkies and Selkies-in-waiting, their children who had yet to inherit a skin of their own. Some of them wept as unreservedly as Diva. Others laughed, or sawed away on their fiddles, filling the air with jigs and reels that had some people dancing, despite the nature of the occasion.
And all of them were thrilled to see the Luidaeg, even as their eyes sorrowfully acknowledged the nature of the bundle in her arms. “Cousin Annie” was apparently a valued member of the family, even if she didn’t visit often enough for most of them. She was stopped a dozen times as she led me toward the back of the room. Each time, she was hugged and welcomed, and each time, she told the ones who’d stopped her who I was, and each time, they told me they were sorry for my loss. They told me Connor was lucky to have had me. I was crying, too, before we reached the stairs . . . but they were good tears, because everyone in this house understood them.
We finally reached the door at the back of the room, and the Luidaeg led me into a narrow hall, where a flight of stairs led to the second floor. She put a hand on the banister, and asked, “Do you understand why we’re here?”
“I think so.” I wiped my cheeks with the back of one hand.
“Good. Come on.”
The sounds of the party fell away as we climbed higher, replaced by the deep, comfortable silence that only old, well-loved homes ever manage to attain. We met Diva at the first landing; she was going down much faster than we were going up, and barely managed to stop herself in time.
“Annie!” She stepped to the side. “Mum’s expecting you. She said October could come, if you thought it was appropriate.”
“I appreciate it, Diva,” said the Luidaeg, and hugged the girl quickly before resuming her ascent. I followed, giving Diva a smile as we passed her. Then the girl was gone, leaving the faint smell of seawater in her wake as she thundered down the stairs.
“Diva’s a good kid,” the Luidaeg said. “Her mother’s a Selkie, and her father’s Roane. They’re still waiting to see which she’ll take after—if it’s him, she won’t need one of the family skins.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what else was expected of me. “The Roane are . . . they’re pretty rare, aren’t they?”
“Now they are. And Selkies aren’t supposed to mate outside the family. Diva’s mother never cared much for rules. Diva’s father . . . well. He was just glad to have a child at all. When you’re on the verge of extinction, you’ll take what you can get.”
“Oh,” I said again.
The Luidaeg gave me a tolerant look, and kept climbing.
A single door was open in the hall at the top of the stairs, letting a warm, inviting light spill out onto the floor. The Luidaeg stopped in the doorway, rapping her knuckles against the frame. “Hello, Lizzy,” she said. “Mind if we come in?”
“As if any could stop you?” asked the woman seated behind the room’s carved mahogany desk. She looked to be somewhere in her late thirties, with ash-blonde hair that couldn’t quite decide between gold and silver, and a Selkie’s characteristic sea-dark eyes. A snifter of what smelled like brandy was in her hand. The light came from the oil lamps set on the desk’s front corners, well away from the papers in front of her, or the books that lined the walls. “Come in, come in, and bring your friend along.”
“It’s still polite to ask,” said the Luidaeg, stepping inside. “Lizzy, this is October Daye. October, this is Elizabeth Ryan, current head of this clan.”
“And much grief it’s given me,” said Elizabeth bitterly. She took a sip of brandy. “You are welcome here, the both of you.”
“No, I’m not.” The Luidaeg dragged a chair to the front of the desk, gesturing for me to do the same. She put her bundle down in front of Elizabeth before she sat, and said, “That’s two skins returned. Be sure they’re passed quickly.”
