Monstrous Beauty (11 page)

Hester began to cry. She cried for Nellie, because she never knew Marijn. She cried for Marijn, because she never knew Nellie. She cried for Malcolm and her grandfather for losing Susan, for Susan for losing her entire future, and for Nancy, who filled another woman’s shoes with such grace. And finally she cried for herself—for all that she had missed with her mother, and for all that she would miss in her own future.

She could no longer deny that she wanted a deep love of her own, with marriage someday, and children, and a lifetime together—like what Malcolm and Nancy had right now, and what Bartholomew and Lucy had over a hundred years ago. But in her world, Hester could never play the role of a Nancy or a Lucy. She was doomed to be Susan. She was Marijn.

Chapter 17

1873

E
ZRA PROPPED HIMSELF
on his elbow in bed, facing his wife. The early-morning light filtered through the billowing curtains, and the sheets and duvet nested white and clean against her pale skin. She sighed deeply.

“Syrenka,” he whispered.

“You never told me how magnificent sleep is,” she murmured. Her breathing became regular and slow again.

“Syrenka.”

Her lips formed a tiny smile, but her eyes were still closed. “Sarah,” she corrected sleepily.

He moved a strand of near-white hair off her bare shoulder and kissed her cool skin.

“Forgive me,” he said, grinning, “for calling my lover’s name while in my wife’s bed.”

She laughed quietly and opened her eyes. After knowing her more than a year, he was still elated by their shade of green, and by their liveliness. He leaned in and kissed her neck.

He murmured, “It
is
rather a convenience that my lover and my wife are one and the same woman.”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “… a woman named
Sarah.
It’s not safe to reveal anything from my past.”

“How can you bear to lose such a beautiful name, in exchange for something so ordinary?” He kissed the palm of her hand.

“It means nothing to me. Noo’kas renames us whenever she pleases, as frivolously as a man might change his necktie.”

He kissed her lips. Her breath was cool and lightly sweet—not unlike a newly cut cucumber.

“Where did you learn the word ‘frivolous,’ you brilliant creature?”

“From the books you’ve given me,” she said. “Have I thanked you for them?”

“Not today,” he said, kissing her again.

“Today has only just begun,” she said. Then she lowered her voice. “Would you like to know what I find most useful about having legs?”

“More than anyth—”

Before he had finished his sentence, she pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him. She was still strong. She pinned him with her body and wrapped her legs around him. With her hands holding his arms to his sides and her hair streaming onto his face, she kissed his eyelids to make him shut his eyes, then the hollow of his cheek, and behind his ear.

“Your legs are … useful,” Ezra conceded with a silly smile on his face. She kissed the space between his collarbones. She released his arms and he wrapped them tightly around her, pulling her close, free to participate.

*   *   *

On Sundays the housekeeper had the day off, and Sarah enjoyed cooking breakfast. She was happiest this way—completely at home, in Ezra’s home—in a featherweight negligee, with loosely braided hair and bare feet.

She glanced over her shoulder. Ezra was watching her, leaning in the doorway with his journal under his arm. He smiled, and for the thousandth time she admired to herself the creases next to his eyes and the single tooth that was slightly awry.

He said, “I’ve been thinking about what we discussed this morning in bed.”

“Did we speak?”

“Yes, well…” He blushed. “The few words between us stuck with me. When we talked about your name, you said it wasn’t safe to reveal anything from your past.”

She put eggs and toast on a plate for him.

He sat down and tossed the journal on the table. “By the same token, I think I should destroy this.”

She scooped the book up. “But this holds months of work.”

She leafed through it as he ate and came upon a page full of sketches of her tail. “The drawings are perfect in their detail, and yet rendered with such beauty. You have so many talents.” She put it down on the table, open. “We could keep it for ourselves, at the very least.”

“If anyone happened to come across it, it would put you in danger.”

“No one will connect me with the creatures in that book. Only a few drunken sailors even believe they exist. Humans see only what feels familiar to them. I’m Sarah now.”

He had taken a large bite of toast, so rather than speak he shook his head and dragged the book toward him. He turned to the next page, where there was a portrait of her face. He handed the journal back to her. In the image her eyes were larger, her teeth were sharp, and her pupils were horizontal slits, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

“I see. Perhaps we could tear this page out,” she suggested.

“When I say it’s a matter of safety, I believe I am selfishly thinking only of you. But there is also cause to be concerned for the others of your kind, including your sister. I am confident that people would try to profit from them in some awful way that we cannot conceive. If you will not think of yourself, think of them.”

She closed the journal and held it to her chest. “I understand.”

He stood and kissed her cheek. “Put your astoundingly clever mind to work on how we might keep it without risk. I’ve tried, and I can’t see another way. If you agree it’s necessary to destroy it, we shall burn it in tonight’s fire.

“I must be off to church, to show my face.” And then with a twinkle of amusement he added, “Although I’d gladly drown myself again if it meant I might stay here with you.”

She straightened his collar and pulled him close to her. “Don’t even give life to such words. You are sometimes quite maddening, do you know that?”

“Ah, but you love it,” he whispered into her lips before he left.

*   *   *

The hour and a half of Sunday services was the only time Ezra and Sarah spent apart. He did it solely to preempt any intrusion into their home life. She was a newcomer—a foreigner, according to local gossip—and the spiritual standards were lower for her, but Ezra’s family had a long pedigree in town, with certain expectations.

Sarah used her time alone in the same way every week. Carrying a bag containing a towel and a petticoat, she walked to Leyden Street and down to the bay. The entire town was at church; the streets were silent and the shops she passed were closed. A dog wandered unattended, knocking over dustbins and scavenging for scraps. The boats in the bay were moored, waves lightly slapping their hulls in the gentle breeze.

In a stand of trees, she took off her dress. She wore a bathing costume under it: an absurd outfit of a long blue serge blouse bound with white worsted braid, with cap sleeves and a sailor collar, plus three-quarter-length trousers. A person could hardly be expected to swim any distance at all wearing such a thing, but propriety demanded it and there was always the chance that someone might see her in the water.

She looked about her, making sure she was alone, and stepped into the waves. She waded in until she was completely underwater and out of sight, with her hair blooming up and around her, and the salt water refreshing her hot, dry skin. She stayed completely submerged as she removed the leaden swimsuit and anchored the two pieces under a rock. And then she swam free. She was clumsier than she liked with her human legs, but efficient enough that swimming reminded her of how lithe she used to be.

Before the hour was up, her sister Needa had joined her, with another called Weeku. They swam to the rocky outcropping together to catch lobsters and dig for clams, being careful to stay on the side away from the beach.

“Let me open the shell, Syrenka.” Weeku took a clam from her. “You have such soft fingers now—I wonder how you can eat at all.”

“Needa,” Sarah said in a hushed voice. “Is there any news of the child?”

“No, dearest. I am sorry. We’ve traveled far, but we still find no trace of her. I heard your hands drum the water that night,” Needa assured her. “I heard the baby cry. When I arrived, she was gone. You know we would have taken her—all of us—and cared for her as our own.”

Syrenka touched her sister’s shoulder. “It is my fault. When I think that I exposed her, that I assumed she would be safe, without thinking through the possibilities—” She broke off. “Why did it not occur to me that a shark could be near, or that a storm might take her out to sea? How can I be a thousand years old and still understand so little? What if she suffered? I am tortured by the thought.”

Weeku scolded, “That is the human in you speaking. You followed a sensible plan, no more, no less. We will continue to search.”

“We will never give up,” Needa agreed.

Their time together was drawing to an end. They swam to the spot where Syrenka’s bathing costume was anchored and helped her dress underwater. Needa and Weeku followed Syrenka until her feet touched, and then into the shallows, where their bellies nearly grazed the sandy bottom.

There they remained partially submerged, inspecting her legs—such amazing things they were!—and tracing the contours of her ankles and toes with their fingers.

Syrenka sensed someone’s presence and spun around. The shore was empty.

“Go, now!” she said. “You are not safe here.”

They wished her farewell and slipped under the surface.

But it was too late. They had been seen.

*   *   *

Eleanor Ontstaan had suffered a migraine in church. Leaving baby Marijn in the care of her sister, Eliza, at the service, she had started home, and had caught sight of Sarah entering the water. Hiding her body behind a thick tree, she had waited patiently for Sarah to emerge, the pain on the top of her head and the shimmering visual aura apparently cured by a growing, invasive curiosity. Within the hour she had seen everything, and she knew what her observations implied: that Sarah Doyle—the supposed foreigner who had suddenly appeared in town with no explanation, no history, and no family—was a monster, like the ones that cavorted in the water with her.

But how does a sea monster become human?

Eleanor was not a stupid woman. She knew the answer was through a monstrous act, through the taking of a human life. She had heard tales from her earliest childhood of sailors and fishermen found dead in the sea, their corpses mangled as Olaf’s had been.

It became a cancer in her thoughts. Sarah Doyle was the demon who had viciously murdered Olaf and mutilated his body, in service of her evil magic.

Chapter 18

O
N
T
HURSDAY
Peter was waiting in the break room when Hester finished work.

“Your mom called and said you were car-less today,” Peter said, “so I told her I’d drive you home.”

“Great, because I’m falling down with exhaustion.” She pulled the coif off her head and stuffed it in her bag. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I hope it’s okay that I have to stop at the wharf on the way. I left my paycheck in the kiosk.”

“No problem. I’m ready.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to change?”

“Nah.” She lifted the hem of her skirt. “I burned a hole in my costume that I need to sew tonight. I’ve been really spacey lately, like I can’t concentrate on anything. I might have gone up in flames.” She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “I’m way too tired to change. I’ll just be a dork for another fifteen minutes.”

He patted her head. “You’re not a dork, you’re adorkable.”

*   *   *

When they pulled up to the wharf, Hester saw that the tide was low. As Peter let himself into the kiosk, Hester’s eyes were drawn south, in the direction of the grassy picnic area near the beach. The cave suddenly filled her mind and crowded out every other thought. It would be fully exposed now, and there was plenty of daylight left to venture inside.

Peter got back in the truck and fastened his seat belt. As he reached for the gearshift Hester said, “Wait. I’m going to get out here.”

“What?”

She grabbed her bag. “It’s a pretty evening, I feel like walking the rest of the way home.”

“I thought you were tired,” he protested as she shut the door.

She leaned her arms on the open passenger-side window. “I am. I mean, I was. I’ll be fine!” She realized that she was being evasive again. He seemed to notice it, too. He was just about to say something, so she preempted him with a baffled smile.

“Am I acting weird?”

“Now that you mention it…”

“I’m sorry, we had a million tourists today, so I had to be on my toes nonstop. I think a walk alone is just what I need to decompress, and it’s not far.”

“You sure you don’t want to change first?”

Hester looked down at her period clothing again. “Ha! I might as well make a spectacle of myself.” She smiled. “Thanks for the ride.”

She watched him pull away before she walked briskly down Water Street, brimming with excitement, not really knowing why. A flock of cormorants flew along the shore and skimmed the bay in a quick succession of landings. The hazy distraction of the last week—the preoccupation with nothing apparent—was distinctly lifting with each step. It was the oddest sense of purposefulness she’d ever had.

When she got to the stone steps she looked down the beach in the direction of the cave. She could just make out the shadowed smudge of the opening in the riprap. It looked desolate. But curiosity nibbled at her and demanded satisfaction. She had to go inside again. She held up her skirt to walk down the steps, opened the gate, and picked her way around the stones on the beach.

She passed a couple with a little boy. The dad was kneeling in front of his son with a hermit crab cupped in his hands. He did a double take when he saw her clothes. The parents both smiled broadly at her, like she was a celebrity. She waved a special goodbye to the little boy.