Swallowing my fear, I cross my arms over my chest. “I take it this isn’t normal, is it? For the water to heal like this?”
Of course it’s not. Just looking at the poor man is enough to tell me.
“How is this possible?” he whispers, sounding and looking half-terrified.
Terrified of me.
I give him a helpless shrug. He has more answers than I do. My whole life is awash in that wretched, smothering white fog.
Bran shoves a hand through his sun-bleached hair, disheveling the short strands. He clutches his scalp, staring at me like I’m a ghost straight from a bard’s tale.
“No one can know.” He reaches for me, only to pull his hand back. “How will I keep you safe?”
A chill runs up my spine, and I sink farther into the water. “Safe from what?”
“Don’t you know what you are?”
“What I am?”
“Humans don’t drink from the ocean.” He wades into the water and pulls me to my feet. “Fresh water doesn’t make us ill.”
His eyes search mine, almost as if he’s trying to trigger my memories, but they’re locked away, impossible to retrieve. I shake my head, helpless and confused. And yet, I feel stronger. My head doesn’t ache as badly as before. The fog is there, but I can push it back, keep it at bay.
I look around, taking stock of our surroundings for the first time. The breeze is frigid, and it brings goosebumps to my skin. My hair clings to my neck and shoulders, and I can feel each rivulet of water as it runs back to the sea.
Outside our tiny protected cove, the shore runs for miles. At a distance, the rocks abate, making way for beaches of soft, golden sand. There’s a pier in the far distance, along with people and hundreds of docked ships and boats.
I’ve been here before, walked on this beach, swam in the turquoise water.
Upon a hill, overlooking the city, sits the castle. It’s a beautiful fortress built of tan stone. Saltwreath stretches out around and below it.
I know this place. I know that beyond Triblue lies farmland-rich Vernow and Murin, and eventually the wooded kingdom of Glendon. Mountainous Lauramore is to the northwest.
Lauramore. Was I traveling there? I can see it in my mind, the kingdom with the mountain terraces covered in grass and moss, and the little white sheep that graze there. I can see their enchanted woods and dark, dank bogs.
How do I know this, and yet I cannot remember my name?
My attention turns to the man before me.
I study Bran, locking away every detail, terrified I’ll lose them too. He’s taller than I am by almost a hand. A particularly strong gust of wind blows into our sheltered nook, pulling his loose shirt tight against his frame, revealing the trim, strong lines of his abdomen.
It takes very little imagination to picture him on a ship, climbing the rigging, staring out at the water in the distance.
“Say what’s on your mind, sailor,” I urge softly.
“Mermaid,” he whispers, using the same word as earlier when he was speaking of the mark on my temple.
“You keep saying that, but I don’t know what it means,” I say, exasperated.
He gives me the oddest look, like perhaps I’ve hit my head harder than he initially thought. “Maid of the sea. Woman…but with the tail of a fish.”
And like a fool, I look at my legs, which are bare underneath the long shirt. And because I finally begin to feel myself—whoever that might be—I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t you think I’m missing something vital for that theory?”
His solemn expression flickers with amusement. “I’ve heard rumors they’re shapeshifters, able to come on land for short stretches of time.”
“How short?”
He shrugs. “The tales are different. Some say hours, others say years.”
“So, you think I’m a mermaid…stuck in this human form?”
“Considering you just drank a good pint of salt water, you’re either that or a selkie.” His hand strays to my temple. “But this…this is the mark of the mermaid, of that I have no doubt. You’re either one of them, or you’ve been severely altered by their magic.”
“Do you see many mermaids?” I ask, distracted. If we can locate one, perhaps they can help me find my way home.
Bran’s fingers come to an abrupt stop, and then he drops his hand. “No. Never.”
Disappointed, I ask, “Then how do you know you’re not speaking tales?”
He steps marginally closer, blocking some of the wind. “I’ve never seen a fairy either, but I have no doubt they are real.”
“Say I am a mermaid—and I’m not agreeing I am—why would I come to land? And why would I be in danger?”
Another gust of wind passes through the cove, and Bran tugs me from the water. “It’s freezing. We need to get you back inside before you catch your death.”
I follow him into the hut that sits just beyond the shore on a tiny cliff that must be just out of danger of high tide.
The fire is warm and welcoming, and the heat envelops me like a friendly embrace.
“It’s usually warmer this time of year,” Bran explains. “Yesterday’s storm is lingering.”
As soon as Bran shuts the door, I turn to him, ignoring his small talk about the weather. “You haven’t answered me. Why would I be here? And why am I in danger?”
Bran avoids my question, busying himself with the fire. “You need to rest. You may feel better now, but you’re still suffering from a head injury.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He finally turns back. “Mermaids have magic—it’s natural, light, gifted to them. Some humans would like nothing more than to control it, use it for their own purposes.”
His words trigger something in the fog, something that doesn’t budge but is certainly there.
“How?” I demand.
“I don’t know.” He holds out his hands, helpless. Then again, softer, he says, “I don’t know.”
“But I’m in danger?”
Immediately, he crosses the cottage and takes my hands. It’s a friendly move, in no way romantic. “Not here, not with me.”
His gaze drops, and then he narrows his eyes as if startled. I look down as well, and then I see it, the thing that has stolen his attention.
“What is it?” I ask.
Softly, he answers, “You wear a wedding ring.”
CHAPTER TEN
Bran
“What do you mean you found a woman unconscious on the shore?” my brother demands, far too loud for my comfort.
It was hard enough to slip into the castle without anyone noticing me; I don’t need him drawing attention to us now.
“That’s not important—”
“Not important!” he asks, thankfully lower this time. “Do you even hear yourself? Have you gone completely mad?”
“No.” I grasp the sides of my head. “Possibly.”
“What are you going to do with her?” he asks, like the mermaid is a stray dog I found scrounging for scraps in the street.
“I don’t know.”
He watches me for several moments, his expression morphing to concern cleverly hidden by amusement. “You like her.”
“I don’t even know her.” Which is true. “I’m as concerned for her wellbeing as I would be for any poor soul who washed up on my shore.” Which might not be true.
There’s something about the girl that intrigues me, calls to me. I should use caution—I know the tales, but then she turns her aqua eyes on me, and I want to be closer.
Dristan leans against the wall, smirking in a way only a younger brother can—a younger brother who grew half a hand taller than I am so I can’t throttle him. “Is she pretty?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“What does she look like?”
“If I wanted this sort of inquisition, I would have tracked down Irving.”
“That would be difficult, considering he hasn’t arrived yet.” Dristan studies me, perhaps realizes
I’m wound too tightly for this conversation, and then sighs. “All right. I’ll leave you alone—for now. So, tell me, what are you going to do?”
“What are you going to do about what?” Rosie asks from right behind me.
I turn nonchalantly, worried about how much Dristan’s wife heard.
“Nothing.” I wave my hand to prove it was but a trivial matter we were discussing—not worth slogging through again.
She may be a princess now, but Rosie’s still a gypsy through and through. She raises a dark eyebrow, not believing me for a moment, but letting it go. “I thought you were taking time to ‘find yourself.’” She flashes me a sassy smirk. “What are you doing sneaking around the castle?”
“Bran’s besotted with some mystery woman who washed up on the shore a few days ago,” Dristan supplies.
If we were younger, I would elbow him in the stomach. “I’m not besotted.”
Rosie’s lips part in surprise, and she stares at me like I’ve turned into a goat. “A girl washed up on the shore? When?”
Knowing there’s no way out of this now, I sigh. “A few days ago, not far from the beach cottage.”
“Is she hurt? Have you had anyone look at her?” Rosie demands.
I give her a shrug, unable to meet her eyes. “I’ve been taking care of her.”
“Bran! She’s not a puppy—you can’t just keep her! She needs to see a physician.”
“It’s…complicated.”
“Two days from now, you’re going to be crowned king,” she hisses, lowering her voice like it’s a secret.
Dristan grins, but he clears his throat and attempts to fight his amusement when I shoot him a glare.
“Yes, Rosie,” I say. “I’m well aware of that.”
“What are you going to do? Leave her in the cottage?”
The thought has crossed my mind, but when would I be able to check on her?
Rosie continues, “Like a mistress you’re hiding—”
“Enough,” I bark, my temper snapping. “It’s not like that.”
And it’s not. Yes, I might be attracted to the girl. And, yes, it might be considered tawdry that we’ve been alone together in the cottage, but that’s all the more reason to keep it quiet. The last thing I want is her reputation to suffer. Besides, she wears that ring.
There’s likely a man in her life—someone she loves. He’s probably frantic, wondering what’s happened to her. I would be, if she were mine.
All of Rosie’s indignance washes away, and her face goes pale. “What if she’s using you, Bran?”
I scoff at the idea. “She doesn’t know who I am.”
Rosie snorts and glances at her husband. “Please, there’s not a soul in Triblue who doesn’t know the two of you.”
I make her meet my eyes. “I do know, all right? You must trust me.” I look away, knowing Rosie’s not going to like the next part at all. “She lost her memory in the accident that brought her to our shore.”
Rosie slowly digests my words, her eyes narrowing as they sink in. Then, very slowly, she parrots, “She lost her memory?”
“Rosie—”
“You know that’s a likely story—”
Before she can finish, Dristan sets his hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps we should meet her before we jump to conclusions.”
The gypsy slowly deflates, nodding. But then she looks at me, almost pleading. “You’re not even king, and you’re already inviting scandal into your life. You do know that, don’t you?”
That we can both agree on. I nod, and Rosie looks at least somewhat appeased.
“So, what are you going to do?” she asks, using almost the exact words Dristan did only minutes ago.
“I’m going to change my clothes and buy the poor girl something to wear. I’ll figure out the rest later.”
Rosie looks vaguely scandalized, which I find somewhat humorous considering her background. “What does she have on now?”
I can’t meet her eyes. “One of my shirts.”
Dristan starts to laugh but holds up his hands in surrender when Rosie glares at him.
Turning to leave, I look over my shoulder. “Tell no one.”
They give me matching incredulous looks.
“I mean it. No one can know about her.”
“Do you want me to send Pippa to the cottage?” Dristan asks before I leave. “If you don’t trust a physician, she’s your best option.”
I hesitate, not because I don’t trust Pippa, but because she’s a bit too astute. I’m afraid if she looks at the girl, the princess will know something’s wrong—know the mermaid’s not as human as I would prefer her to be.
But Dristan’s right. Someone needs to look at her head—someone who knows what they’re doing. And that’s certainly not me.
“All right. Send Pippa.”
Dristan nods.
Avoiding every living soul in the castle, I head to my chambers, change into clothes that don’t smell like hearth smoke, grab a cloak, and leave before someone spots me.
Instead of choosing the tailor nearest Castle Calland, I walk a little farther into the city. As always, Saltwreath is bustling. Obscured by the cloak, no one spares me a second glance until I reach the dressmaker’s.
The woman greets me as I enter, and I can feel her eyes lingering on me. I suppose I do look out of place, here in her shop, looking at gowns that would suit the visiting peacocks but not the woman in the cottage.
“Can I help you?” the dressmaker finally asks, suspicious of my presence.
Giving her a guilty look, I lower my hood. The shock registers on her face, and she dips into a hurried curtsy. “Your Highness, I—”
I wave, cutting her off. “No need for that, but I could use your help.”
She doesn’t ask questions, even if they are burning inside her, and soon I pay for a dress and leave the shop, hood up, brown parchment package in my hand.
As I walk, a fleeting thought crosses my mind: will the girl be there when I return? Or will she have disappeared from my life as quickly as she came into it?
I quicken my pace back to the cottage.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Elodie
I sit cross-legged on the bed, staring at the ring. It’s silver and obviously touched with magic of some sort. It shines like the day it was forged though it should be tarnished from my time in the salty sea water.
Is it a wedding band? A promise ring? A pretty bauble?
Surely, I’d know if I were married.
Wouldn’t I?
It’s been three days since Bran spotted it on my finger, but we haven’t spoken of it again, not once. He’s hesitant to bring it up, and I have no recollection of it at all. There’s nothing about it that’s familiar. Sometimes, when I stare at the ocean or watch the birds, I feel a rush of emotion, even if I can’t touch the memory it’s associated with. But when I study the ring, it’s like I’m looking at someone else’s promise.
I sigh and look up, my eyes falling on the cot across the cottage, where Bran sleeps. He has the same scratchy bedding, the same lump of a pillow. It’s not the first time I’ve wondered why there are two pallet beds in the cottage.
Bran’s finally decided I’m well enough he can leave me for a few hours. He said he had errands to run, but he’s been gone for a long time.
My head injury still plagues me, but the headaches are easing up, especially when I visit the water.
Mermaid.
Every time I so much as think the word, the fog spreads. It’s like a living, breathing thing, guarding my memories. The more I push, the more my head begins to pound. I’ve made myself ill with dizziness countless times in the last three days just from fighting it.
Tired of my own company, I leave the cottage and take the short walk to the shore. There’s no one around, no one to see me in the man’s shirt with the hem that flutters above my knees.
It’s here Bran finds me sometime later, standing on the beach, watching the gray clouds churn over the water.
I must look a sight with my hair wild and blowing in the breeze.
I don’t turn as he approaches.
The gulls are out, but they seem as disgruntled with the weather as Bran. Yesterday was the first day of spring. It should be warm in Triblue. In fact, even in the dead of winter, it shouldn’t be this cold. It’s indeed bizarre weather for the southern kingdom, but a tiny part of me is grateful because Bran’s here. Once the weather warms, he’ll return to the sea.
He’s kind, and he has a nice smile. He knows a great deal about his kingdom, and we’ve spent the last few days in each other’s company—him answering my questions, and me listening to the rhythmic cadence of his soothing voice. He’s taken to making a fishing net, and he works on it in the cottage by firelight in the evenings. It’s obvious he’s not a fisherman—he fumbles with it, curses under his breath when it fights him.
A smile plays at my lips just from thinking of it.
Birds call to each other, letting out high pitched cries and cackles.
Bran finally reaches me, and I turn my face to the gray sky.
“There’s something familiar about the racket the birds make, something that feels like home,” I say instead of greeting him.
“When I was a young man, I traveled much of Elden,” Bran answers. “When I was gone, I’d miss their harsh chatter. There’s something soothing about the shore—its sounds, its noises. Even the smell.”
Pulling my eyes from the clouds, I give him a teasing smile. “You say that like you’re an old man.”
He shakes his head and breathes a laugh.
I wait for him to tell me his age. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s twenty-six, maybe as old as twenty-nine, but he doesn’t offer it, and I’m not about to ask.
“I’m older than you,” he finally says, his tone off, almost pensive.
Returning my gaze to the birds that drift on the breeze, I frown. “How old do you think I am?”
He answers without hesitation. “Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two.”
Absently, I wonder what it means that he’s thought about it.
“That doesn’t sound right.”
Bran cocks his head, raising his brows in a way that makes me smile. “Younger, you think?”
Elodie of the Sea Page 7