Tidepool

by Nicole Willson

  Charlie shook his head and held his hands outspread.

  “Look; there simply has to be some other explanation for what’s happening. I don’t know what that fellow told you, but this can’t be true. Sea creatures that demand sacrifices and a woman who kills people to feed to them? It’s preposterous.”

  Sorrow held her clasped hands to her face and took a deep, shaky breath.

  “Fine. I suppose I can’t make you listen to me. If you wish to remain with the locals here and take your chances with what they believe lives in their waters, I cannot stop you. And God be with you if the thing in Mrs. Oliver’s basement gets hungry again. Now if you’d excuse me, I am famished. I’d like to eat in peace.”

  Charlie’s face fell.

  “Sorrow, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Good night, Charlie. I’ll try to say goodbye tomorrow morning before I leave.”

  Charlie looked at her, sadness etched in his eyes. She hadn’t known he was even capable of looking so hurt. And then he bent over and briefly kissed Sorrow on the forehead.

  “Good night. And be safe.”

  He closed the door behind him.

  Sorrow felt a hot surge of grief and no longer bothered to hold it back. She hadn’t expected Charlie to doubt her so openly, fantastic though the stories she’d told him were. Could he really not feel how wrong things were in this town? She’d sensed it from the moment she’d stepped out of the stables. And that was before mutilated bodies began washing up on the shore. Before they’d had to sit in Mrs. Oliver’s house with a brother who could slit his own throat open and not die.

  Before the basement. Before Lucy.

  She forced herself to eat some of the stew and gnaw at the hard piece of brown bread that accompanied it. Her hunger was strong enough that the food didn’t taste as terrible as she remembered. One thing to be thankful for, she mused.

  The brandy burned going down; Sorrow rarely drank spirits. The drink sent the room spinning around her, and she felt thankful that she’d eaten first.

  She gave Charlie’s room a brief glance as she placed her dinner tray in the hall. The space under his door looked dark. If he was in there, he was asleep.

  She knew one thing; she would travel back to Baltimore first thing tomorrow morning, with or without Charlie.

  But she had no intention of keeping the word she’d given to Balt Cooper. She was going to tell Father everything, and she had no doubt that Father would send the absolute best his money could buy to Tidepool to deal with Mrs. Oliver and the rest of these terrible people.

  And if that did indeed doom the town? She cared not one whit.

  These people hadn’t cared one whit about her brother, after all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE LATE-NIGHT VISITOR

  Sorrow changed into her night clothes and stretched out on the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to extinguish the lamp. The Tidepool stench of fish and salt water hung strong in the air, and she kept envisioning Lucy creeping through the dark towards her. Eventually, the brandy did its work and she dozed off.

  Later that night, after the tavern noise subsided and the kitchen door stopped its infernal screeching, Sorrow blinked awake. Had she just heard something? She couldn’t get the sound of Lucy’s squelchy footsteps out of her mind, and she could swear she’d just heard that shish-shish noise slipping down the hallway. And was the dead fish stench that had come to represent Tidepool to her getting stronger again?

  She wrapped her hands around her head and buried her face against her knees. Perhaps she could simply make herself disappear, and none of these horrible things would have ever happened. Perhaps she could wish this entire awful place away.

  She hated feeling helpless. She had to do something. But what?

  Lying back in bed, she pondered her options. And then an idea came to her.

  She eased her door open and tiptoed down the hall, hoping no squeaking floorboards would alert anyone that she was up and about. It was dreadfully dark in the inn, but she was afraid to carry a lamp lest someone—or something—outside spot her.

  She kept one hand on the wall and moved down the steps very cautiously. For many reasons, it simply wouldn’t do for her to slip and tumble down the stairs.

  The streetlamps outside gave her a small bit of light to work with as she reached the bottom of the staircase, and she groped around until she found the entrance to the tavern. The chairs and tables presented as dark, squarish shadows in the dim room, and she tried to weave her way through them without banging into things or falling down. Odors of cooked fish, spilled ale, and stale smoke from the now-dark fireplace grew stronger as she made her way to the kitchen.

  When she reached the back of the tavern she turned right, trailing her shaky left hand along the wall to guide her. She’d seen Naomi and Balt go in and out of the place enough to know that this path would lead her right to the kitchen.

  And that horrible kitchen door, with its squealing hinge.

  Damn it. What to do about that?

  Sorrow paused, pressed the tip of her tongue between her lips, and pushed the door slowly, wondering how far it would open before the noise sounded. She eased the door open until the squeal started, loud as a scream in the silent room. She froze for a moment, expecting at any moment to hear footsteps rushing into the tavern.

  Nothing happened. And so Sorrow carefully eased her body through the narrow opening, trying not to push the door open any further.

  One small window sat high up in the kitchen wall. It let in almost no light, and she stood in the entrance and waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she had a sense of the layout of the place. She glanced around and squinted until she spotted a shape that looked like a wooden knife block sitting on a table by a basin.

  Sorrow left the door open a crack as she fumbled along the counters towards the knife block. With great caution, she trailed her hands over the handles that protruded from the block. When her fingers closed around what felt like the largest handle, she pulled out the knife and gingerly touched a fingertip to the blade.

  It felt sharp. Not sharp enough to slice her fingertip with one faint touch, but sharp enough that if she had to, she could…

  Sorrow didn’t want to finish that thought. She hated that Tidepool was even making her think of such things.

  But if she had to defend herself, she’d plunge it right into her assailant.

  Would you really be able to do that?

  She hoped she’d never have to answer that. She’d return the knife to Balt Cooper before she left. With any luck, he and Naomi would never even notice it missing. With any more luck, she would never need to use it the way she had just forced herself to imagine.

  She eased her way back out of the kitchen, being careful not to set off the squealing door again. Back out in the tavern, she made her slow, clumsy way to the entry hall, earning herself a whole new set of bumps and bruises as she collided with tables, chairs, and stools. She put a hand on Mrs. Oliver’s red velvet armchair and fought the temptation to plunge the knife into the chair again and again, reducing it to a pile of scarlet tatters just as Mrs. Oliver’s horrid sea creature had done to the people here.

  Sorrow reminded herself that according to Balt Cooper, Mrs. Oliver did horrible things to people out of a need to protect the town.

  But Sorrow’s brother was gone. She still wanted Mrs. Oliver to pay for that.

  She reached the door out of the tavern at last. But when she stepped into the entranceway, her knees nearly gave out from under her.

  A shadowy figure rose in the parlor. The body was clearly outlined in the light from the streetlamps as it reached its full height.

  She froze. Had this person seen her? Was it even a person? Her hand gripped the knife handle hard as she started to raise it with a shaking hand.

  “Sorrow,” the figure whispered. She nearly swooned with relief.

  “Quentin?” She lowered the knife.

  Quentin appeared to have no hesitanc
y about moving around in the dark as he took a step towards her.

  “Dear God, but you gave me a turn,” she said in a soft voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to keep watch. In case Ada sent Lucy about.”

  A cold fear spread through Sorrow’s chest.

  “You think she’d do that?”

  “She would,” Quentin said in a matter-of-fact tone. “But I don’t think she did. If you leave tomorrow, she probably won’t try to kill you.”

  That “probably” offered Sorrow remarkably little solace.

  “You really came here just to watch out for me?” she said, still trying to keep her voice down.

  “I did.”

  “Why are you protecting me?”

  “Because you were kind. Most people like to act like I’m not here. You saw me.”

  She felt oddly touched, even though the young man still perplexed her.

  But he’s not a young man, she remembered. If the portrait she had seen at Mrs. Oliver’s house was accurate, he had to be in his nineties at the very least.

  But somehow, she didn’t fear him the way she did Mrs. Oliver. He seemed nearly as unhappy here as she did.

  And then another thought occurred to her, a thought that struck her as madness even as it left her lips.

  “Come with me tomorrow.”

  Quentin took a step backwards into the shadows.

  “Come where? Back to Baltimore?”

  “Yes. Why not? You aren’t happy here, I can see that. Father would not be best pleased at first, but if I explained to him that you saved my life, you would have his gratitude and I am sure he would help you establish a new life for yourself in our city.” She wasn’t actually sure of that at all, but she’d plead Quentin’s case with Father when the time came. When she and Charlie—and Quentin—were all safely in Baltimore.

  Quentin shook his head violently.

  “I can’t leave Ada. No, no, no.” His voice shook, grew louder.

  “All right. Shhh. You don’t have to, Quentin. It was just an idea.”

  “I’ve tried leaving her before. She comes and finds me. Ever since she brought me back, it’s as if we’re connected. I cannot hide from her if she wants to find me, and she would never let me get that far away from her.”

  “What do you mean, she brought you back?”

  “I died. She brought me to the water and made me live again. She said it was my true baptism. As long as she lives, I live.”

  Sorrow thought about that. After all the strange things she had heard in the last couple of days, Quentin’s story made a certain amount of sense. That most likely meant that Sorrow truly was going mad.

  “Is that what the… prank was about?”

  “Those aren’t pranks,” Quentin said, sounding sullen.

  “You don’t want to be here,” she said softly.

  “I don’t. Sometimes I think that if I try hard enough, I can die. But it never works.”

  Pity weighted her heart as she stared at Quentin in the darkness. Even in the very faint light, he looked sad. His shoulders and head slumped.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last.

  “What for? You haven’t done anything.”

  She sighed. She always found it annoying when people took a simple expression of sympathy so literally, although it seemed less grating coming from Quentin.

  “I don’t like it that you’re trapped in this life when you don’t want it. That’s wrong. You seem like a kind person too.”

  He didn’t seem to know what to say to that; he took another step backwards and stared at the floor.

  “You should go back upstairs now,” he replied at last. “If Lucy comes in, I’ll send her home.”

  Sorrow knew that she would never again be able to hear the name Lucy without shuddering.

  “Thank you, Quentin. For everything.”

  “You’re welcome, Sally,” he said. And then “I’m sorry, Miss Hamilton. You don’t like being called Sally.”

  Something warm spread inside her, an emotion that she recognized as maternal even if Quentin was old enough to be her great-grandfather. She wanted to bundle Quentin Ramsay up in her suitcase and take him away from Tidepool whether he liked it or not.

  “That’s all right, Quentin. You may call me Sally. And thank you.”

  She wanted to touch his arm, but he stepped back even further into the shadowed parlor. She turned and tiptoed around until she felt the banister, and she made her careful way back up the steps to her room.

  Before getting into bed again, she placed the knife under her pillow. She didn’t believe she’d be able to sleep that night—indeed, she wondered if she would ever sleep again—but at some point, to her great surprise, she dozed off. When she woke, the sun was beginning to rise.

  That was early enough for her. She left her room and rapped on Charlie’s door. It took a minute for a grumpy “Whassat?” to sound from inside.

  “Charlie? If you’re leaving with me, get ready right now.”

  Charlie opened the door. His normally impeccable blond hair was disheveled, and his eyes were swollen and red.

  “Now?” he said.

  “If you’re going with me, it has to be now.”

  He thought about it long enough for Sorrow to want to scream at him to hurry up.

  “All right,” he said finally. She wanted to weep with relief.

  She hurried down the hall to wash up in the basin. Back in her room, she dressed in a hasty fashion, not caring if she looked a bit sloppy. She could clean up back in Baltimore.

  Balt Cooper’s voice sounded downstairs, and Sorrow wondered who he was talking to. Hearing him reminded her to retrieve the kitchen knife from under her pillow. She slipped it in the pocket of her dress, packed up her things, secured her hat with Mother’s opal hatpin, and carried her suitcase out to the hall. Balt’s voice was louder now, and he sounded agitated.

  Charlie trudged out of his room, looking exhausted and pale.

  “I was planning on a few more hours of sleep,” he mumbled.

  “Oh honestly, Charlie. You can sleep on the train. Now come. Balt’s already up.”

  “But what about our buggies? What if those stable workers won’t let us go again?”

  “I’ll worry about that when we’re there. And if they won’t give us horses, I’ll walk out of this damn place. Nothing is going to stop me today, and that’s a promise.”

  They headed down the steps together. When Sorrow turned the corner to approach the front desk, two men Sorrow had never before seen in Tidepool stood there. Their suits were much finer than anything Sorrow had seen anyone but Charlie wearing in the town, and they were both impeccably groomed.

  Sorrow caught Balt’s eye behind his desk. The man looked positively apoplectic. His blue eyes bugged nearly out of their sockets, and his face was bright red. She couldn’t tell if he was very angry or very frightened. Perhaps one thing didn’t rule out the other.

  She swallowed hard as something cold spread inside her chest. A frightened Balt Cooper wasn’t what she wanted to see on the day she was trying to escape the town.

  The two men at the desk looked Sorrow and Charlie over.

  “And who do we have here? Could this be Miss Sorrow Hamilton? And Mr. Charles Sherman?” the taller, heavier man asked.

  “Yes? That’s us,” Sorrow said, quite startled.

  “Well, then,” the shorter and thinner fellow in spectacles said. “How about that? We’re two-thirds of the way finished already, Mr. Burnett.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Warner. Such a productive morning.” He grinned at Sorrow and Charlie, although the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Sorrow said. “Have we met?”

  “Pardon us, miss,” the shorter man said. “I’m Detective Walter Warner, and my partner is Detective Edward Burnett.”

  “Your father hired us to find you, Miss Hamilton,” Burnett said. “He paid us a good bit extra to travel through the night to get here. You
gave him quite a fright when you and Mr. Sherman didn’t appear at home yesterday.”

  “We have been delayed,” she said. “As you can see. But we are leaving right now.” Relief flooded through her. The two men looked imposing just standing in the Coopers’ parlor, and surely nobody, not even Mrs. Oliver, would dare interfere with them.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you fellows,” Charlie chimed in. “This is rather an odd place, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Neither Warner nor Burnett seemed terribly interested in that observation.

  “Well, then. Where is your brother, Miss Hamilton?” Burnett said.

  The warm rush of relief Sorrow had felt at the appearance of the detectives was instantly replaced by fear.

  Chapter Eighteen

  MESSRS. WARNER AND BURNETT

  She wanted, so badly, to answer them honestly. In fact, she wanted to throw herself at their feet. She wanted to direct them to Mrs. Oliver’s house and tell them that as improbable as it sounded, Mrs. Oliver was some sort of supernatural, probably demonic being who kept a murderous sea creature in her cellar, and that if the terrifying woman’s brother was to be believed, Henry had met his fate at the hands of that thing.

  Balt stood just behind Warner, and as Sorrow’s eyes fell on him, he shook his head so slightly that she nearly missed it. His eyes locked on hers with a pleading expression. She could almost see what he was thinking: Please don’t say anything.

  If Balt was telling the truth about Mrs. Oliver, and she now had to believe that he was, she’d be dooming all of them if she turned the woman in.

  And she had told herself that she didn’t care, that her first order of business back in Baltimore would be to tell her father and everyone else that Henry had been murdered here, and that Mrs. Ada Oliver was the guilty party. And if that caused hell to rain down on the people who had looked the other way while so many died? Good. That was what Tidepool deserved.