by Cheri Lasota
Her unease grew, knowing Diogo’s broken body lay below them, shattered on the rocks. With an ear to the road, she kept her eyes to the sea. The moon shimmered pale over the great waters, marking the infant night with an eerie grey between light and dark. The oblivious waves crashed against the shore, unaware that her world had stopped.
ARETHUSA AWAKENED IN STAGES. THE ROAR OF the waves should be deafening to her ears, but they were faint, as if she were hearing them through a long tunnel. She ought to be feeling the cold chill of the night air; instead, she felt as though she hovered in a soft cloud surrounded by sun. Her hands should feel the bloody strands of Tristan’s hair through her fingers, and yet she did not even feel the weight of his head on her lap.
Tristan! She bolted upright and squinted through the sunlight streaming into her eyes. She was astonished to find herself looking out into her bedroom from the comfort of her own bed. The open window caught her gaze, and she found the halcyon breeze quite warm. It was afternoon. Was the duel a dream? Or was this the dream?
She brought her hands up to rub her eyes and felt the sore muscles in her back protest and the gash in her shoulder sting. She knew then that the night before had been no dream and neither was the present. Perhaps a farmer or fisherman had taken pity and brought them home. But why had she not awakened?
With a sudden, wrenching shiver, her mind cleared, and all her thought bent toward Tristan. Where was he? Did he still live?
The door to Tristan’s room was open, and she caught the faint scent of sickness as she peered in. Tristan was ensconced under a blanket, his head bandaged and his eyes closed. No one else lingered in the room, though a doctor’s satchel sat atop the washstand. Arethusa was grateful the condessa had had the decency to fetch someone to tend him.
Aching to touch him, she moved to the other side of the bed and crawled across the coverlet, careful not to make too much noise or disturb him. She studied his face. Though it had been washed free of dirt and grime, his skin was flushed red and marred by scratches and bruises. With his bandaged head and dark under-eye circles, he looked fragile and frail. She touched a tiny bruise on his forehead and felt a burning fever under her fingertip.
Laying one of her arms across his chest, she held tight against him, wishing he would awaken and tell her that their vows would last forever, that the magic of the potion could never be undone, that he would live. But his eyes remained shut with deep slumber, and soon she felt herself falling into exhaustion until sleep took her too.
*
“Ah.”
Arethusa heard a deep guttural voice from the corners of her dreamless sleep.
“I see the little mouse has awakened after all.”
She opened groggy eyes to see the doctor peering down at her over the length of his bulging nose. His eyes twinkled with mischief as Teresa stared open-mouthed from the threshold of the room, a bowl of water in her hands.
“Arethusa!” the maid said in a half-cry, half-whisper.
At her outburst, the doctor glanced at Teresa and then fixed his sharp eyes on Arethusa, leaning closer to her ear. “It seems you could not bear to be dismissed from your position as Tristan’s nursemaid, or do I err in my assumption, Senhorita?” he whispered.
His teasing smile brought one to her own lips, but she realized her mistake soon enough. It had been imprudent of her to crawl into Tristan’s bed only to be found out by the staid Teresa.
“What are you doing in Tristan’s room? You should be in your own bed, not jostling that poor boy about when he’s fighting for his life.”
Had she hurt him? She pulled back to look. His position hadn’t changed and his eyes remained closed. This knowledge assuaged her guilty feelings somewhat, and she implored Teresa with a look.
“You know what the condessa would say if she found you here.”
Arethusa glanced away.
“How are you feeling? Does your shoulder pain you?” the doctor asked.
Arethusa moved her hand back and forth to indicate so-so.
He nodded. “You have a nasty gash on your shoulder and several bruises that have already begun to discolor. I stitched up your back, so you’ll have to be gentle with it, but you should heal, se Deus quiser. Senhor Vazante...” He trailed off, glancing at his patient with uneasy eyes.
She gestured for him to continue. She had to know everything.
The doctor took a deep breath, and then his words came in a rush. “He has severe injuries to the head and a deep knife-wound in the arm. He is unconscious and fighting a high fever. And he is still recovering from the bull goring. He will have to be taken to the island of São Miguel early tomorrow for surgery. I do not have the skills or tools here.”
Fever. Severe injuries. A deep knife wound. Arethusa had seen the terrible battle between Tristan and Diogo with her own eyes, and still she could not believe the doctor’s words.
He must live. He must. Tears filled her eyes and the room blurred.
A heady silence ensued as the doctor looked down at her in sympathy. Teresa made her way to the opposite side of the bed and set down the bowl and began dipping a soft cloth into the water.
The click of wooden heels sounded on the floor out in the hall. Arethusa didn’t even have to guess who it was. When the condessa appeared through the view of the portal, her steely gaze pointed straight ahead. She swept past Tristan’s room without so much as a glance. Arethusa knew that if the condessa found her cozily settled at Tristan’s side, she would fly into a rage, but, for some reason, she didn’t care enough to oblige the woman’s sense of propriety. She had faced the condessa’s wrath before and come away standing. She would do so again.
There were a few unintelligible noises and then a loud exhalation coming from the end of the hallway. The familiar clicking of heels sounded again. When the condessa appeared at the door, her face was already reddening with anger. Arethusa forced herself to hold the condessa’s gaze.
“Whore!” was all the condessa could get out. Her jaw twitched and the veins in her neck protruded. She stomped to the bedside, pushing the hefty doctor aside. Grabbing Arethusa by the arm, she yanked her out of the bed. Arethusa felt the searing of Diogo’s knife through her shoulder again, and the pain brought tears to her eyes. She fell to her knees on the hard stone floor and bit her lip hard.
“He is your own brother!” the condessa screamed in her ear.
For a moment, the doctor watched aghast and Teresa stood terrified.
Arethusa glared at her, matching rage for rage, mouthing and signing the words, “He’s not my brother” over and over until her fingers ached. She knew the condessa didn’t understand. Arethusa’s whole body shook. She didn’t know if it was the pain or her burning hatred for the woman.
Another moment passed before the doctor recovered. “Condessa, this girl has been to hell and back. Don’t you dare touch her again.”
“That girl is a worthless piece of trash. I cannot believe my husband let her defile this house.”
“Where is your religion, Condessa Estrela?” asked the doctor, his voice incredulous as he leaned down to examine Arethusa’s shoulder.
The condessa grunted. “Don’t preach to me. You’re no priest.”
“I have been treating this girl’s ailments for several years and that makes me responsible for her wellbeing and care.”
Ignoring his words, Inês’s face reddened into a violent grief. She pointed an accusing finger at Arethusa. “From the moment those children stepped foot in this house, they stole my husband’s love from me.”
Arethusa looked up at her in surprise, thinking this the first time she had ever spoken openly of her husband’s lack of love for her. But what the myths had wrought not even Pai could undo.
“Condessa, you are not yourself.” The doctor’s words were measured. “Remove yourself from this room while I check on Senhorita Maré’s stitches.”
When the doctor touched Arethusa’s shoulder, he gasped. “You have torn apart every one of her stitches. Her
blood is seeping through,” he yelled to the condessa. “Teresa, more bandages.”
As he adjusted the bandage, Arethusa sucked in her breath and bit her lip as the pain ripped through her shoulder again. It made her feel sick.
“Serves her right,” the condessa muttered under her breath.
This time Arethusa saw the doctor’s face as he looked up at the condessa. A deep anger roiled in his eyes, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. “You, Condessa, are not allowed in this sickroom again. Leave now or I will fetch the polícia.”
The condessa stared at him, her mouth open, looking as if she’d had the wits slapped out of her. Teresa took the opportunity to grab the condessa’s arm and escort her from the room before she thought of a reply.
Grateful to the doctor, all Arethusa could do was mouth the words “Thank you,” as he held a cloth up to her shoulder to staunch the blood.
“It was the least I could do. I am so sorry that your Pai has passed on. He would not have allowed such things to be said in his house. It’s a pity,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Such a pity.”
Tears came to her eyes, not for the grace of his sympathy but for his simple error. He had never known the failings of her father, never known the hold the condessa’s bitterness had over him.
“I have to re-stitch this and it will be painful.” The doctor helped her to her feet. “I think it best we bring you back to your own bed for that, eh?”
His kind manner relaxed her, and she acquiesced to his suggestion after placing a kiss on Tristan’s fevered temple.
Rest easy, love. I’ll come back as soon as I can.
As Arethusa made her way out into the hall, she heard the door burst open and a familiar and hysterical voice ring out.
“Where is Tristan? Does he still live? Take me to him now.”
“Please, Senhorita Infante, Conde Estrela has forbidden you from this house.”
“The conde is dead. I want to see my fiancé.”
Arethusa cringed at the girl’s coldness. Ignoring the slice of pain in her shoulder, she strode down the hall, determined to bar Isabel from the house even if Teresa could not.
“Senhorita, you cannot enter,” Teresa said, as Arethusa rounded the corner of the hall.
Isabel was struggling to push the door open and Teresa was trying to shut the door in her face. When Isabel caught sight of Arethusa, her eyes pleaded for mercy.
Arethusa shook her head.
“Arethusa!” Isabel yelled. “Tristan and I are still engaged. You must let me in. What if he dies?—”
“What’s going on here?” The condessa burst through the kitchen door and glared at all three of them.
“Pardon, Condessa Estrela.” Teresa loosened her grip on the door. “Senhorita Infante requested to see Senhor Vazante, but Conde Estrela has forbidden her from the house.”
The condessa gave Arethusa a dark smile.
A chill ran down Arethusa’s spine.
The condessa took Isabel by the arm, and said, “Senhorita Infante, how would you like to accompany Tristan to São Miguel for his surgery?”
THE MORNING WATERS WERE CALM AND MISTY when Miguel, the old harbormaster, rowed away from the lighter boat’s mooring at the antiquated dock. The fog hovered so thick that Arethusa saw nothing but tiny patches of the ship’s hull as it lay anchored out in the deeper waters of Angra Bay.
Tristan lay between Padre Salvador and Arethusa in the lighter’s prow, his fevered head cradled in pillows, his body wrapped in woolen blankets. They had laid him atop a large board surrounded by a fishing net, so the sailors could hoist him to the deck when they reached the ship.
Arethusa held Tristan’s hand and kept her eyes on his at the small chance he would wake. With his face so close, she noticed that the fever had reddened his cheeks, though his lips were colorless and his skin was ashen and chilled. She took comfort only in the measured rise and fall of his chest.
Though she was still recovering from her knife wound, Arethusa had insisted she be allowed to ride in the lighter boat at Tristan’s side until they reached the vessel. Her uncle didn’t know she meant to stow away aboard ship. She had no idea how she would accomplish this feat with her hurt shoulder and Padre Salvador and Isabel and the sailors looking on. Yet, she must try. In yesterday’s grueling interview, the comissário de polícia had told her that she must stay on the island during the investigation of Marquês Cheia’s death. But she refused to leave Tristan’s side. Nothing mattered more than his safety.
Arethusa glanced at Isabel. The girl sat near the harbormaster as far toward the lighter’s stern as possible, no doubt to stay away from her. When they caught each other’s glances, Arethusa was astounded to see genuine concern written in Isabel’s eyes. Had the girl finally gained some humanity at last? Perhaps she was coming to realize how close they were to losing Tristan forever. Arethusa had no doubt Isabel loved Tristan—how could she not?—but to see this change in her was a shock.
Padre Salvador caught Arethusa’s attention when his eyes widened at the sight of something behind her. She turned, and the parting mists unveiled a towering clipper ship just as Tristan’s hand fell from hers. A chilling succession of images seized her mind: her mother scrying through the porthole, the clipper foundering in the distance as she watched from Terceira’s shore, Diogo with his hands around her neck. This ship was a specter of the Sea Nymph.
She closed her eyes and spun away, praying the waking nightmare would fade.
“Arethusa,” she heard her uncle’s soft whisper close to her ear. “Are you all right?”
She felt her chest tightening its grip on her heart. When she opened her eyes to him, she gave the barest shake of her head.
“Are you remembering the Sea Nymph? You should not have come even this far. It is the first such ship you have seen close up since the wreck, is it not?”
Yes, she signed.
Padre Salvador glanced at the harbormaster. “I think this ship is named Grace of the Seas. Isn’t that right, Miguel?”
The sound of the name calmed her right down to her toes. Grace.
“Sim, Padre, and a fine ship she is. She’s mainly used for cargo, but she’ll carry your wounded man here, straight and true,” Miguel replied. “Have no fear, Senhorita.” He peered at Padre Salvador. “You ain’t going aboard, are you?”
“Of course. He’s my brother’s son.”
Miguel’s countenance darkened. “Bad luck to have a priest aboard ship,” he murmured.
“Nonsense.” Padre Salvador frowned good-naturedly at the harbormaster. Then with a wink at Arethusa, he said, “Who better to pray for safe passage?”
Arethusa smiled, knowing it was true. Who better to stay by Tristan’s side during the long journey? Looking down at Tristan, Arethusa felt his grace coming toward her, melding into her skin like holy oil. She kissed his forehead, willing her strength to pass to him. The images of ships and death and leering faces faded as she focused all her thought and prayer on Tristan, on grace.
Arethusa became aware of her surroundings again when she heard the lapping of waves against the ship’s hull and felt the cooler air under its colossal shadow. She heard no singing or shouting aboard ship. All lay quiet save for the occasional rustling of the furled sails and the soft banging of the lines against the masts. A few men stood along the monkey rail near the rope ladder leading up the side of the hull.
“Miguel,” called a sailor.
The harbormaster waved. “Our man here is bad off. We’ve put a net under him. Get four lines ready to hoist.”
Isabel clutched at her traveling case, half-rising from her seat. “Won’t his head be jostled too much?” she asked Padre Salvador. “The doctor said—”
“There is no easier way, Senhorita,” Miguel answered, as he busied himself securing the lighter to the ship. “I will tell them to go easy on him.”
Isabel seemed dissatisfied at this reply and sat awaiting the proceedings with a cool eye and stiff back.
Padre Salvador patted Arethusa on the shoulder. “You’ll have to let him go now.”
She knew she must, but she was loath to leave Tristan’s side. Without thinking, Arethusa brushed his hair from his forehead and kissed his cold lips.
But Isabel was watching. “Arethusa! He is my fiancé.”
Defiance clung to Arethusa’s shoulders when she rose to look at Isabel. No. He is my fiancé.
“Padre Salvador, do something,” Isabel pleaded with him.
“Peace, Senhorita,” Padre Salvador said with a glance at Miguel. “Now is not the time or place for such talk.”
Isabel gave an unattractive “Hmpf!” and turned her back on them both.
Arethusa couldn’t help her smile as she aided her uncle in adjusting the netting around Tristan’s board.
“Lower the lines, lads!” Miguel yelled.
“Lowering away!” a sailor called out, as they dropped four thick lines down to Miguel, who tied them to Tristan’s net.
“Make sure they’re tied tight.” Isabel wrung her hands out on her skirts, her voice a high-pitched whine. “I don’t want Tristan falling into the ocean because you can’t tie a knot.”
Miguel graced Isabel with a slow-blinking stare before getting back to his work. Arethusa couldn’t help but feel the same concern for Tristan’s safety. His condition had not improved, and she wondered if a rough sail to São Miguel was worth the risk.
“I’m sure he’s doing his best, Senhorita,” Padre Salvador chided Isabel with a reassuring smile.
“Hoist away!” Miguel tugged on the lines, shouting up to the sailors. “And take care—the man’s unconscious and must stay on the board!”
The lines stretched taut through block and tackles as the sailors hoisted up their precious cargo. Tristan rose high into the air, and soon all Arethusa saw was the bottom of the board. One side tipped and Tristan slid, his head teetering on the edge of the wood.