The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea

by Katherine Quinn

  Where she would be his latest victim.

  Margrete’s stomach clenched, a nauseating ache forming. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to be brave now, had to find a way to shift this situation to one of advantage.

  And she knew precisely how.

  “I never ask much of you, Father,” she said, nearly choking on the word, “but I will ask this of you now. One final gift you can give me as a farewell.”

  He cocked his head, eyes narrowing as he awaited her proposition.

  “I would like Birdie, and her governess, to come to Cartus when the count and I set sail for his home. I cannot bear for her to be isolated and far from family.” She paused for a single heartbeat. “And surely it would benefit you to have her stationed in Cartus.”

  Many influential men and their families settled there, and while Birdie was only seven, her early presence might be advantageous for a power-hungry sea captain—though Margrete had no plans to ever allow her little sister to be used in such a way. Her father highly underestimated her if he believed otherwise.

  The captain considered, stroking his trimmed beard as he let time stretch thin. She waited, unmoving in her chair. This was a fear tactic he enjoyed using on his adversaries—silence—but she wasn’t in the mood to play his games.

  “You actually make quite a good point,” he said, relenting, though his jaw ticked. “I will strike a bargain with you then. Marry the count without delay and without any of your theatrics, and Bridget will be allowed to leave with you to Cartus.”

  Margrete nodded, though she hardly felt herself move. The fact that her father conceded to her request so easily had her wondering what else was up his sleeve, what other little secret he kept close to his charred heart.

  “Thank you,” she said, hating the words. “If that is all, then I will leave you to your work.” Margrete knew better than to leave the study without his permission, and she waited for him to wave his hand in dismissal, that malicious smile still twisting his mouth.

  “Oh, and daughter,” he interrupted before she was halfway to the door. She stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “You’d do well to remember the teachings of last week, because if you disappoint me…” He paused as her heart thundered madly.

  Teachings. It was what he called his punishments.

  “Oh, I never forget, Father,” she said, gathering her long skirts and abandoning the captain to his plans.

  I will never forget. And one day, I hope to make you pay.

  Chapter Two

  Margrete

  Margrete found Birdie by the sea. It was a lovely spring day in Prias, the typically humid air graced with a refreshing breeze, one that lifted Margrete’s skirts as she padded barefoot across the heated sands. Waves crashed against the shoreline as tiny white birds skipped out of the way before the spray could wet their wings. And the skies… They were the loveliest shade of blue—a blended hue of lapis and sapphire.

  On days like this one, Margrete wished she’d learned how to swim. Her father forbade her from venturing too close to the waters, and his face would turn a deep shade of purple when she’d argue. She stopped asking years ago—his teachings would’ve only worsened.

  A gull screeched overhead, swooping down to graze the tops of the Morning Burst flowers she passed. As she had little else to do when confined to her chambers, Margrete was afforded ample time to read, though she often sought books pertaining to plants, flowers, and the healing properties found within nature. She’d grown rather adept at identifying flora and fauna and wondered if she might have made a decent healer in another life.

  But it was the origin of the bloom, with its bright golden center and delicate violet petals, that intrigued her. Legend held that fortunate sailors brought the flower back from the lost island of Azantian. Margrete had heard the tales of the mythical island more times than she could count, the sailors in her father’s employ eager to fill the time spent on dry land with stories of the sea.

  The story of Azantian was a favorite amongst the men, an island created by the sea god, where the sands were fashioned from the purest gold and the waters gleamed aquamarine. It was a realm of ethereal beings of immense beauty, entrusted with guarding the gates imprisoning the sea’s nefarious children—monsters born from the depths. But much like the gruesome sea serpent in her childhood lore, Azantian was a myth crafted for the naïve and the youthful.

  Margrete was neither.

  Tilting her face to the sun, she took in a quiet moment, soaking up the day’s warmth and its fearless light. With the rushing waves in the background and the sounds of the gulls overhead, she willed away thoughts of her father and his decree, pretending that, just for one moment, she was someone else entirely.

  Seconds later, that fragile peace shattered like broken glass.

  Someone was watching her.

  She could all but feel the eyes upon her skin. A rush of awareness caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise in alarm. She scanned the beach, the uneasy sensation growing stronger with each new breath.

  The beach was empty, and the only other person she sighted was Peter, one of her father’s most trusted guards. He stood watch beneath the fronds of a palm, his attention solely on the sands just ahead where Birdie played. Still, Margrete couldn’t shake what she’d so plainly felt.

  “Margrete!” Birdie jumped up from her blanket and rushed across the beach, her blonde curls tossing in the sea wind. With a radiant smile, she crashed into Margrete, wrapping two thin arms around her waist.

  All thoughts of danger fled Margrete’s mind the moment she enfolded Birdie in her embrace. The small sprite had the gift of chasing all worries away.

  “Hello, little bird.” Margrete wound her fingers through those unruly blonde strands. “I missed you this morning.”

  Birdie grumbled a reply, voice muffled by the thick fabric of Margrete’s gown. She caught only two words: pancakes and strawberries. Adina must’ve prepared her favorite treats for breakfast.

  Withdrawing, Birdie clutched Margrete’s hand, dragging her across the dunes to a coarse blanket laid out on the sands, a wind-tossed umbrella providing the sanctuary of shade.

  “Come sit with me!” Birdie’s voice played in harmony with the crashing waves, the sweet timbre as lively as the playful breeze.

  Margrete’s smile felt genuine for the first time that day as she took her place on the blanket. Birdie instantly crawled into her lap.

  “What did Father wish to speak to you about?” Birdie asked. “Adina told me not to pester you, but she was extra sour today.” She wrinkled her upturned nose.

  Adina was often in a foul mood. Gods, Margrete couldn’t recall a time when she wasn’t.

  Brushing her sister’s hair from her piercing blue eyes, she asked, “How would you feel about coming with me to Cartus?”

  Birdie squinted up at her. “Cartus? Why would we go there?”

  Margrete sighed, tightening her arms around Birdie’s middle. “I’m to marry Count Casbian in two months’ time. And you, my little one, are to come to his island with me. That is, if you wish.”

  Birdie paused to consider, her mouth twisting in thought. “Are the beaches in Cartus as pretty as the ones here?”

  Margrete nodded. Though she’d only ever seen drawings of Cartus in books, she’d heard about the island’s beauty from the lips of others.

  “And I would get to be with you? Father will allow it?”

  Birdie might be young, but she sensed the darkness in their father, how he could be joyous one moment and a storm of ruinous rage in the next.

  Birdie was right to be guarded.

  Margrete tilted Birdie’s chin. “I will always be beside you. No matter what happens, or where our journey in this life leads,” Margrete vowed. “And yes, I have father’s permission.”

  A glorious grin brightened Birdie’s face, rosy lips stretching wide. “Then I can’t wait for our new adventures! And hopefully, I’ll get a new governess. Mistress Sophia has breath a dragon would
reel away from.”

  She chuckled as Birdie stretched across the blanket and rested her head on Margrete’s lap, her eyelids shutting against the blinding sun. It didn’t take long before her chest rose and fell in steady breaths, worn from her earlier adventures frolicking along Prias’s coast.

  Taking in the wild sea, wishing she could, for once, have adventures of her own choosing, Margrete’s calm began to dissipate. That same sensation of being watched returned, although this time, her body flooded with ice, even in the rising heat of the day.

  Careful not to wake Birdie, Margrete craned her neck, scanning the sloping dunes and bent palms. Nothing but swaying grasses and skittering birds.

  She was being paranoid. No one would dare follow the captain’s daughter, not if they valued their life.

  Margrete shook her head, feeling foolish. Soon she would be free of Prias. Free of the captain. She only had to survive long enough to marry the count and lead her sister to a new life.

  A better one.

  Chapter Three

  Margrete

  Perched on the tips of her toes, Margrete peered over the ledge of her father’s keep, the movement sending an errant pebble tumbling to the rocks a hundred feet below. Her life of unwedded bliss would meet its end today. She and Birdie would sail away for Cartus, and Margrete would have a husband.

  She grimaced at the thought and squeezed her eyes closed, instead focusing on the way the waters sang to her from below. The winds shifted, their tangy scent wafting away, replaced by the sweet smell of Morning Bursts.

  Margrete gazed out over the city one last time, her stomach in knots for the journey ahead. She’d always felt so conflicted about Prias, now even more so that she was meant to leave. The renowned trading hub was a world of bronze and copper and the rich chestnut wood of the Marionette Forest. Rosy pinks, divine cobalts, and sweet lavenders dyed the buildings, each one assembled atop the other, stacked like sea stones at twilight. For most everyone but her, the city was an enchanting realm of sea spray and untarnished dreams, a glimmering coastal port that led to the stunning continent beyond, a place where people lived and thrived.

  “Margrete!” Adina’s shrill voice snaked up the steps, severing Margrete’s connection to the sea. The reality of the day crashed against the stone of her heart, eroding the last of her dwindling resolve. “Margrete! Where are you, child?”

  After saying goodbye to the waves one last time, Margrete turned for the stairs, silently praying for a miracle, for the God of the Sea to whisk her and her sister far away from here. She was nearly to the steps when a piercing horn shattered the calm, the waves below turning violent as they crashed against the rocks.

  She halted, twisting to skim the wild waters. There was nothing but the vast blue ocean. She took in a sharp breath, hoping to ease her fluttering pulse.

  Adina shouted again, this time much louder and significantly less patient.

  “Coming, Adina!” Margrete hurried down the narrow staircase. The handrail, worn from years of use, slid like silk beneath her palm. How many times had she raced to this tower to hide away from the world—and from her father?

  Countless.

  Margrete nearly collided with a stern-faced Adina on the final step. The older woman’s lips stretched into a thin line, eyes pointed and hard.

  “Where have you been, girl?” Adina didn’t wait for an answer. She grasped Margrete’s arm and yanked her down the corridor toward her chambers.

  Margrete resisted the urge to wrench away. Her blood boiled—she was no girl—but she willed her temper to cool, a task she found more difficult as of late.

  “Everything is prepared.” Adina motioned to the pressed crimson dress laid out neatly on Margrete’s four-poster bed.

  She felt confident that the entire city—and perhaps the surrounding ones—heard the cracking of her heart as it transformed to ice. The garment’s high neckline had fallen out of fashion, and it promised to suffocate once wrapped around her throat. The flowing sleeves were pretty, though. Lacy and delicate.

  Adina shoved Margrete closer to the bed. “Come on, then. Let’s begin.”

  Margrete groaned when the maid retrieved the required underthings and a tight corset with too many laces from her dresser. The thought of the count seeing her wearing such intimate garments made bile rise in her throat.

  “Oh, hush,” Adina chided. “It won’t be that bad. You want to look your best on your wedding night, don’t you?”

  While answering with a curt “no” was remarkably appealing, it wouldn’t do Margrete any favors. This wedding was going to happen whether she wished it to or not. She supposed she needed to find a way to be happy. Marrying the count surely wouldn’t be as awful as Margrete and Birdie staying with the captain forever.

  Forcing a nod, she allowed Adina to help her dress, wincing when the woman tugged at the corset’s strings.

  “Hold still!” Adina scolded when she jerked during one particularly harsh pull.

  Although Adina was callous and austere, Margrete had to remind herself that the woman had practically raised her. The captain had been too busy conquering the wild sea and capturing trade deals to assume the role of a proper father. Not that he’d ever been in danger of toeing that particular line.

  “There.” Adina stepped back to admire her careful work of torture. “Now to the final piece.”

  The dress. Margrete had just stepped into the puddle of red lace when a distant screech rang out from beyond the arched window of her chamber. “What on earth was that?”

  Adina frowned. “What was what?”

  It didn’t sound like a bird, and it was too high-pitched to be a horn aboard one of the ships in the bay. It sounded familiar in ways Margrete didn’t understand, but she ignored it.

  “Nothing. Let’s just get this over with.”

  Adina worked quickly and soon fastened the final button on the high neck, its ugly ruffles rising to kiss Margrete’s cheeks.

  “There,” the maid said. “Now you look beautiful.”

  The floor-length mirror depicted the perfect bride—chocolate and caramel strands curled dreamily down her back, wide hazel eyes bright and vibrant, her sharp cheekbones highlighted with a shimmering pink rouge. What the mirror couldn’t reflect was the screaming wraith trapped behind her practiced smile. How she mourned her unfulfilled dreams as they turned to ash at her feet.

  “Come on, then.” Adina headed for the door. “No time to dally.”

  When she hesitated, Adina huffed in frustration, twisting on a booted heel and waving at her to follow. Margrete scowled but begrudgingly marched toward her fate, but it was the tiny hairs on her arms—all standing at alarming attention—that froze her heavy steps. The horn sounded again, considerably louder. Urgent, almost.

  Tilting her head, she closed her eyes and listened for it, only nothing came but a gentle shushing from the sea.

  Just as she had months ago in the box, Margrete rolled her head, savoring the reassuring music of the waves. Her own personal lullaby, sung by the God of the Sea, a methodical—

  Hello, little one…

  Her eyes shot open.

  Was she hearing things? No. There had been a voice. Albeit an eerie and peculiar one, but—

  “Hurry, child!” Adina’s shouts disrupted Margrete’s concentration, and she shuddered back to reality.

  Nerves. It had to be nerves driving her to madness.

  Gathering her skirts, she chased down the stairs with a foreign grace. Not known for her poise, Margrete struggled in her new heeled shoes, her ankles wobbling on each rugged step. Maybe I’ll tumble to my death before this damned wedding can even begin.

  But alas, she didn’t meet her end by means of too-high shoes. Instead, she landed on the bottom floor of the keep’s main hall with a grimace.

  Broad arches of polished silver and gold framed the lofty space, a sitting room filled with dazzling portraits, extravagant furniture, and colorful carpets of varying designs bringing wealth and opulence
to a home that lacked heart. Waiting for Margrete, seated in a high-backed chair of obsidian velvet, was her father.

  His gaze narrowed, the weathered skin around his eyes crinkling with sick joy and unmistakable triumph. He scanned her from the top of her head to her heeled feet. “You look...acceptable. Although, a bit pallid.”

  Rising from his seat, the captain smoothed the linen of his onyx trousers, squaring his broad shoulders as he towered above her. He was a fit man for his age, the years having done nothing to rob him of his threatening stature.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Margrete made herself say, the tips of her ears heating with anger.

  She’d noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the lifelessness of her skin in the mirror earlier. As she’d slept little as of late, the sight wasn’t a surprise, but she despised having to apologize for something beyond her control.

  Sleep shouldn’t have been a problem. In truth, she should consider herself lucky. Her father had the opportunity to wed her off to a decrepit man with wrinkled skin and missing teeth, yet he chose a suitor of similar age. A handsome man, if the rumors she’d heard over the last two months were correct.

  Since the announcement, she’d exchanged five letters with Count Casbian of Cartus, his elegant script filled with tender promises. His correspondence painted him as compassionate and kind, but Margrete surmised people differed from what they appeared to be behind the guise of words. She had to remind herself that no matter what his letters portrayed him as, the count was a stranger, using her for the same reasons as her father.

  A muffled giggle floated from behind the captain, snagging Margrete’s attention. She’d know that wonderful sound anywhere, and it forced her lips to quiver into a semblance of a smile.

  “You look beautiful.” Birdie hopped out from behind Father’s chair, her blonde curls intricately braided into a golden crown.

  Margrete scooped Birdie up in a spin. “You’re the beautiful one, sister.” She gave Birdie’s rosy cheek a quick peck before setting her down gently.