“Are you having fun, Grace?” George asks, his face as freckled from the sun as Daisy’s.
I smile at him in response, and Rupert rolls his eyes.
“What enthusiasm,” Rupert says. “Always such a joy spending time with you, Grace; the conversation is truly scintillating.” I glance at Oliver, but he doesn’t give any indication of having heard Rupert. “God,” Rupert says loudly. “I’m so bored.” Oliver stiffens. This, he will not ignore. “It’s utterly dull,” Rupert says, draining the rest of his glass.
“This part is just to keep the geriatrics happy,” Oliver says. “Wait until we get on to the Muireann.” My heart catches; my mother’s name, so casual on his lips. “That’s when the real fun will start, Rupe.”
Rupert raises an eyebrow, as if in challenge; Oliver grins back at him. They’re like school boys, the two of them. And this is the man that I need to make fall in love with me by sunrise.
“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls.” A voice is coming from the sky, shaking the leaves from the trees like a deity addressing us through the clouds. I clutch at Oliver’s arm and he laughs. “It’s just the microphone,” he says, pointing towards the gazebo tucked into the corner of the garden. It has been trimmed of weeds since I last saw it, a fresh coat of white paint glistening wetly in the sunshine. “See?” There is a woman standing there, three girls behind her with their musical instruments.
“We are Flora and the Furies,” the voice says. “My name is Flora. And these are my Furies. Are you ready to have a good time?” The crowd roars in response. “And a one, two, three,” she yells, followed by a sudden burst of music. As it plays, she walks to the front of the gazebo, the sun hitting her face like a halo. She is tall, as tall as Oliver, dark hair cut to her jaw, a short skirt showing off long, brown legs.
I feel Rupert shift beside me. “Jesus,” he says. “She looks like…” He takes a deep breath, as if trying to control himself but when he sees that I am watching him, he stands up straight, swatting his sadness away from him like an irritating insect. “What are you staring at? Why are you always staring at everyone, you fucking weirdo?”
I look away. I wish something terrible would happen to this man. A sudden fall, a snapped neck, a— I stop myself. These are Salka thoughts, wild and sharp. I must remember my place.
“I’ve never heard a voice like that before,” Oliver says when the song ends. I hadn’t even been listening.
“Don’t you think she looks like…” George trails off.
“Looks like who?” Oliver asks, and neither Rupert nor George answer him. “Bravo,” he calls out, raising a glass to Flora. “Thank you,” she says, without shame. “Hopefully you’ll like this next one too.”
She begins to sing again, her voice crystal clear, achingly sweet. Sweeter than anything I have heard since I broke the surface.
That song.
“What is this song?” I hear someone ask. “It’s most unusual.”
And it is most unusual and I know it, I know it heart-deep. A song that my grandmother used to sing to us in the nursery, a song of mer-men and brave deeds and a war fought that would never be forgotten. A song of necessary death, of the courage that it takes to do what it is right. Trembling notes, hushed by water. How does she know this song?
I drift, barely noticing, towards the middle of the garden. Towards Flora.
“What is that girl doing…”
“Is she okay? She doesn’t look…”
“But Oliver seems to like her so I…”
And then I alone and I am dancing and I can’t stop. I dance as if I am still beneath the surface, floating through water. The weightlessness of it, even with my pearls on. I did not know how lucky I was. I twirl, my skirt skimming around me in clouds (forest green) of silk (with silver flecks) and if I half-close my eyes I can pretend that my tail has returned to me, imagine that I can travel through the world without being conscious of every scalding step I take. Why did I not appreciate it when I could?
“Isn’t she graceful…”
“I know, it’s no wonder Oliver…”
“Even though…”
“Even though…”
Even though I have no voice. Even though my tongue has been torn out of my mouth and swallowed by a hungry woman. Even though I am a stranger who was found abandoned on the beach and there is no telling who I am or where I came from. These people don’t care; all they want is to see me dance. So I dance.
The song ends, this Flora reaching the crescendo perfectly. I was the only person in the kingdom who could sing that note, it’s beyond most mermaids’ capabilities, let alone a human’s. I come to a standstill instantly, staring at this woman while she sings my song with…
That is my voice.
Ice cold, and a song so sweet and paintings of a woman with a face like my own and a stranger before me with long legs, my stolen voice pouring out of her mouth.
“Well done, little one,” the singer says, and I know somehow that only I can hear her. “I am proud of you.”
“Grace.”
Fingers pinching my upper arm, pulling me away. “Come with me,” Eleanor says, pulling me into the bushes. I turn to find that Flora is gone from the gazebo stage, the Furies left playing instrumental music while other guests begin dancing. I need to find her, I need to—
“Hello there, Dancing Queen,” Eleanor says. Her eyes are bloodshot, pink lipstick smudged on her front two teeth. It’s clear that she’s been drinking heavily, which is unlike her. She prefers to stay sober at these events, remain in control. Women can’t simply be good enough, she had said to me one night, when everyone else had left after an exceptionally boisterous dinner party. She wasn’t even talking to me, not really; I just happened to be there. We have to be twice as good as the men just to break even.
“Are you having fun? Are you enjoying all of this?” She waves back at the party. “I paid for it, you know. Every last thing in here was bought with my money. Not that anyone seems to care. Ships are boring, Mother!” she says, mocking Oliver. “No one ever cares about what I want.” She is too close to me now, and I can smell wine on her breath. Her hair is mussed, the hem of her cream dress stained by the grass. “This is where I met Alexander, did you know that?” She looks at the garden again, as if remembering. “Right on that lawn. I was only thirteen years old, and I knew immediately that I would love him for ever.” She points at the sea. “And that’s where I lost him.” She doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, standing with her back to me.
“Where are you from?” she says, spinning on her heel. “Answer me,” she shouts when I remain silent, and I put my hands to my throat. I can’t talk, Eleanor. Remember? “Enough of that.” She grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me violently. “I know what you are. I know. He talked of a woman who danced like you. Who danced like she was gliding through the air. He wouldn’t forget her, he wouldn’t—”
I wrench my arm from her grasp. “He wouldn’t forget her,” she says again, and she begins to sob, a keening sound ripping from her gut, so primal it makes me feel unsteady. “You can’t take my son from me too, I can’t lose Oliver. I can’t. I can’t. Please.” Eleanor falls to her knees, holding on to my skirt. “You can’t take him away from me. I don’t want to be alone. I won’t survive.”
I crouch down, thrusting her hands away from me. She barely notices as she curls up in a ball, heaving with sobs. The mighty Eleanor Carlisle, always in control, is disintegrating before me; she is like a perfect portrait of someone falling apart. Is this what happens to scorned women? She’s crazy, we used to say about maids in the kingdom who pursued certain mer-men relentlessly, crying and asking too many questions about where their man was and who he was with and if he had talked to any other maid that day. I’m beginning to wonder that if, when we call a woman crazy, we should take a look at the man by her side, and guess at what he has done to drive her to insanity.
When I get back to the party, Oliver is gone.