The day kept getting worse. I wanted to cry or scream. I wanted to hurl Mam’s new painting into the sea. I’d seen my fill of monsters, both real and imaginary.
What would Grandad have said about the horrible painting? He wouldn’t have wished to hurt Mam’s feelings, but I could picture him mouthing the word rubbish as soon as Mam left the room. Then he’d launch into the story of the time he went to Ireland and saw the mysterious art at Newgrange, an ancient tomb rumored to belong to old Irish kings. He said the beauty of the tomb’s carvings was eclipsed only by the figures of the Irish women. This was before he met Gran, he always assured us, but she’d still cuff him on the arm with her shoe.
The memory almost made me smile. Almost.
I rounded the base of Morag’s hill, breathing hard, and pushed myself onward. The rise behind hers was higher, more imposing. Dense woods lined the path to its treeless top, where I could pretend I was miles from the water.
The cool shade of the trees enveloped me. In the woods, the sigh of the wind was louder than the breath of the sea. A stoat hissed, half-hidden by the base of a large tree. Then, a twig snapped behind me, making me flinch, but I couldn’t spot whatever had made the noise. Probably a nervous rabbit.
My anxiety faded as I climbed, replaced by numbness. By the time I walked out of the trees to the crest of the hilltop, the sun was sinking on the horizon. My throat was parched and my legs ached, yet I was grateful to be back in my favorite place.
A year after Grandad died, Da had taken me to Snaefell, the only real mountain on the Isle. Ever since, this hill had become my private mountain—Snaefell in miniature. Looking in one direction, all of Port Coire spread out below me, capped by a thick blue line where the sky met the sea. The other way offered a view of a different ocean, the endless green of hills and fields.
I flopped down in the scratchy grass, choking off a sigh of relief as the unmistakable sound of footsteps rushed toward me. Had Grayse followed me all the way here? I pushed myself to sitting.
“Little fish?”
I was answered by the ragged breathing of an injured boy.
For a moment, Fynn loomed over me, pale, sweating, and glassy-eyed. Then his knees buckled, and he collapsed beside me. He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky, chest heaving.
“Are you—?” I asked, but he held up a hand. The rapid rise and fall of his chest assured me he was alive, just as it had on the beach.
After what seemed like an hour, he turned to me. His eyes were clearer now. “I don’t like hills. Or trees. If I hadn’t been trying to catch you, I would’ve gotten lost in there.”
“That’s nothing to how I feel about the sea.” I leveled my gaze at him. “What possessed you to follow me all this way? You could’ve reopened your wounds.”
“You were upset.” He slicked back his dark hair. “What happened back there? And at the market?”
“I …” My breath hitched as Fynn laid a hand over mine. Somehow, this lad I’d only known for a few weeks made me feel more alive than Lugh ever had. Thoughtful, caring Lugh, who I’d known my entire life. If I could trust Fynn with my fear after such a short time, I could trust him with anything. “I hate the ocean. And seeing those huge crabs just … overwhelmed me.”
Fynn struggled to sit up. “What happened to make you hate—?”
I shook my head. “Rest. I can’t talk about that just now.”
He slumped on the grass. “All right. But back at the house—”
I thought, again, of Mam’s new painting. The scales of her serpent had looked too much like the dark creature I’d glimpsed on the night Lugh and I heard the crash over the water. “No. I won’t talk about that, either.”
“You’re impossible.” A smile lit Fynn’s face.
“Not impossible,” I insisted. “I simply don’t want to discuss the matter right now.” I hurriedly cast about for a different topic. “Apparently Liss was out with some lad this morning. I never would have believed it.”
“Oh, you mean Martyn Watterson?”
I blinked. Martyn was a husky boy, hopeless at catching fish, and even worse when it came to learning his da’s business. “What do you know of it?”
“Liss’s sweetheart. He seems like an idiot to me, but I’m sure she has her reasons.” Fynn took one look at my wide eyes and grinned. “She’s been helping him with his reading when she knows none of you will be home. He came to the door one morning, and I answered it. She begged me not to tell anyone, and in exchange …” Fynn’s amused expression vanished. “I asked her to tell me more about you.”
My throat went dry. “You should’ve asked me.” I paused. “But you just told Liss’s secret.”
“Well, you don’t seem like someone who would betray her sister’s secrets. So my mistake ends here.” Fynn smiled, not a trace of remorse in his gaze. “I hope you can persuade Liss to forgive me. As your friend Catreena wisely pointed out”—he paused to grin, inviting me to share in his joke—“they don’t teach manners in London anymore.”