“Bridey, I only showed you because I didn’t want to keep any secrets … You asked to know! You wanted the truth!” Fynn’s words were lost to the wind as I raced up the path between the cliffs, glancing over my shoulder only to make sure he wasn’t following.
I sprinted through town by way of my neighbors’ yards, dodging the vague shapes of chickens, cats, and washtubs. I paused once, by a stone blur that vaguely resembled the Gills’ house, to grab a yellowed garment hanging from a line. After dabbing my streaming eyes and nose with someone’s nightgown, I hurried across a field into the sheltering shade of the forest’s silver birch and rowans.
The climb seemed to take twice as long as usual, perhaps because I kept turning to peer down the hill. Fynn had trailed me here before; he could find it again. But not even a rabbit stirred in the brush.
My shoulders slumped. There were so many things I wanted to ask him, once my anger had faded. Why the serpent attacked him, and was he was even capable of loving a human? His falsehoods stung worse than the dreadful moment of watching him surface from the waves as a beast from a book of monsters.
I emerged from the trees with my stomach rumbling. I skirted the edge of the woods and began to search for anything edible among the bracken. A sweet perfume tickled my nose, and I chased the scent to dark raspberries dangling from thorny canes, begging to be picked.
Something rustled the leaves. I froze, looking toward the path, but it was only a bird taking flight.
As my sobs slowed, I rested at the crown of the hill. The short, scrubby grass was warm from roasting under the sun, a wonderful contrast to the icy sea water.
I gazed at the clear sky as I ate the raspberries, recalling every detail of Fynn’s shift from terrifying sea monster to handsome lad. He was a brave, funny, kind boy who cared for me, who had believed me about the threat in the water when no one else would. And he was a glashtyn with flippers, sharp teeth and a tail. A sea monster.
A giggle escaped my lips.
I had named him Fynn. Not a Manx name, like Braddan or Colyn or Rory. Fynn.
Another giggle bubbled from me, followed by a peal of unrestrained laughter that would have surely confirmed the town’s suspicions about my delicate mental state, had I been overheard. I laughed until my sides threatened to burst, but all too soon, tendrils of worry took root in my chest again.
If Fynn was a creature who murdered innocent girls, why hadn’t he dragged me to the depths during our swim lesson? With no one around to bear witness, it would have been so easy. But there was no doubt that the fossegrim had lured Grandad off the cliffs, and that it had tried to do the same to me. Maybe Fynn really did care for me. Still, there was no proof that he hadn’t preyed on my friends and neighbors.
Whatever his intentions, I needed answers, not his half-truths.
And I knew of only one place where I would find them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Raised voices carried on the wind as I drew closer to Morag’s cottage. Who from the village would visit her? Perhaps someone had come to harass her on a dare, as I’d once done with my friends when we were younger.
“I wish you’d stay longer, Mureal,” Morag said, an unfamiliar tender note in her voice. “Are you sure you should walk home now? You don’t look well, dear.”
I recalled the note Mam left by her easel. Of course, she was still here visiting. But I wanted to see Morag alone. I ducked behind the nearest tree and stole a glance at the cottage.
Mam and Morag stood together in the doorway, Mam’s willowy figure looming over Morag’s hunched one. “I’ll be fine, moir,” Mam said, wrapping her arms around Morag’s bony shoulders. “But what about you? You reek of whiskey.”
I retreated deeper into the shade of my tree, wondering whether I’d heard correctly. If Mam had said moir, not Morag, then she’d called the old woman mother. Mam’s parents died before I was born, so it was natural that she would seek the company of someone older. But Morag? Shaking off my surprise, which seemed trivial in light of what I’d just learned about Fynn, I focused on their conversation.
“It’s just a headache,” Mam protested. “I’ve had these hundreds of times since I was a girl. And I bought some Samson—”
“Bah!” Morag spat in the dirt. “That stuff’s more likely to give you a toothache than cure your head. Wait here, Mureal. I have something that might help.”
I dared to peek at the cottage again, just as Morag returned with a sachet in hand.
“What is it?” Mam asked, accepting the little bag.
“Varvine, dandelion root, and precious mugwort.” Morag’s voice grew softer. “To be taken twice a day, understand? That should keep the worst of your dreams at bay, and without them, your head should feel much clearer.”
Mam nodded. “Thank you, moir. For everything. Having a lass Bridey’s age about the cottage this summer can’t be easy—”
“Nonsense! Though I admit, I haven’t seen much of her lately. And it’s my own fault. I needed some quiet.”