None of the past’s hardship marked his easy smile now. “I stopped in New Bedford before coming here. Your mother sends her greetings.”
Warmth collected in my cheeks. Mother’s recent letters had been rather sharp, reminding me I was twenty-six years old and practically an old maid. Had she sent Oliver here as some sort of last resort, in the hopes childhood affection might turn to something more?
“Thank you,” I said. Then, to change the subject: “What brings you to Widdershins? Are you still selling billiard tables?”
“My sample case is by the door,” he replied. “It’s not the most exciting profession, but there are worse ways to earn a living.”
Irene appeared in the doorway. “Forgive me for interrupting, but breakfast is almost over, Maggie.”
“I’m so sorry—I’ve kept you from your meal,” Oliver said, taking a step toward the door.
“It’s no trouble,” I said. “Miss Irene Vale, may I present to you Mr. Oliver Young? We were childhood friends in New Bedford. Our fathers served together aboard the Bedlam.”
Irene offered him a smile. “A pleasure, Mr. Young. Have you come to visit Maggie?”
“I’m here on business,” he replied. “Though seeing Miss Parkhurst again has been a delight.”
I cursed my fair skin and tendency to blush. “Th-that’s kind of you, Oliver.”
“I shall take my leave for now.” He stepped toward the door, then stopped, as if an idea had just struck him. “Do you still enjoy the theater, Maggie?”
“Yes,” I said. When I could afford it, at least.
“I had no idea!” Irene exclaimed. “We’ll have to go see some vaudeville soon. Or, no—remember the new theater opening this week?”
“The Undertow.” The newspapers had been filled with excited speculation since the announcement was made. “Tomorrow night is their first performance.”
“Then we shall go,” Oliver said, beaming at us. “Miss Vale, would you care to join us?”
“I’d love to.”
“Then I take my farewell of you both, until tomorrow night,” he said with a small bow.
I saw him to the door. As I shut it behind him, Irene said, “He seems a pleasant fellow.”
“He is. Perfectly pleasant.” And just the sort of fellow my mother would be thrilled to see me marry.
Irene looked as though she might say something else…then frowned. “I say, Maggie,” she said, pointing to the tentacle now dangling limply from my pocketbook, “what on earth is that?”
*
That night, I woke to the sound of something at my window.
I sat up and squinted groggily. Was that a shape moving on the other side of the curtains? I’d assumed the squid I’d found that morning had been dropped by an eagle, but what if there was something unnatural prowling around instead?
The dead squid had embarrassed me in front of Irene and ruined my favorite pocketbook. If some creature had dropped it while skulking about, I’d make it regret coming to my window. Ever since the rat thing had attacked me in the middle of the night last summer, I’d taken to sleeping with a knife under my pillow. I pulled it out and slid from beneath the covers. Gripping the hilt tightly, I walked to the window and threw back the curtain.
And barely bit back a shriek at the pale face staring in at me.
The night candle on the bedside table burst into spontaneous flame. The golden glow revealed a creature whose pale white skin was marked with dark blue swirls, like some barbarian war paint. Fins jutted from her arms and legs, and the claws tipping fingers and toes clung to the house’s wood siding. A host of slender tendrils squirmed around her face in place of hair, and her grin revealed row after row of shark’s teeth.
Oh, thank heavens. Nothing to be afraid of after all.
“Persephone?” I put down the knife and hastened to open the window. “You scared me half to death.”
She clambered in and straightened to her full height. I couldn’t help but drink in the sight of her. She was taller than me, her body all lean muscle—which I could see quite clearly, as she wore a sort of knotted skirt of gold mesh, golden armbands, a necklace bedecked with pearls and coral, earrings, and absolutely nothing else. Her curves weren’t terribly feminine, her breasts only slightly more pronounced than a boy’s, her hips narrow. Her feet were more like a frog’s than anything human, the toes long and webbed, making her gait on land an awkward one.
She was so beautiful. Like some fae creature out of a story, risen from the depths of the sea. Powerful and strong and impossibly strange.
In one hand, she clutched a sort of bag made from woven strands of kelp. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“It’s quite all right.” I glanced at the window. “Something dropped or left a squid outside my window last night, and for a minute I was afraid it had come back.”
“Oh?” she asked. Her fingers tightened around the bag she held. “How was the squid?”