What he held was a thin, factory-made notebook bound in cheap leather. Memory washed over me: the five-and-dime where our mother had taken us for school supplies every August, the smell of dusty tools and crisp paper and the jar of salt taffy by the register. Stacks of neat lined notebooks like this one, alongside pencils and nibs and ink and chalk, and a disordered row of used novels tucked incongruously at the end of the aisle.
The handwriting was not that of a child: it had the confidence and irregularity of someone who no longer labored over penmanship. Caleb had barely started his cursive when they forbade us the written word altogether; of course he wouldn’t be able to interpret. I read to him quietly. The entries were dated from autumn of 1903, and belonged to a cook for one of the Gilman households—there have been many Patience Gilmans with fisher husbands, so it was impossible to know which one. Still, the household’s rhythms made me ache with familiarity. Meals and tutoring sessions and children begging sweets, shopping at that selfsame grocer and the other markets that lay behind the dunes. Saturday evening services, where distinctions of mistress and servant fell away in the glimmering darkness.
Reverend Eliot spoke to me again after services last night, asking of my visions. I was fearful to confess that I’ve had none since before last Winter Tide. He was quick to reassure me on the matter, but still I fear that disappointment will attend my metamorphosis. Perhaps I am trying too hard to force the gods. When Alydea Bardsley’s air-born lover ran away with their son, I prayed all night for a glimpse of the boy’s whereabouts and received not so much as an allusive dream.
I must try to do as Archpriest Ngalthr bids, and focus on the duties of the land. Yet this morning while picking herbs, I was struck near as strong as vision by imagining what bolder and stranger duties might attend my life in the water. It is not right or proper, and I must put such dreams aside until it is time—if these half-fantastic abilities strengthen with my blood.
Caleb put his hand over the passage. “I know who she is! Do you remember Archpriest Ngalthr’s acolyte? Who helped with the midsummer ceremony when I was five? Chulzh’th was her water name, but someone said she’d been a servant on land, and she put up with old Charis Gilman being very familiar.”
I wracked my mind, but to no avail. I could recall the archpriest easily, but not the woman attending him that one year. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“She had almost black scales all down her back and legs, but with purple highlights like quahog shells. And a sort of spiky crest.” He traced its outline in the air over his scalp.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I paid her much attention. But I’m glad to know who this is, anyway.” And to know too that she’d changed young, before the raid. I dropped my voice. “We’re going to have to talk with them, I think.”
Caleb lowered his voice as well. We knew from long experience the safe range between our hearing and that of ordinary men. “So you can complain to them of Upton’s treatment?”
“Possibly. But we’ve been talking about getting our books back, and we still don’t know how. And these journals—no one at Miskatonic is even reading them. Maybe the elders will be able to help. I’m scared too, but we literally can’t avoid them forever.” And beyond that—though I wasn’t sure how Caleb would respond to the idea now—they needed to know how dangerous the wars of the land might become. When last they’d been involved, poisonous gases and torpedoes had been the gravest threats armies could muster.
Caleb let out a breath and nodded. “We’ll need someone who can drive. Trumbull, I suppose, is the best option we have. I wish there were some way to distract your…” He failed to find a suitable term. “… Mr. Spector. Or maybe we ought to introduce them.” He bared his teeth.
“That sounds like a terrible idea. But it might be best to tell him outright that we’re visiting our family. It’s not as though he’s ignorant of their presence. And we could bring Neko and Mr. Day. The elders ought to know that we’ve found kind people on the land as well as cruel.”
“Huh. Yes, they’ll want to know the Kotos. And I suppose it’s best to get their approval of your students before you start a whole school. Are you going to bring your newest devotee, too?”
It was surprisingly tempting. Sharing my ancestry felt less terrifying now that I’d done so with Charlie. And unknowing, she would hold our studies back even further. But when I thought of telling the elders I’d revealed them so casually, I quailed. They might still question my knowledge of Charlie’s integrity after a mere two years’ intimacy. I did not care to think how they would judge someone who learned after two days. “No. It’s too early.”
Plans made, I was about to return to Chulzh’th’s journal when I heard footsteps at the doorway. Audrey herself leaned against the frame, a little out of breath but apparently pleased. I got up to meet her, hoping—now that I’d made my decision—that I could dissuade her from inquiring too closely into our reading material.
“I’m sorry we didn’t come to Hall today,” I said. “Something new came up—we had another errand in the morning, and then some specific volumes we needed to look at here. We should be back there Sunday, or Monday at the latest.”
“I know you’ve got some deeper goal here,” she said. She straightened and brushed off her skirt. “Though I wish you’d tell me how I could help. I was hoping I could still join you for lessons tonight?”
I withheld a sigh: imagined hours of summoning practice, much needed before an Innsmouth visit, would have to be saved for later in the day. I toyed with the idea of refusing her—but I had promised. I wanted to be a good teacher, not the sort who put off my students until convenient times that might never come. I remembered the urgency of my own first days of study in Charlie’s back room, and could not bring myself to leave her so frustrated. “Yes, I think we could do that. I can spare you an hour or two.”
I glanced at Trumbull, and considered advantages to getting an early start on our studies. She still sat immersed in a diary, a small pile of those she’d read through set to one side and a larger stack waiting at the other. She turned the pages steadily, capturing each with avid eyes before flicking to the next. While she remained here, her house would feel a more relaxed place to work.
Charlie needed little persuasion. When I asked Caleb if he cared to join us, he hesitated. At last he nodded fractionally. Trumbull passed me her house key without looking up from her reading.
*
Neko and Dawson sat at Trumbull’s dining room table, notes spread around them.
“You’re back early,” said Neko. She paused. More gently: “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“We learned many things,” I said. “How are you doing with the notes?”
“We’re learning many things.” They shared a smile—Dawson’s a fleeting thing, quickly hidden.
“In that case, we’ll just go upstairs to study,” Caleb said. His cheeks flushed. “So everyone can keep learning.”