Undertow (Whyborne & Griffin #8.5)(6)

“Well enough,” I replied. “She moved into the room across the hall from me around the beginning of August, and I see her at least twice a day. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” He offered me a smile. “Just curiosity on my part. I want to know who your friends are, Maggie.”

“Oh?” I said faintly.

“I had a good time this evening—at least, up until the part where Miss Vale fainted.” He looked away, then back at me. “The play reminded me a bit of that old sea shanty about the mermaid. That seeing one spells your doom.”

Ah—now the play finally made sense. The prince had tried to outrun his doom by returning to land. A shame the playwright hadn’t made it a bit clearer.

I hadn’t thought of the shanty in years, but I still knew all the words by heart. “Twas Friday morn when we set sail,” I sang, and he joined in.





“And we had not got far from land,

When the Captain, he spied a lovely mermaid,

With a comb and a glass in her hand.





“Then up spoke the Captain of our gallant ship,

And a jolly old Captain was he;

‘I have a wife in Salem town,

But tonight a widow she will be.’”





“Papa used to love that song,” I said wistfully. “He held me on his lap, while we all sang around the piano.” The memory seemed so clear: his weathered face, the warm glow of the whale oil lamp, my brothers on the floor playing with whatever presents he’d brought back for us from exotic ports.

Then one day he was gone. Taken by the cold sea he’d loved.

Had I inherited that love from him? What would he have done, if he’d found himself face to face with a woman from its depths?

Oliver smiled, but the expression had a sad quality to it. “It’s been good to see you again, Maggie. I can’t help but think our fathers wouldn’t have wanted us to drift so far apart. I’d like to call upon you tomorrow evening, if I may.”

My heart sank a bit. Did Oliver want more than to reconnect with an old friend? He’d never indicated interest in anything more than friendship in our correspondence, but he’d mentioned speaking to my mother before coming to Widdershins.

And if he did want something more, what would I do?

I was being foolish. Mother’s letters had me questioning Oliver’s motives, when he’d given me no reason to do so. He simply wanted to spend time with an old friend, before his work took him away again, for who knew how many years.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d be happy to receive your visit.”

*

A low moan woke me during the night.

I opened my eyes; the bedroom appeared in shades of dark gray. The waning moon was less than half full, and light leaked through the drawn curtains. I sat up, listening intently. Where had the sound come from? The window?

My treacherous heart leapt at the thought. But Persephone wouldn’t come here two nights in a row. She was a chieftess beneath the sea, after all, and had far better things to do than visit her brother’s secretary.

It might be whatever had left the dead squid.

The sound came again, and this time I could tell it issued from the direction of the hall.

Still, I wasn’t relieved. Last July, I’d waked to find a horrible rat-like thing emerging from a hole in the baseboards. The experience had made me wary of strange sounds in the night.

I lit the candle, then pulled on my robe and took the knife from beneath my pillow. Once in the hall, I paused, listening.

“No,” sighed a low voice. It sounded as though it came from Irene’s room. “Please, don’t. I don’t want to.”

My heart beat rapidly, and I mentally ran through all the self-defense movements Dr. Putnam-Barnett had taught me. Taking a deep breath, I steadied my nerves and flung open the door.

The light of my candle revealed only Irene, lying in bed. The blankets were twisted around her, and even as I watched, her head thrashed madly from side to side.

“The song,” she gasped. “It’s calling me. Make it stop.”

“Irene!” I crossed to the bed and shook her. “Irene, wake up.”

Her eyes flew open, accompanied by a cry of horror. She stared at me, no recognition showing in her gaze.

“It’s just me,” I said. “You’ve had a nightmare.”

“Maggie.” My name came sluggishly from her lips. Her tense muscles relaxed beneath my hand, and she sagged into the bed. Her thrashing had pulled her nightgown tight across her breasts, and I glanced away, feeling my cheeks redden slightly.

“I heard you cry out in your sleep, loud enough it woke me,” I said. “A good thing I’m a light sleeper.”

“Yes.” She sat up, her face pale in the candlelight. Gooseflesh showed on her arms, and she tugged the covers higher. “Thank you.”

“Are you ill?” That would explain her earlier faint. I put a hand to her forehead. Her skin felt clammy, but cool rather than warm. “Should I have Mrs. Yagoda send for a doctor?”

“No.” A shiver wracked her. “It was just a nightmare, like you said.”

“Did you dream about the play?” I asked. “When I came in, you were moaning about a song. You said it called to you.”