‘Aidan did not want a wife with a mind of her own,’ I say stiffly. ‘And he would never have approved of me seeking my parents. I would not have made a satisfactory wife, nor he a decent husband.’
‘Perhaps he might have come around? A wife can convince a husband of many things, is my observation.’
‘Uncle,’ I say slowly, ‘I believe Aidan has made a bargain with the woman who rules Breakwater like a robber queen. I do not believe he is good man.’
I wonder at myself, telling so many half-truths to this man who is family. Did I ever lie this much before? Or was it simply a habit embedded in me, one that is now coming to the fore as I’m forced to survive on my own? Is this the best skill Aoife ever gave me? Dishonesty? Uncle Edward has shown me nothing but kindness, made me welcome, yet there is a whisper in my head that says It is early days, Miren, be patient.
‘I believe you made the right decision, my dear, to leave.’
‘Enough about my trials, Uncle, won’t you tell me of the Elliotts?’
* * *
Fifteen minutes of family tales before we reach the village: The Elliott home in Able’s Croft. Great-Grandmother Eleanor who hollowed out her wooden leg and filled it with plum brandy to make church services bearable. Uncle Tobias who failed to inform his fourth wife that the first three were still alive and well. Cousin Vella whose fondness for her wolfhounds meant she had each and every one taxidermied after their deaths and placed around her home in their favourite spots, then deposited in her tomb at her own demise. Grandfather Edgar who locked himself in his library one evening and refused to come out, only collecting the meals left for him in the corridor when the deliverer had gone, and continuing thus until one day three days of meals had piled up uneaten and his sons broke down the door to find him dead over a copy of Murcianus’ Magical Rites, a look of horror frozen to his face. ‘We never found out if he managed to summon anything – the house always was filled with strange noises anyway, so another haunting would hardly draw attention.’
We follow the stream all the way to the village, where it splashes over a lip of land and down into a fountain pool at the edge of a square. In the centre of the pool rears the statue of a mermaid. I stare at the thing. It’s an idealised version to be sure, pretty and sweet, nothing like the creatures who pulled me into Breakwater Harbour, with their teeth and talons, sharp fins on lashing tails, gashes of gills and scaly skin. This lovely thing was sculpted by someone who’s never actually seen the truth of a mer.
There are perhaps forty small neat houses (some older, some newer built as families expand, I imagine) clustered around the square, straight white fences protecting tiny flowerless gardens. There are people milling about, children playing games and singing rhymes I recognise from childhood. Some folks draw water from the fountain, some produce items – fruit and vegetables which must have been purchased elsewhere or is it really the last of their stores? There are some livestock in pens, cows and sheep, but there are no newborns to be seen, just as Edward said.
I watch as folk begin to notice us. A red-haired woman with an equally red-haired child of perhaps four (too old to be held so) on her hip sees us – or more particularly my uncle – and her lips thin. Then she sees me and she loses all expression, goes blank, her jaw drops. The man beside her follows the direction of her gaze; other heads turn, the phenomenon spreads like flames leaping from one roof to another.
Soon, the press of bodies stops moving all together and they just stare. I look askance at my uncle, who murmurs with a smile, ‘Ah, I see Miriam Dymond’s spotted you. You are very like your mother.’
As if his words have broken a spell, the villagers begin to shift again, like breath has been restored to them. A stout pink-faced man bustles forward, his yellow coat neatly pressed and his black trews tidier than a working man’s should be.
‘Mr Elliott,’ he says and there’s nothing friendly in his tone, but I can tell the hostility is tamped down hard.
‘Oliver. How go matters?’
‘If you mean the matter of the crops, then they are as they have been with no change. If you mean the matter of the mine and the smelter, then that goes the same as well.’ The meaning is clear: you have done nothing, there has been no change. But then his tone varies, becomes hopeful as he asks, ‘Any word from Mistress Isolde?’
‘Not as yet but I have hopes. This,’ says my uncle and gestures towards me, ‘is her daughter, Miss Miren. I put my faith in signs and I believe her coming means that we shall soon see her parents once again. Miren, Oliver is our estate manager.’
Oliver’s expression tells me precisely what he thinks of this bit of logic. I smile, lean from the saddle and offer my hand. He hesitates, then takes it. He seems relieved to have done so, as if he expected one thing and found another. I think about what Malachi said, about Isolde being a charmer; I wonder if she worked her magic on these villagers, if that’s partially why they stay here in spite of the coming lack of food, the inevitable winter, the obvious dislike of my uncle. Internally, I shudder at the idea of anyone being held against their
