CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Rise and shine, miss,” Daisy says, throwing open the slatted blinds, the sun chasing the shadows away. I stare out of the window. It is so strange seeing sky instead of water, sharp edges rather than soft blurs. Will I get used to it, I wonder? Could my mother be looking at that same sky today?
“You were out such a long time,” she says. Daisy is small, shorter than I, with dark blonde hair tied in a neat ponytail, her face more freckles than flesh. No one had skin like that under the sea; it was alabaster white from the moment we were hatched to the moment we dissolved to sea foam.
I find myself drawn to how different everyone looks up here, how unique. It is far more interesting than the conformity my father prizes. Daisy is wearing the same outfit the other girl servants are attired in, a black dress with a white band around her neck, those odd things on her feet that all the humans wear.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks.
I dreamed of the woman with the red hair again. My mother, it must be, for looking at her is like looking in a cracked mirror; almost the same but not quite. You have made a mistake, Gaia, she told me, and I thought I could hear my sisters screaming in the distance. The woman clasped my hands in hers, her eyes brimming with tears. I wanted to catch them, hold them to my lips. I wanted to know if her tears tasted of salt. You made a terrible mistake, just as I did.
“Very good,” Daisy says, as if I have replied. “But it’s time for you to get up now. Mrs Carlisle and Oliver are waiting for you in the orangery.” I place my feet on the cool, hard ground, holding on to the bed post to pull myself upright, a puffing breath. It feels as if I am dancing on nails.
“I chose this dress,” Daisy says as she rifles through the wardrobe, oblivious to my suffering. She holds up a garment for my approval. “Not that there was much of a choice,” she mutters, as she gestures for me to hold my hands up. She pulls my nightgown over my head, replacing it with this new dress. “Black clothes, and black clothes, and more black clothes,” she says, walking around me so she can tie up the back. “There was a storm, you see, and a shipwreck,” she continues, sitting me on a chair in front of the mirror. “It was terrible – everyone on board killed except for Oliver. It’s a miracle, don’t you think? Sure, what else could explain it?” Daisy bends down to push the feet (My feet. Mine.) into the same contraptions that she has on her own. “Do you not wear shoes where you’re from?” she asks; I am bent over, one hand pressing hard on her back, my feet lacerated from these shoes. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the shipwreck. To be fair, miracles always seem to favour the rich, don’t you agree? And god knows, the Carlisles are rich. Made their money in shipping – they own half the world’s boats and are scheming to take the other half off the Greeks as soon as they can. Not that I know much about business; all I know is that my wages are twice what any of my friends in the other big houses are making, and they’re always paid on time.” She ties the strings that will hold the shoes on my feet tightly. “The Carlisles are the most important family in this county, you know; my mum was proud when I got the job here.”
Daisy is chatty, I notice, with seemingly no sense of propriety. She unpins my hair, ruffling it so that the red curls fan around my face, sighing the word beautiful under her breath.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Oliver, please.”
“I said no, Mother, and that is final.”
“Your father wouldn’t have wanted you to—”
“Don’t you dare talk about my father. Not after what you did to him.”
I hesitate at the door to the breakfast room when I hear the raised voices. Daisy is standing beside me, palms upturned, neither of us sure what to do.
“Oliver.” Eleanor’s voice is so clear that it pierces the thick wood. “Whatever you might think of me, this is important. This is your responsibility. The board has been patient, but they need to see that you’re invested in the future of the company. At this stage, they would settle for a sign that you’re merely interested.”
“And what of me, Mother?” Oliver asks. “Have I not suffered enough? Will you not allow me some peace?”
“Oh, Oli.” Her voice quietens. “I am sorry for what has happened; it was a tragedy, and you have seen too many tragedies in such a short life. But…”
I cannot hear what Eleanor is saying any more. “Come on,” Daisy whispers. “He seems to have calmed down. His flare-ups never last that long, thank god.” She pushes the double doors open into a round room made of glass, the floor divided into geometric shapes of green and white. Oliver and his mother are sitting at a small table, the white metal carved into whirling shapes, with dishes of blue print so fine that my sisters would gasp to see them.
“Come in, come in,” Oliver says, waving at me to join them, even though Eleanor is squinting at me in that strange manner of hers. Daisy touches the small of my back, nudging me forward. These shoes she insisted I wear make my feet feel as if they are covered in seeping blisters, the leather like acid soaking into each open pore. But I hold my head up high, swaying as if I am floating through water.
“She woke late,” Daisy says as I sit next to Oliver. “I tried to rouse her earlier, Mrs Carlisle, but dead to the world she was.”
“That’s fine, Daisy.” Eleanor takes a sip of a pale green-coloured drink. “I’m sure you did your best.”
“Oh, I did, I know you and Master Oliver like to have your breakfast at the same time every day, and I was sure you would want her to join you, but when I tried to—”
“We get it, Daisy,” Oliver says. “You tried to wake her. She was asleep. Anything else you would like to add?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you, Daisy,” Eleanor says. “We appreciate your hard work. I know that you are performing your duties with the greatest of care. All of your duties.” Eleanor raises an eyebrow, Daisy nodding silently in return. “You may go now, dear.”
She flees out of the room. These humans have such strange ways of walking, there is no lightness to their movements, no elegance. Ghastly, my father would have said. It baffles me to think your mother was so enamoured with these specimens.
“You are so beautiful,” Oliver says, and then reddens as if he had been thinking aloud.
“You really are,” Eleanor agrees thoughtfully. “I don’t think I have ever seen a girl quite so perfect, not in real life anyway. It’s almost…”
“Almost what, Mother?” Oliver asks, jaw tightening. “If you have something to say, then say it.”
“I was just commenting on how lovely our new friend is. It’s nearly inexplicable how perfect her face is. Like a painting.” She gives a small laugh at that, as if she has said something amusing, although neither Oliver nor I get the joke.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Mother, would you ever—”
Oliver stops as a man-servant approaches the table, placing a bowl before me, steam rising off it. I peer at it – creamy white, a milky-sweet smell.
“I hope you like porridge,” Oliver says. “Or our chef can prepare kippers for you, if you wish. Or smoked salmon?” I put a hand over my mouth at the thought of putting a fish inside, chewing on it until it died in my throat. So it’s true; the humans do eat their remains. “Oh, dear,” he says in alarm. “Are you a vegetarian?” I do not understand. “Do you eat fish or meat?” he continues, and I shake my head. No. No.
“Interesting,” Eleanor says, and I don’t like the way she says it. “Well, porridge contains neither. Our doctors have advised that it is the healthiest option for breakfast to ensure a long life. How long do your people live for, my girl?”
“Her people? What kind of stupid question is that, Mother?”
“Do you take cream and sugar?” Eleanor continues, pretending she didn’t hear Oliver. She nods at the servant, who pours a thick white liquid over the porridge, sprinkling grains of brown crystal on top. I imitate Eleanor, lifting the spoon, and this porridge burns but it’s delicious, sweet and good. I take another spoonful and then another, until I notice that Oliver is watching me. I place the spoon down. Perhaps women are not permitted to be hungry in this kingdom either. I am quite satisfied, my sisters and I would say after two dainty bites at the dinner table. No more, thank you. It was important that we neither ate too much nor too little, and so we often went to bed still hungry, the denial of our appetites a sign of our goodness. It was important that we be good.
“It looks like you enjoyed the porridge,” Eleanor says. “What do they have for breakfast where you come from?” I remain still. There is something unnerving about Eleanor, as if she is a shark sniffing the water for blood. “We never found out, did we, exactly where that is,” she continues. “If I ask Hughes to fetch an atlas, would you be able to show us on that? You do know what an atlas is, don’t you, dear?”
“Mother, you’re being unbelievably rude right now.”
“Oliver! I am not being rude. Surely you can agree that it would make things easier if we knew more about our young visitor,” Eleanor says. What does this woman want from me? “What shall we call you? Jane Doe, as is the name given to the missing girls from our country? There are many of them, you know. Girls who simply disappear one day, never to be seen again.” She stirs her tea with the spoon, around and around, metal scraping off china, causing my teeth to grind. “Foolish, really; probably following some man who doesn’t want to be followed. A man with a wife, perhaps. With children. Not that girls like that care about such details.”
“What has this to do with anything?” Oliver says, scowling at his mother. “And, no, we will not call her Jane. It doesn’t suit her. I will think of something more suitable.” He finishes the porridge, pouring more cream and sugar into his bowl.
“I was thinking we could go horse-riding today,” he says as I stare at my own breakfast, willing myself to resist temptation. Girls are not allowed to want more. There is silence, and I find him looking in my direction. I point at myself to make sure, and he laughs.
“Yes, you, beautiful one.” He thinks I’m beautiful. I wish I could tell him that I think he’s beautiful too, more beautiful than any man I have ever seen, above or below the surface. “Do you want to come horse-riding with me?”
I do not know what a horse is or how I could ride one, but I smile my yes. The more time I spend with Oliver alone, the more likely it is that I shall convince him to fall in love with me. I must convince him of it. When he is in love with me, I will be safe. And once I am safe, I tell myself, I will be able to find my mother, if she is still here to be found.
“Wonderful,” he says. “I bet George’s riding gear will fit you; he is as slender as a girl.” He snaps his fingers at the servant. “Call the Delaney house. Ask their butler to send George’s riding outfit to the estate, immediately.”
“Oli,” his mother says, as the servant leaves. “The Galanis people are coming in from Athens to discuss the sale. It’s important that you—”
“Enough, Mother,” he says, slamming the spoon down on the table. “You can go in my place, can you not? You’re better at all of that stuff than I am, anyway.”
“Yes, Oli,” she says. “Of course I can.”
No. No. No.
I shake my head, backing away from these horses. They are huge animals, with slobbering mouths and stamping feet; throwing their heads back as an older man with dirty fingernails and two missing teeth tells them to hush. (“This is Billy,” Oliver had introduced us. “He’s the best groom in the country.” “She don’t got a name?” Billy asked Oliver when I remained silent. “It’s a long story,” Oliver replied.)
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks now. “I thought you wanted to go riding?”
“Are you afraid of horses, miss?” Billy asks, pulling at the leather strips around the animals’ heads. “No need to be; Blaize and Misty are two of the gentlest creatures in the stables.”
I turn to Oliver in panic, clutching at his elbow.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Oliver says, clearly annoyed. I’ve only had legs for a day and already Oliver is weary of me. (…the waves taking you for their own. It is Sea Law.) I can feel an ache forming behind my eyes. I have so little time to make him love me; I cannot afford to anger him. What would my mother tell me to do if she was here? How did she manage to calm my father when he was in one of his moods? I nestle into Oliver, resting my head on his shoulder until I feel him relax. That was easier than expected.
“We’ll go on Misty together, Billy,” Oliver says. “The lady can hold on to me.” He winks. “As tightly as you need.”
And I do hold on tight. The leather seat (a saddle, Billy had called it) is solid between my legs, rubbing against that new centre in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable and restless all at once. Misty runs faster, Oliver urging the animal to pick up speed as we jump over holes in the earth, broken down fences and trickling streams. I have my arms around his waist, pressing my body into his back, the country air roaring past my ears until I am becoming frenzied with the thrill of it. I never imagined such a thing when I was under the sea.
“Woah, Misty,” Oliver says, pulling back on the straps (reins), the horse slowing until we come to a standstill. We are at a clearing in the woods, sunshine dappling through the leaves and falling on the ground in shards of light. Oliver jumps down, his thighs muscular in those tight cream trousers, (Impure thoughts, my grandmother would have said, those are not for good girls. Why does being a good girl always have to be such hard work?) and he ties the reins around the stump of a tree. Misty steps back, snorting, but gives up when he finds he cannot escape. Do all creatures who find themselves in captivity surrender so easily? Oliver reaches up and places a hand on either side of my waist, lifting me down.
“There you go,” he says as I stand before him, swallowing down the excruciating pain that my feet are subjecting me to. He points at a mountain ahead, steep, a daunting prospect at the best of times, let alone with serrated knives for bones. “Ready for a climb?”
He insists that I walk ahead of him. “Just keep to the path,” he says, and I do, each step feeling as if a steel trap is opening and closing upon my toes, the metal teeth tearing through and chewing on my bones. But I keep walking, the boughs of the trees grazing my shoulders and the top of my head. I reach down to pick one of the flowers blooming from the ground, pressing it to my nose and inhaling its scent, the strength of which I could never have imagined beneath the sea.
“Christ,” he says when we reach the top, wisps of clouds drifting below us, obscuring our view of Oliver’s kingdom. I sit down on a rock as quickly as I can, fighting the urge to throw my head to the sky and scream for oblivion, for a mercy of any kind. “I have never seen anyone move like that. Were you a dancer where you come from? You have such grace—” He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. That’s what we shall call you. Grace. It is a fitting name for one so beautiful.” He sits beside me, taking my hand in his, sweat beading his brow. “Is that okay? Do you like it?”
I will like any name you choose for me.
“Grace,” he says again. My hand is still in his, and I hope he never lets go. “The beautiful Grace.”
Later that night when Daisy pulls the riding boots off, she sees the blood spilling from the soles of my feet, and there is so much of it, this human blood, smearing on the carpet and on the sheets and all over Daisy’s hands until her fingernails are encrusted with my pain. I stare at it, fascinated, and yet I do not feel afraid.
“What is this?” Daisy asks, her eyes huge. “What have you done to yourself, miss? We have to call the doctor, miss, we have to.”
I place my finger to my lip.
“But—”
I take her stained hands in mine, urging her to keep my secret.
“Okay, miss,” she says, and she’s confused, as if unsure as to why she is agreeing to my demands. “I won’t tell nobody.” And somehow, despite how chatty I have found Daisy to be, I sense that I can trust her.
And I smile. Oliver will be mine. It is worth it. All of this will be worth it.