Because You Love to Hate Me(46)

I heard the telltale sounds of sand and rocks slipping down the embankment, but before the men could reach me, I snatched my forgotten knife from the ground and fled into the sea.

I swam as hard as I could until my limbs burned and I was cursing my pathetic human legs. I swam until I could no longer see the shore. I didn’t know if Samuel or either of the men chased after me. If they did, they must have given up once the storm arrived. I was soon caught up in thrashing water and torrential rain, and I became sure that I was dying. I welcomed death, even, sure it would be less painful than the heart that was ripped to pieces in my chest.

I didn’t know how long I stayed bobbing among the waves, so much colder now than they had felt before. My teeth were chattering and the current battered my body. By the time it dragged me ashore, bedraggled and famished, the shreds of my heart had already begun to stitch themselves into something angry and vengeful.





I remember little about those first days. I stole what clothes I could from the lines in a small fishing village and scavenged for mussels and urchins on the beach like nothing more dignified than a common gull. Days turned into weeks, and I grew braver, sometimes leaving my cold beach coves to wander the village alleyways. When the humans did not chase me away with sharp sticks and stones, I grew bolder still. I drifted through their markets and slipped away with carrots and cucumbers when I could.

Weeks gave way to months.

I learned of money and took to begging for the hard, round coins that could buy sustenance. I learned what bread was, though butter and marmalade never crossed my palate. I watched the other women and took to combing my hair and styling it off my neck as they did.

Months gave way to years.

I watched. I listened. I moved from village to town to city, though could never stand to be too far from the sea, for listening to the lulling hush of the waves at night was the only way I could capture any sleep.

I took a job at a shop that sold dried herbs and medicines. I was a natural alchemist, the owner told me once, watching me grind tarragon leaves into a paste. I did everything with anger.

I waited. I waited for my death, because I knew that someday even abhorrent Samuel would find a woman to be his wife, and on the morning after their wedding, my life would be stolen from me. I had no fear of dying, but neither did I long for it. My life was fueled by hatred, and I waited for a chance, any chance I might have to seek vengeance on the man who had betrayed my heart, who had stolen my eternity.

Then, one afternoon, as I stood outside the shop smashing blue juniper berries with my knife handle, I saw him.

He was with a girl—a lady with perfect yellow curls. I watched them from across the street, elbows linked, lovers’ smiles.

Samuel turned and looked at me, directly at me, and there was not even a hint of recognition.

My heart stilled, encrusted with every moment of agony I had endured since our last meeting.

I set down the berries and followed them.

I found his house. I asked questions. I learned that they were engaged and that the wedding was mere days away.

I watched. I waited.

I did everything with anger.





I did not attend Samuel’s wedding, though I could envision his carefree, dimpled smile as he said the vows that should have been mine. I could envision his pretty, innocent bride. I had learned that she came from a family with some affluence, and no doubt Samuel was pleased that his charm had won him the wealth he’d longed for.

No—I did not go to the wedding.

Instead, I went to the home he would soon share with his wife and waited there with the reassuring weight of my dagger in my fist, the spell book’s warnings echoing in my head.

It was late when the bride and bridegroom finally retired to the bedchamber, full of boisterous laughter from too much wine. It was not long before their cheer died down into even, drowsy breathing.

I emerged from my hiding space and went to stand over the bed.

The girl was pretty enough, captured in the light that filtered through their lace curtains, but I had eyes only for her groom.

Samuel. How had I ever thought him beautiful?

My grip tightened on the dagger’s handle. The bone seemed warm, almost alive in my hand.

I considered waking Samuel so he might know my face one last time. So he might understand it was I who was robbing him of his joy, as he had once robbed me of mine. I wanted him to see my eyes and to know it was his own heartless betrayal that had murdered him. But I worried that he might overpower me if he was awake, even in his drunken stupor, and I would not let anything keep me from taking his life this night.

I had waited far too long.

I anchored one leg against the mattress and raised the knife. I watched Samuel’s chest rise with a breath and sink again. Rise and sink. Rise and—

I plunged the blade into his heart.

His eyes snapped open. His mouth parted in a silent scream.

The girl, too, awoke, but her scream was not silent. Blood was already on the sheets and on my hands, and I was smiling. No—I had started to laugh, though the sound was drowned out by the hysterical bride.

I laughed because Samuel was looking at me. And this time I knew that he remembered.

I abandoned my blade in his chest and ran.

The streets were empty. I had long grown accustomed to the pain in my feet and it didn’t hinder my speed as I ran. I knew the moment Samuel died, because I collapsed there on the cobbled street and felt the pain of a sword once more cutting through my gut. This time, I refused to swoon. I swallowed my screams and kept pushing forward, crawling on my elbows, dragging my useless legs behind me until they had stitched together and melded once more into a fish’s tail. It no longer felt agile and strong, but rather like a clumsy weight tied to my body, which had to be dragged across the ground. Rocks and glass tore into my flesh. My muscles burned.