Fear the Drowning Deep(19)
“Suppose Eveleen went to join Nessa in Peel?” Mam sank into a chair, her face pale. “Girls get all sorts of wild ideas in their head at Eveleen’s and Bridey’s age.”
“You don’t think this has to do with what happened to the girl who drowned?” I glanced between my parents, unable to read their faces through a haze of tears. “You don’t think she and Nessa and Eveleen were murdered by a madman or—or something?”
“Heavens, bird! What a thing to say.” Mam’s hand fluttered to her chest.
“And what about him?” I pointed at the sleeping Fynn. “Being attacked by a creature that tried to shred him to pieces!”
Mam didn’t have an answer for me. Nor did Da, who looked bone-weary as he set down his gear and struck through another area on one of his maps. Another area where he couldn’t find fish.
From somewhere overhead, a seabird gave a low, mournful call.
It began to drizzle as I reached the edge of the forested hill. Droplets pelted my face and hair, cold enough to freeze my blood, but not enough to numb the ache that had settled in my chest since learning of Eveleen’s disappearance. Whatever had befallen her could very well be the same fate shared by Nessa and the waterlogged stranger.
Still, who would believe me if I suggested there was something dreadful in the water? Certainly no one in Port Coire, not the same people who’d refused to believe that something had called Grandad to the sea all those years before. Until I could identify the culprit and gather some sort of proof, I’d have to keep my mouth shut, or risk being called daft and laughed out of town. Or worse, coddled like an invalid by my own family.
Slicking back my hair, I tried to think of anything but the sea. Mam would be tending the fire now, unconcerned that her daughter was outside shivering. After all, she’d still sent me off to Morag’s after the shock of the news about Eveleen had begun to fade. I envied my sisters, who could talk to Fynn when he woke. The only conversations I’d have all day would, no doubt, concern tea and witchcraft.
Several long strides later, I approached Morag’s door. As I lifted a hand to knock, I tensed, anticipating the now-familiar odor that would hit me like a blow to the stomach. The drizzle became a downpour, and I flung open the door.
“It’s Bridey!” The warm, sugary scent of baking mingled with the aroma of wood smoke, making my stomach rumble despite my mood.
Morag stood in her kitchen, a small alcove that lacked a door to separate it from the rest of the one-room dwelling. She gave no indication that she’d heard me, occupied with watching her stove.
“Would you like me to clean your kitchen?” Still, there was no reply. “I know you weren’t expecting me today, but I wanted to repay you for the time I missed.”
When she still didn’t answer, I began my work. Cobwebs were never in short supply at the witch’s cottage, it seemed, as if the spiders knew they were more welcome here than in town. I swept her hearth and scrubbed the floor, aired out her linens, and beat dust from her ratty curtains until there was more dirt clinging to me than there was to the cottage.
At last, as I picked up the sodden cloak I’d laid out to dry by the low-burning fire and fastened it around my shoulders, thinking of home, Morag limped toward me. Her expression was as vague as ever in the low light.
“Well?” she rasped.
I blinked. How was I meant to respond?
The silence between us grew. I removed my cloak again, not sure how long the witch planned to keep me standing there, when she said, “The snigs. You obviously didn’t find any. So where’s my bucket?”
I dropped my gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry. If you’d like, I can buy some snigs. And I’ll pay with my earnings. Things took such a strange turn yesterday that I forgot about the time. It won’t happen again.”
After a moment’s pause, I added, “Ma’am.” I didn’t want to offer her my excuse until I’d had more time to gauge her mood.
Morag narrowed her eyes, but then her face relaxed. “Never mind the snigs. They weren’t important.” She turned to the stove. “Fetch the kettle. It’s nearly time to eat.”
Relieved, I grabbed the kettle and poured steaming water into two mugs. “Were the snigs for one of your spells?”
Morag shuffled over, carrying a pan of what looked like cake. “Oh, no.” She smiled, displaying all her gray teeth. “I meant to bake a pie. Since you didn’t return with my snigs, I made blackberry instead.” She offered me the hilt of a large knife. “Seeing as you’ve made this place spotless, you can take the first slice.”
Pie. She had sent me to the beach—aware of my fear—so she could bake a pie? I clenched my teeth while trying to maintain a pleasant expression on my face.
“Go on.” Morag waved a hand at my plate. “Try a bite.”
My skin prickled with annoyance, though, just now, her expectant air as she held out the pie reminded me a bit of my gran. Grandad’s death had undone her, and a fever claimed her just a year after his passing.
I forced a smile and cut a small slice. The witch hadn’t attempted to poison me in the past week, so I slipped a forkful of berries past my lips. They burst open, oozing sweetness on my tongue.
“How is it?”
“Quite good.” I took another bite. “It’d go well with milk. Or with an explanation of why you sent me to the beach for pie fixings when I’m afraid of the water.” Startled by my own daring, I dropped my fork. It hit the table with a clatter.