Fear the Drowning Deep(51)

I gazed at the clear sky as I ate the raspberries, recalling every detail of Fynn’s shift from terrifying sea monster to handsome lad. He was a brave, funny, kind boy who cared for me, who had believed me about the threat in the water when no one else would. And he was a glashtyn with flippers, sharp teeth and a tail. A sea monster.

A giggle escaped my lips.

I had named him Fynn. Not a Manx name, like Braddan or Colyn or Rory. Fynn.

Another giggle bubbled from me, followed by a peal of unrestrained laughter that would have surely confirmed the town’s suspicions about my delicate mental state, had I been overheard. I laughed until my sides threatened to burst, but all too soon, tendrils of worry took root in my chest again.

If Fynn was a creature who murdered innocent girls, why hadn’t he dragged me to the depths during our swim lesson? With no one around to bear witness, it would have been so easy. But there was no doubt that the fossegrim had lured Grandad off the cliffs, and that it had tried to do the same to me. Maybe Fynn really did care for me. Still, there was no proof that he hadn’t preyed on my friends and neighbors.

Whatever his intentions, I needed answers, not his half-truths.

And I knew of only one place where I would find them.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN



Raised voices carried on the wind as I drew closer to Morag’s cottage. Who from the village would visit her? Perhaps someone had come to harass her on a dare, as I’d once done with my friends when we were younger.

“I wish you’d stay longer, Mureal,” Morag said, an unfamiliar tender note in her voice. “Are you sure you should walk home now? You don’t look well, dear.”

I recalled the note Mam left by her easel. Of course, she was still here visiting. But I wanted to see Morag alone. I ducked behind the nearest tree and stole a glance at the cottage.

Mam and Morag stood together in the doorway, Mam’s willowy figure looming over Morag’s hunched one. “I’ll be fine, moir,” Mam said, wrapping her arms around Morag’s bony shoulders. “But what about you? You reek of whiskey.”

I retreated deeper into the shade of my tree, wondering whether I’d heard correctly. If Mam had said moir, not Morag, then she’d called the old woman mother. Mam’s parents died before I was born, so it was natural that she would seek the company of someone older. But Morag? Shaking off my surprise, which seemed trivial in light of what I’d just learned about Fynn, I focused on their conversation.

“It’s just a headache,” Mam protested. “I’ve had these hundreds of times since I was a girl. And I bought some Samson—”

“Bah!” Morag spat in the dirt. “That stuff’s more likely to give you a toothache than cure your head. Wait here, Mureal. I have something that might help.”

I dared to peek at the cottage again, just as Morag returned with a sachet in hand.

“What is it?” Mam asked, accepting the little bag.

“Varvine, dandelion root, and precious mugwort.” Morag’s voice grew softer. “To be taken twice a day, understand? That should keep the worst of your dreams at bay, and without them, your head should feel much clearer.”

Mam nodded. “Thank you, moir. For everything. Having a lass Bridey’s age about the cottage this summer can’t be easy—”

“Nonsense! Though I admit, I haven’t seen much of her lately. And it’s my own fault. I needed some quiet.”

Mam clutched the sachet to her chest. “Just send word when you’d like her. And I’ll come again soon.” As Mam turned to leave, I pressed myself flat against the tree and held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t look beyond the path.

The swish of her skirt and the soft padding of her bare feet grew closer, then faded as she made her way down the hill.

Morag shuffled back to her cottage. I rushed to the door, but she had already shut it, so I pounded on the wood. “Morag, we need to speak!” I banged again, this time for the sheer satisfaction of rattling her wall. “It’s about Fynn, and …” I hesitated, but there wasn’t time to waste with the fossegrim still on the loose and perhaps more monsters near our shore. “I know what really happened to your foot!”

The door whined as it swung inward, and Morag reappeared, blinking at me. “All right then. No need to bust down the door. You’ve come to ask me more questions about monsters, then?” She shook her head. “There’s no stopping you, I see that now.”

I opened my mouth, searching for a way to put all my troubles into words. Fynn. The fossegrim. The serpent. The tale of Morag’s foot being caught in a hunter’s trap was rubbish, and I wanted to hear the true story from her lips. I’d had my fill of being lied to.

Morag’s gaze slid past me, searching the trees. “You look like you’ve seen one of the Little Fellas. Have you …?”

My lip trembled, and within seconds, Morag’s face became a blur. “Fynn—our house guest—he’s a glashtyn. He showed me.” I mopped my wet cheeks with my sleeve. “We had a terrible fight.”

Rubbing her temples, Morag studied me for a long moment before speaking again. “And he didn’t try to drown you?”

I shook my head.

Morag swayed, and I wrinkled my nose. Mam was right. The old woman did smell of whiskey. “Hmm. It’s in a glashtyn’s nature to drown girls. But I’ve heard of stranger things than a creature being put off its supper.”