The Deepest Blue(14)

She studied his face, so earnest and anxious. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Ever since you first shared your secret,” he said.

That was six years ago, three years before Elorna had died. For six years, he’d been thinking about this, planning it, worrying over it. Six years he’s been thinking about the moment he could lose me. It must have been tearing him up inside. Yet he’d never spoken about it. “You never said a word,” she repeated.

This time he simply said, “And ruin your happiness? I wouldn’t do that.” He then took her hand, as if to lead her out of the studio, but he didn’t move. He waited instead for her to lead. He trusts me to make the right choice, whatever that is.

Stepping over his ruined art and the shells she’d collected, she reached the threshold. Up would lead back to the plaza. Down to the boats. But she’d made her decision—there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Kelo, just as there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. She hurried down the path with Kelo, bringing the false shrouds and the packs of emergency supplies.

On the beach, it was a beautiful night.

The sky was serene, with a pale moon that looked as if it had been drawn onto a backdrop and then smudged slightly around the edges. Stars were sprinkled everywhere. No clouds. No rain. But the shore was a tangle of seaweed and driftwood and boats. Fish had been tossed ashore and lay dead but still wet across the rocks.

Oddly, the death boats were untouched.

Both Mayara and Kelo halted and stared at them. Yes, they’d been tied to trees along the shore, but so had other fishing boats and those had been tossed against one another and onto the rocks. The boats that the villagers used to send their dead into the waves looked as if they hadn’t felt a breath of wind. They were perfectly parallel, with no sand or seaweed on their hulls and no water inside them.

“Spirit storm,” Kelo breathed. “Maybe this is not a good plan.”

“It is,” Mayara said firmly. “Don’t doubt yourself. Or us.”

His lips quirked in an almost-smile. “You know, this isn’t how I thought we’d spend our wedding night. You looked just as beautiful as I’d imagined in that dress. Death shrouds . . . aren’t quite the same look.”

She wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Instead, she climbed into one of the boats and lay down. She strapped the waterproof pack with supplies to her stomach, and Kelo did the same. He wrapped the false shroud around her, leaving her head exposed, and then lay down beside her, positioning his shroud around himself.

“Did any spirits see us?” Kelo asked.

Closing her eyes, she felt for whispers with her mind. She heard only the waves lapping gently on the shore. “None.” Pulling the shroud up over her face, she closed her eyes. The sail was porous, letting the night breeze in. It was strangely calming. “We should try to sleep.” I can’t imagine how we will. But we’ll need our strength. “Tomorrow we swim with the dead.”





Chapter Five

Mayara woke to voices, low and even, singing the mourners’ farewell. She felt the false shroud on her face and had to fight the urge to claw it off. Instead, she lay still.

The sun must have risen, or been close to rising, because she could see a dull glow through the fabric. It was already hot beneath the sail.

She hoped the fabric was thick enough that no one would see her breathing.

This is the riskiest part.

She didn’t know what the villagers would do when they discovered two additional bodies already in the death boats. Kelo had made the shrouds beautifully. But no matter his level of craftsmanship, people don’t usually miscount their dead. Someone would notice, and if they spoke . . . if she and Kelo were exposed . . . if the Silent Ones were already there . . .

As the mourners drew closer, she picked out individual voices: Papa’s, Aunt Beila’s, Grandmama’s, mixed with others from their village. I should be singing with them. By now, they had to have known she’d run, with Kelo. She wondered if they’d think she was selfish or wise. Her parents would understand, as would Kelo’s, and she thought that most of her aunts, uncles, and cousins would too, though she wasn’t certain.

But any of them could betray us. Even a child with an innocent question. She hoped Kelo had thought through this part in his six years of worrying. Because otherwise, this would be the shortest escape attempt ever.

She wished she’d asked him what his plan was for getting past this moment. It was far too late to ask anything now. As the mourners drew closer, Mayara closed her eyes, as if that would help make her invisible to them. She tried to lie perfectly still.

Her nose began to itch, then her elbow.

She kept her breathing shallow and didn’t move.

She heard Kelo’s father by the stern of their boat. He was a baritone, like Kelo, with a soft, warm voice. Near him was Grandmama, her off-key belt loud and clear. One of the singers broke off. “Who are—”

Oh no. Mayara tensed.

Grandmama’s singing stopped abruptly. “Hush, do not speak of the dead. Sing!”

Chastened, whoever it was—one of her cousins, she thought—began singing again, as did Grandmama. She felt her and Kelo’s boat lurch forward. It was being pushed over the sand toward the waves. It bumped as it was forced over debris, either rocks or driftwood.