The Deepest Blue(4)

Next time she did this dive, she’d remember to keep her senses open for spirits. Perhaps bring a fishing spear. She’d done successful dives with spears before, even though it made things a bit more difficult. But it would be worth the extra challenge in order to have that kind of defense. She’d had her knives, but they hadn’t been much use against the squid spirit. . . .

Wait . . .

“Next time”?

Reaching the top of the skull, she flopped over the edge and rolled onto her back. She then started laughing. She wasn’t even sure why she was laughing. Just that the sky looked so beautiful and blue. And she had seaweed stuck in her hair. And it was her and Kelo’s wedding day, and she was alive. Alive!

Kelo hoisted himself up on top of the skull beside her. He lay down next to her and waited for her to calm down. “Any interest in telling me what happened during your near-death experience?” he asked blandly.

“You want so badly to yell at me, don’t you?” She knew he wouldn’t, though.

“You are who you are,” Kelo said. “I’m not marrying you in hopes of changing you. I’m marrying you because I love you, all of you, even the parts of you that make bad decisions.”

Mayara sobered, suddenly not feeling like laughing at all anymore. “I used my power,” she said softly, though there was no one nearby to hear. Even the gulls were too far above them. She knew he’d guessed already from her hint, but she didn’t want any secrets between them.

“That wasn’t the bad decision.” Always calm, Kelo seemed unruffled by her confession. She loved that about him. “That kept you alive. No, the bad decision was your equipment. Next time, you should bring your spear.”

She sat up. “Exactly what I was thinking!”

He sat up too and grinned at her. Leaning over, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. She kissed him back with every bit of breath she had.

When they came up for air, Mayara rested her forehead against his.

“Do you think you can avoid any death-defying activities for the rest of the day?” Kelo asked, a plaintive note in his voice. “It is kind of a special day.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” Mayara said, then kissed him again before grinning and adding, “But no promises.”





Chapter Two

Mayara let Kelo blindfold her. She felt him knot the cloth, pressing her wet hair closer to her scalp, and then she felt a feather-light kiss on her neck.

“All dark?” he asked, his breath warm on her ear.

She grinned. “All dark.”

He kissed her—and the surprise of it thrilled Mayara—then led her by the hand, and she followed, shuffling her feet forward to feel the rocks. She knew the path to his studio by heart—up along a rib bone of an ancient leviathan, high above their village, across and up from the ceremonial plaza and the storm-shelter caves. She felt through her sandals when the rocks shifted to broken shells. “Stop here,” he said.

She waited, listening while he opened the door; then he guided her over the threshold. She breathed in the familiar smell: the salty tang of seaweed, the sweet scent of hibiscus, and the mellowness of a whale-fat candle. Chimes tinkled as a breeze blew in through the open doorway behind her. She felt herself smiling, even though she hadn’t seen anything yet.

“Ready?” he asked.

He sounded adorably anxious, as if he was unsure whether she’d love it or not. She already knew she’d love it, whatever it looked like. She always did, with everything he made.

She felt his fingers in her wet hair again, and the knot loosened.

He removed the blindfold. “Look.”

Kelo’s studio was her favorite place on the island. All the tables and shelves were stuffed with piles of driftwood, baskets of abalone and conch shells, and jars of pebbles that gleamed like tiny moons—nearly all of it collected by Mayara. Kelo’s finished art hung on the walls and from the ceiling rafters. Her favorites were the wind chimes and the pendants that dangled in the windows, catching the twinkling sunlight.

As wonderful as it looked, his art was also designed to repel spirits—his work was a mix of beauty and necessity. Rather like Kelo himself, she thought, and smiled. Because of the nature of his art, his work fetched a pretty price at markets in the nearby villages—he was one of the best charmworkers around. No spirit would enter a house that was decorated with Kelo’s charms.

His life’s work, he often said, was to make people feel both protected and loved.

Mayara knew that from experience.

She saw he had a pile of new charms on a nearby worktable: driftwood carved into the shape of tiny animals and then inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He made those to dangle over cribs, to ward spirits away from newborns. “Is that for my cousin?” she asked. Her cousin Helia was expecting her third child, and she’d been pestering Kelo for a new mobile. She claimed she shouldn’t have to pay, since they were “all nearly family”—conveniently forgetting that if Kelo didn’t charge any of Mayara’s very large, very extended family, he’d be working for free for half the village. I’ll talk to her again, Mayara thought. She didn’t want anyone taking advantage of her almost-husband.

With a fond sigh at her lack of focus, Kelo cupped Mayara’s cheeks and turned her head toward the eastern window. Glowing in the morning sun was her surprise.