The Surface Breaks(50)
“You can throw the biggest party you want and invite every person in the county,” Eleanor begs. “But don’t set foot on that boat.”
“I want to use the Muireann.” His gaze lights on me. “Are you okay, Grace?” he asks. “You look strange.”
My mother’s name, the name that I thought I would never hear for the rest of my life.
My mother was here. This is proof. She was here.
“What are you going to wear?” Daisy asks as she throws the wardrobe doors open, grimacing as she rifles through the dresses hanging inside.
“I’m glad Oliver has called a stop to the mourning,” Daisy continues. “You would look beautiful in blue, with your eyes… No, wait. Green! Green would be spectacular on you.”
Oliver has decided to throw the party this Friday because, “It’s a full moon, so it’ll look rather impressive from the boat, don’t you agree, Grace?” He is so excited about this party, unaware that it might be the day I meet my end. Would he even miss me? Like his father missed my mother, screaming at the sea to give her back to him?
Oliver has the power to save my life, if he only knew it; and all he cares about is the quantity of champagne they’re going to serve. “This has to be special,” he tells the event planner, a reed-thin man with a patterned cravat. “I want this to be the biggest celebration that anyone in the county can remember.”
It flashes into my mind that Oliver can be petty, with his competitive drinking and now this ridiculous party. And he can be moody and difficult and— but I push away the creeping worry. He is my love, I remind myself, my great love. And my only remaining chance. The minutes are slipping through my fingers like water; I don’t have time for regret. Oliver will love me.
And then, at last, maybe I can decide what it is that I want for myself.
“This isn’t the right colour, but it’s a good shape. We could always hire a—” Daisy holds a dress out for my inspection, and then sees my expression. “Grace. What’s wrong?”
Daisy is aware that I haven’t been sleeping; she assumes it’s because of my feet. “You must be in terrible pain,” she says to me, and I have no way to tell her about my dreams, how violent they have become.
Seas burned red with spilled blood, my sisters’ heads impaled on spikes, eyes bulging. They are dead, all of them, their tails torn from their torsos and thrown to the sharks to feed on. A mirror before me, I am standing there naked. My legs, these legs; rotting, putrefying. Decomposing from the inside out. Then I am back in that room again, Alexander’s room, the walls swirling with water, Eleanor’s arms outstretched, sucking in the waves then spewing them out of her mouth, washing all those paintings away. Her face, my face, her face, and my face. Over and over again until I cannot differentiate between them any longer.
My mother.
Am I going mad?
“Are you worried about the party?” Daisy says. “Don’t be. You’ll be the most beautiful girl there. Oliver won’t be able to take his eyes off you. This is going to be the night for the two of you, I can feel it in my bones.”
Daisy thinks it is easy. She doesn’t understand that I am falling apart, that time is eating at my skin, growing mould where my flesh should be. I am decaying before her and she cannot even see it.
A dressmaker is summoned to the estate, a stout woman with a mouth full of pins. Swathes of material are held up to my face, this colour is gorgeous, and honestly, everything looks simply divine on you. You are so beautiful, they tell me. But what does it matter, in the end? Beauty fades, Eleanor said. And what will I have left when that happens?
“Wait,” the dressmaker says, holding cloth in her hands. “This is the one.” Forest green. Silver flecks. “It could have been made for you.” And I am back in the palace, gritting my teeth while my grandmother sewed pearls into my tail for the ball. I thought I knew what pain was then. I had no idea. I wonder what Grandmother would say if she could see me now. What am I doing here? What have I done? The panic, like a rising tide. No turning back. Maybe I could—
“Are you all right, miss? You’ve gone a bit funny looking.”
“She’s fine,” Daisy says to the dressmaker. “Grace just gets distracted at times. But don’t you think the material is a little dark for this time of year?”
“It looks wonderful on her,” the dressmaker argues, taking out a pair of silver shoes in a solid leather. “And I have these to complete the ensemble. Aren’t they adorable?”
Adorable – like a child. Men are never called adorable. They are hurried into maturity. Whereas we are forced to behave like small girls when we are grown up; performing youth in our dress and our manner. It is ironic, really, when we spent our childhood years striving to look like adults before our time.
“No,” Daisy says, testing the leather between her fingers. “They won’t do, I’m afraid. Miss Grace has rather delicate feet. Do you have anything softer?”
Cloth shoes are found, soft as can be. Soft enough even for my broken feet.
“A long dress,” Daisy insists, as material is draped around my naked body and pinned in place, even though the dressmaker complains that a short skirt would be more chic and more suitable for summer.
“No,” Daisy says. Daisy understands. She knows these legs must be hidden.