The Surface Breaks(52)

“Yes, dear,” Eleanor replied, turning away from Oliver before he can see the devastation on her face. I don’t like Eleanor, and I certainly don’t trust her, but Oliver’s cruelty to his mother is so carelessly done that it’s breathtaking. “Whatever you want, Oliver.”


The lawn in the secret garden has been cut for the occasion; the rose bushes that Eleanor wanted to trim act as a barrier to any inclement winds the sea might blow our way. The servants are in uniforms, sweating in the midday heat, offering glasses of champagne or portions of food so tiny they can be eaten in one bite.

“Caviar?” a servant asks me in a bored tone. He proffers a silver tray, a bowl with heaped eggs in the centre, oily balls glistening in the sun. A silver spoon, all the better to dig in with. “Fish eggs. It’s a delicacy,” he says, confused, as I back away, bile seeping into my mouth.

“Grace is a vegetarian,” Oliver tells the waiter as he approaches. He is dressed in a crisp white shirt and shorts, showing off his muscular legs, Rupert and George following in similar outfits. Rupert grabs a spoonful of caviar from the tray, spreads it on a cracker, swallowing it whole. “That’s delicious,” he says, eyes never leaving mine.

“You look beautiful, Grace,” Oliver says, handing me a glass of sparkling water.

I lower my eyes, as if embarrassed. “It’s better not to seem too pleased with one’s own beauty,” my grandmother had explained to me. “But why do we spend all this time combing our hair and adorning our tails if we don’t want to be admired? It doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Oh, Muirgen,” she sighed. “So many questions for such a little mermaid. You’ll find life so much easier if you ask fewer questions.”

“Are you having fun, Grace?” George asks, his face as freckled from the sun as Daisy’s.

I smile at him in response, and Rupert rolls his eyes.

“What enthusiasm,” Rupert says. “Always such a joy spending time with you, Grace; the conversation is truly scintillating.” I glance at Oliver, but he doesn’t give any indication of having heard Rupert. “God,” Rupert says loudly. “I’m so bored.” Oliver stiffens. This, he will not ignore. “It’s utterly dull,” Rupert says, draining the rest of his glass.

“This part is just to keep the geriatrics happy,” Oliver says. “Wait until we get on to the Muireann.” My heart catches; my mother’s name, so casual on his lips. “That’s when the real fun will start, Rupe.”

Rupert raises an eyebrow, as if in challenge; Oliver grins back at him. They’re like school boys, the two of them. And this is the man that I need to make fall in love with me by sunrise.

“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls.” A voice is coming from the sky, shaking the leaves from the trees like a deity addressing us through the clouds. I clutch at Oliver’s arm and he laughs. “It’s just the microphone,” he says, pointing towards the gazebo tucked into the corner of the garden. It has been trimmed of weeds since I last saw it, a fresh coat of white paint glistening wetly in the sunshine. “See?” There is a woman standing there, three girls behind her with their musical instruments.

“We are Flora and the Furies,” the voice says. “My name is Flora. And these are my Furies. Are you ready to have a good time?” The crowd roars in response. “And a one, two, three,” she yells, followed by a sudden burst of music. As it plays, she walks to the front of the gazebo, the sun hitting her face like a halo. She is tall, as tall as Oliver, dark hair cut to her jaw, a short skirt showing off long, brown legs.

I feel Rupert shift beside me. “Jesus,” he says. “She looks like…” He takes a deep breath, as if trying to control himself but when he sees that I am watching him, he stands up straight, swatting his sadness away from him like an irritating insect. “What are you staring at? Why are you always staring at everyone, you fucking weirdo?”

I look away. I wish something terrible would happen to this man. A sudden fall, a snapped neck, a— I stop myself. These are Salka thoughts, wild and sharp. I must remember my place.

“I’ve never heard a voice like that before,” Oliver says when the song ends. I hadn’t even been listening.

“Don’t you think she looks like…” George trails off.

“Looks like who?” Oliver asks, and neither Rupert nor George answer him. “Bravo,” he calls out, raising a glass to Flora. “Thank you,” she says, without shame. “Hopefully you’ll like this next one too.”

She begins to sing again, her voice crystal clear, achingly sweet. Sweeter than anything I have heard since I broke the surface.

That song.

“What is this song?” I hear someone ask. “It’s most unusual.”

And it is most unusual and I know it, I know it heart-deep. A song that my grandmother used to sing to us in the nursery, a song of mer-men and brave deeds and a war fought that would never be forgotten. A song of necessary death, of the courage that it takes to do what it is right. Trembling notes, hushed by water. How does she know this song?

I drift, barely noticing, towards the middle of the garden. Towards Flora.

“What is that girl doing…”

“Is she okay? She doesn’t look…”

“But Oliver seems to like her so I…”