At the Water's Edge (7 page)

I
woke up to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream, and it was a few seconds before I realized it was coming from my own throat. My eyes sprang open, but it made no difference. None. The black was impenetrable, the pitching violent.

The engine wasn't running. Why wasn't the engine running?

Even if the whooshing in my head had been shrill enough to drown out the sound of the turbines, nothing would have been able to disguise the vibration. The thrum had been relentless—rattling brains, teeth, and eardrums, just like the propellers of a plane—and its absence was terrifying.

I'd been dreaming that the SS
Mallory
took a direct hit, but now I realized it wasn't a dream. The cabin rocked madly, almost as though the freighter was turning, rotating like a corkscrew as it slid below the surface.

“Ellis?” I cried out.
“Ellis?”

I felt the blanket on either side of me, but he wasn't there, which meant he was lying injured somewhere on the floor, thrown on impact. I had to find him fast, because the cabin had tilted so drastically I wasn't sure how much longer I'd be able to find the door.

I slapped the surface and edges of the bunk, hoping to identify which direction I was facing, and hoping Hank was trying to find his way to us as well, because I didn't think I could drag Ellis out on my own.

When my hands hit a wooden headboard, I was momentarily confused. When I found a bedside table with a lace runner, I fell onto my back, gasping with relief.

I wasn't on the SS
Mallory
. I was in a bed in a hotel room in Drumnadrochit, and the motion was all in my head.

I reached over and felt my way across the bedside table, seeking the candle before remembering that Ellis had taken it with him the night before. I got to my feet, thinking that if I could just find the dresser, I could then find the door. I had taken only a couple of steps when my foot landed on something and twisted out from under me. I fell on my hands and knees.

The door opened, and a female figure was suddenly in the doorway with light pouring in around her.

“Mrs. Pennypacker? Is everything all right?” she asked.

I blinked at her, wondering why she'd just addressed me by my mother's name.

“My Lord!” She rushed over to help me up. “What's happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “I seem to have tripped over a shoe, of all things.”

Now that the light was no longer behind her, I could see that she was about my age, with a sturdy frame, pleasant expression, and thick auburn hair swept into a snood. She had a smattering of freckles, and her face was browned by the sun.

“Shall I get your husband?” she asked, looking at me with concern.

“No, thank you,” I said. “I just need a minute to get oriented. When I woke up I wasn't quite sure where I was, and then…” I waved a hand at the carpet, which was strewn with the things I'd taken out while searching for my nightgown and toothbrush. “Well,
I was in a bit of a rush to get to bed last night, and this morning I couldn't see where I was going.”

“It's the Blackout curtains,” she said, nodding decisively and walking past to the window. “They're that dark you can't see a thing, although I suppose that's the point.”

She braced her fingertips on the inside edges of the window casing and coaxed out a solid square frame covered with black material. Light flooded the room.

“That's better, isn't it?” she said, setting the frame on the floor.

Strips of tape crisscrossed the panes of glass. After a second's confusion, I realized they were in case of a bomb blast.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, trying to suppress my alarm. “Is that a wooden frame? I've always thought Blackout curtains were actual curtains.”

“Aye. We use traditional curtains too, but then you have to pin the cloth all the way around so no light can get past. This contraption is much easier on the fingers. Angus made them after the last time we got fined—twelve shillings it was, all because Old Donnie had the temerity to push the curtain aside for a wee moment to see if it was still raining.
And
the warden is a Wee Free,
and
he's not from the glen, so there was no getting around that, I can tell you. Twelve shillings! That's more than a day's wages for a shopkeeper!” she said indignantly, catching my eye to make sure I understood.

I nodded emphatically.

“Now these,” she continued, “you could put the sun itself right behind them and not one ray would get through. Angus stretched the material tight, and then painted the whole thing with black epoxy rubber.” She leaned over to tap its surface. “That's like a drum, that is.”

“Is Angus the one with the beard?”

“Aye.”

“And he's the handyman?”

She laughed. “I should think not. He runs the place!”

A. W. Ross
.

It made perfect sense but hadn't even occurred to me, an assumption based entirely on appearance. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and felt ridiculous for judging. I looked like I'd been dragged backward through a hedge.

The ceiling began spinning again, and I dropped onto the edge of the bed.

“You've gone pale as a potato crust,” said the girl, coming closer to inspect me. “Shall I bring up some tea?”

“No, I'll be fine. I'm still a bit dizzy from the ship, strangely enough,” I said.

“Aye,” she said, nodding gravely. “I've heard of that. People getting stuck like that.”

A jolt of fear ran through me, even as I arranged my face into a smile.

“Don't worry,” I said. “My husband and I sail all the time. I probably just have a bit of a cold—you know, an ear thing. It will pass. Speaking of my husband, is he up yet?”

“He's been downstairs this half hour.”

“Will you please let him know I'll be down in a few minutes? I need a moment to pull myself together.”

She glanced at my luggage. “Well, with this lot that shouldn't be hard. I should think you could start your own shop, if you wanted to. If you change your mind about having your tea upstairs, just give me a shout.”

“I'm sorry, what's your name again?” I asked, knowing perfectly well she hadn't yet told me.

“Anna. Anna McKenzie.”

After Anna left, I remained on the bed, looking into the mirror from a distance of five or six feet. The face that stared back at me was haggard, almost unrecognizable. It was also jerking back and forth. I looked at the doorknob, a seam in the wallpaper, a shoe on the floor. Everything I tried to focus on did the same.

I was well aware of my tendency to become consumed by thoughts and knew I had to put what she'd said out of my mind. I'd been back on solid ground less than a day, which was nowhere near long enough to begin to panic. The seas had been so rough, and I'd been so ill, it made perfect sense that my vertigo would take time to resolve. At home, though, I'd probably have slipped off to see a specialist just to put my mind at ease.

If I told Ellis what was going on, he would have suggested I take a pill, and while they were probably designed for moments exactly like this, I had staunchly refused to let a single one cross my lips from the moment they'd been prescribed.

Because of my mother, people were always looking for cracks in my façade, waiting—even hoping—for me to return to type. My mother-in-law's shocking proclamation on New Year's Day was the first time anyone had been quite so explicit, at least to my face, but I knew what everyone thought of me, and I refused to prove them right. The ridiculous thing was that only I knew I didn't take the pills, so I wasn't really proving anything to anyone except myself. Ellis found them calming, so my prescription was filled often enough to satisfy Edith Stone Hyde, who rifled shamelessly through my things when I wasn't there.

The clock was ticking and Hank and Ellis were waiting downstairs, so I concentrated on the job at hand.

Ellis put great stock in my looks, teasing me that my only job in life was to be the prettiest girl in the room. I had always thought I was perfectly adept at doing my own hair and makeup, but apparently Ellis thought otherwise, and immediately after our marriage placed me in the hands of professionals.

I dug through my suitcases and trunks, collecting my “lotions and potions,” as Ellis called them, and lined them up on the dresser. At home, he liked to open the jars and sniff the contents, asking the price and purpose of each (the more expensive, the better).

One time, I'd come into my room and found him at my dressing table with his face half made up. He let me finish the job, and then, for a lark, he donned my Oriental robe, wrapped his head in a peacock blue scarf, and tossed a feather boa around his shoulders.

Emily was entirely nonplussed when she brought up the petit fours and I introduced her to Aunt Esmée. She gawped as I explained that Esmée was a long-lost relation and a
teensy
bit eccentric. After she left, we howled, wishing there was a way we could get Hank involved. We drank whiskey from teacups, and Aunt Esmée read my fortune, which involved a long journey and great wealth. I asked if there was anyone tall, dark, and handsome in my future, and she informed me that my destiny involved a man who was tall,
blond
, and handsome—as well as already beneath my nose.

I leaned toward the mirror to have a closer look, tilting my face back and forth. The trip had taken a toll on my complexion, and my left cheek had thin red lines running across it from when I'd smashed into the outside wall. I looked as though a cat had taken a swipe at me.

I patched and spackled as best I could. In the end, it was clear I'd used a heavy hand, but my face turned out better than I expected. My hair, however, was a different story.

I usually wore it parted to the side, with a wave that swept across my forehead, then up and over my ears before landing in a cascade of curls at the nape of my neck. This was courtesy of Lana, the hair savant at Salon Antoine, who set my hair twice a week. She would cover my head in rollers and put me under the dryer to “cook,” while someone else touched up my manicure. When the rollers were out, Lana would coax and pat my hair into submission, spray it until it was as hard and shiny as glass, and send me on my way.

Between appointments, all I had to do was make sure I replaced any bobby pins that came out and wear a hairnet to bed. If it was necessary to smooth the surface, I was instructed to use a soft-bristled hairbrush with caution, but if anything went wrong that I couldn't fix—especially with the curls—I was to go back at once.

Consequently, I hadn't done my own hair in four years and had no idea what to do with the stringy mess that sat atop my head.

In honor of Aunt Esmée, I wrapped a turban around it, pinned a garnet brooch to the front, and went to join my husband.

I kept a hand on the wall to steady myself as I went downstairs, and paused at the bottom to get my balance.

The fire was burning brightly, and the Blackout curtains—or frames—had been pulled out and stacked in a corner. The downstairs windows were also taped, and posters on either side of the radio warned that “Loose Lips Sink Ships” and “Careless Talk Costs Lives.”

Another flicker of fear ran through me.

Ellis and Hank were at one of the tables, poring over an Ordnance map with several logbooks lying open. A duffel bag, tripod, and various other pieces of equipment were on the floor, and they had their coats and hats thrown over an empty chair.

Hank watched as I wobbled over, and I hoped he wouldn't have time to come up with a joke about sea legs.

“Look who's up!” he said brightly.

Ellis stood and pulled out a chair.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said, kissing my cheek. “Or should I say afternoon?”

I smiled weakly and sat.

“You obviously got your beauty sleep,” he said, pushing my chair in and sitting back down. “You look positively radiant.”

“It's just a bit of paint,” I said. “You two look busy. What are you up to?”

“A little strategizing,” he said. “Thought we'd scope out the area on foot, maybe rent a boat. If there's time, we might walk over to the castle.”

“Don't forget the newspaper,” said Hank.

“Yes, we're going to place an advertisement to find people who've had encounters. Help us establish a pattern. When and where the thing arises, weather conditions, et cetera.”

“I thought we were changing hotels,” I said, glancing at the equipment on the floor. “Or are we going to send for our things later?”

“Yes. Well, neither, actually,” said Ellis. “There don't seem to be any other hotels. Hank took an early morning walk, and the village is the size of a flea. The girl in the kitchen says the next closest hotel is two and a half miles away, but it's full of billeted soldiers, and anyway, it doesn't sound any better than this. Apparently there's no electricity in the entire glen.”

I looked around to make sure we were alone. “But what if the landlord doesn't let us stay?”

“It turns out Blackbeard is much friendlier in the morning,” Ellis said. “Well, ‘much' may be putting it a bit strongly, but we've officially checked in for a stay of indeterminate length, so don't worry your pretty little head for another second.” He reached over and play-pinched my cheek.

For the first time, I noticed their plates. There was a pale rectangular slab on each, gray and slightly gelatinous. “What is that?”

“Porridge,” Hank said brightly, poking it with his fork. “Apparently they pour leftover porridge into a drawer and cut slices off it when it sets. Waste not, want not.”

“You're both in very good moods,” I said.

“Of course!” said Ellis, spreading his hands. “We're here, aren't we?”