The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Three

Margrete

Perchedon the tips of her toes, Margrete peered over the ledge of her father’s keep, the movement sending an errant pebble tumbling to the rocks a hundred feet below. Her life of unwedded bliss would meet its end today. She and Birdie would sail away for Cartus, and Margrete would have a husband.

She grimaced at the thought and squeezed her eyes closed, instead focusing on the way the waters sang to her from below. The winds shifted, their tangy scent wafting away, replaced by the sweet smell of Morning Bursts.

Margrete gazed out over the city one last time, her stomach in knots for the journey ahead. She’d always felt so conflicted about Prias, now even more so that she was meant to leave. The renowned trading hub was a world of bronze and copper and the rich chestnut wood of the Marionette Forest. Rosy pinks, divine cobalts, and sweet lavenders dyed the buildings, each one assembled atop the other, stacked like sea stones at twilight. For most everyone but her, the city was an enchanting realm of sea spray and untarnished dreams, a glimmering coastal port that led to the stunning continent beyond, a place where people lived and thrived.

“Margrete!” Adina’s shrill voice snaked up the steps, severing Margrete’s connection to the sea. The reality of the day crashed against the stone of her heart, eroding the last of her dwindling resolve. “Margrete! Where are you, child?”

After saying goodbye to the waves one last time, Margrete turned for the stairs, silently praying for a miracle, for the God of the Sea to whisk her and her sister far away from here. She was nearly to the steps when a piercing horn shattered the calm, the waves below turning violent as they crashed against the rocks.

She halted, twisting to skim the wild waters. There was nothing but the vast blue ocean. She took in a sharp breath, hoping to ease her fluttering pulse.

Adina shouted again, this time much louder and significantly less patient.

“Coming, Adina!” Margrete hurried down the narrow staircase. The handrail, worn from years of use, slid like silk beneath her palm. How many times had she raced to this tower to hide away from the world—and from her father?

Countless.

Margrete nearly collided with a stern-faced Adina on the final step. The older woman’s lips stretched into a thin line, eyes pointed and hard.

“Where have you been, girl?” Adina didn’t wait for an answer. She grasped Margrete’s arm and yanked her down the corridor toward her chambers.

Margrete resisted the urge to wrench away. Her blood boiled—she was no girl—but she willed her temper to cool, a task she found more difficult as of late.

“Everything is prepared.” Adina motioned to the pressed crimson dress laid out neatly on Margrete’s four-poster bed.

She felt confident that the entire city—and perhaps the surrounding ones—heard the cracking of her heart as it transformed to ice. The garment’s high neckline had fallen out of fashion, and it promised to suffocate once wrapped around her throat. The flowing sleeves were pretty, though. Lacy and delicate.

Adina shoved Margrete closer to the bed. “Come on, then. Let’s begin.”

Margrete groaned when the maid retrieved the required underthings and a tight corset with too many laces from her dresser. The thought of the count seeing her wearing such intimate garments made bile rise in her throat.

“Oh, hush,” Adina chided. “It won’t be that bad. You want to look your best on your wedding night, don’t you?”

While answering with a curt “no” was remarkably appealing, it wouldn’t do Margrete any favors. This wedding was going to happen whether she wished it to or not. She supposed she needed to find a way to be happy. Marrying the count surely wouldn’t be as awful as Margrete and Birdie staying with the captain forever.

Forcing a nod, she allowed Adina to help her dress, wincing when the woman tugged at the corset’s strings.

“Hold still!” Adina scolded when she jerked during one particularly harsh pull.

Although Adina was callous and austere, Margrete had to remind herself that the woman had practically raised her. The captain had been too busy conquering the wild sea and capturing trade deals to assume the role of a proper father. Not that he’d ever been in danger of toeing that particular line.

“There.” Adina stepped back to admire her careful work of torture. “Now to the final piece.”

The dress. Margrete had just stepped into the puddle of red lace when a distant screech rang out from beyond the arched window of her chamber. “What on earth was that?”

Adina frowned. “What was what?”

It didn’t sound like a bird, and it was too high-pitched to be a horn aboard one of the ships in the bay. It sounded familiar in ways Margrete didn’t understand, but she ignored it.

“Nothing. Let’s just get this over with.”

Adina worked quickly and soon fastened the final button on the high neck, its ugly ruffles rising to kiss Margrete’s cheeks.

“There,” the maid said. “Now you look beautiful.”

The floor-length mirror depicted the perfect bride—chocolate and caramel strands curled dreamily down her back, wide hazel eyes bright and vibrant, her sharp cheekbones highlighted with a shimmering pink rouge. What the mirror couldn’t reflect was the screaming wraith trapped behind her practiced smile. How she mourned her unfulfilled dreams as they turned to ash at her feet.

“Come on, then.” Adina headed for the door. “No time to dally.”

When she hesitated, Adina huffed in frustration, twisting on a booted heel and waving at her to follow. Margrete scowled but begrudgingly marched toward her fate, but it was the tiny hairs on her arms—all standing at alarming attention—that froze her heavy steps. The horn sounded again, considerably louder. Urgent, almost.

Tilting her head, she closed her eyes and listened for it, only nothing came but a gentle shushing from the sea.

Just as she had months ago in the box, Margrete rolled her head, savoring the reassuring music of the waves. Her own personal lullaby, sung by the God of the Sea, a methodical—

Hello, little one…

Her eyes shot open.

Was she hearing things? No. There had been a voice. Albeit an eerie and peculiar one, but—

“Hurry, child!” Adina’s shouts disrupted Margrete’s concentration, and she shuddered back to reality.

Nerves. It had to be nerves driving her to madness.

Gathering her skirts, she chased down the stairs with a foreign grace. Not known for her poise, Margrete struggled in her new heeled shoes, her ankles wobbling on each rugged step. Maybe I’ll tumble to my death before this damned wedding can even begin.

But alas, she didn’t meet her end by means of too-high shoes. Instead, she landed on the bottom floor of the keep’s main hall with a grimace.

Broad arches of polished silver and gold framed the lofty space, a sitting room filled with dazzling portraits, extravagant furniture, and colorful carpets of varying designs bringing wealth and opulence to a home that lacked heart. Waiting for Margrete, seated in a high-backed chair of obsidian velvet, was her father.

His gaze narrowed, the weathered skin around his eyes crinkling with sick joy and unmistakable triumph. He scanned her from the top of her head to her heeled feet. “You look...acceptable. Although, a bit pallid.”

Rising from his seat, the captain smoothed the linen of his onyx trousers, squaring his broad shoulders as he towered above her. He was a fit man for his age, the years having done nothing to rob him of his threatening stature.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Margrete made herself say, the tips of her ears heating with anger.

She’d noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the lifelessness of her skin in the mirror earlier. As she’d slept little as of late, the sight wasn’t a surprise, but she despised having to apologize for something beyond her control.

Sleep shouldn’t have been a problem. In truth, she should consider herself lucky. Her father had the opportunity to wed her off to a decrepit man with wrinkled skin and missing teeth, yet he chose a suitor of similar age. A handsome man, if the rumors she’d heard over the last two months were correct.

Since the announcement, she’d exchanged five letters with Count Casbian of Cartus, his elegant script filled with tender promises. His correspondence painted him as compassionate and kind, but Margrete surmised people differed from what they appeared to be behind the guise of words. She had to remind herself that no matter what his letters portrayed him as, the count was a stranger, using her for the same reasons as her father.

A muffled giggle floated from behind the captain, snagging Margrete’s attention. She’d know that wonderful sound anywhere, and it forced her lips to quiver into a semblance of a smile.

“You look beautiful.” Birdie hopped out from behind Father’s chair, her blonde curls intricately braided into a golden crown.

Margrete scooped Birdie up in a spin. “You’re the beautiful one, sister.” She gave Birdie’s rosy cheek a quick peck before setting her down gently.

Tying herself to a man she didn’t know would all be worth it if she could save her sister from her father’s wrath.

“Ready?” Birdie clutched Margrete’s hand with a fierce grip, her tiny fingers warm and reassuring. She nodded, fearing that any more words might come out shaky or trembling, exposing her mounting anxiety. She fought this fear, though, for the sight of her sister gave her strength.

“Well.” Captain Wood interrupted the moment. “Let’s not keep Count Casbian waiting.” The corners of his eyes lifted as if this was the happiest of days. He took her arm, aiming her toward the double doors leading to the courtyard.

As though summoned, two uniformed guards stalked down the main hall. After a curt nod from her father, the men pushed open the doors, revealing Margrete’s inevitable future in the near distance.

Ignoring the pounding within her chest, she lifted her eyes as her father walked her into the sunlight. Overlooking the bay and bustling docks, the spacious courtyard had been transformed into a seaside spectacle of flowing green vines and blooming violet buds. The aisle parted a sea of wooden chairs, each tied with satin bows of shimmering cherry red. Seated were the nobility and those of importance from Prias and the island of Cartus—men and women with whom her father consorted. They all twisted to catch a first glimpse of the bride, their calculating eyes squinting through the golden rays.

Margrete looked beyond the guests, finding the towering figure of her soon-to-be husband across a sweeping courtyard of wildflowers and seashells. Count Casbian stood beside a holy man at the end of the aisle, the bright swirls of pink and tangerine clouds framing him like a pretty picture. And he was pretty. She could see his handsome face now as her steps brought her closer to the man to whom she was to vow forever.

He lifted his square jaw, a thin coating of stubble shadowing his features in the dwindling afternoon light. He rolled his broad shoulders, and his muscular arms flexed beneath the fitted fabric of his tunic—arms any girl would swoon over.

And if his impressive stature wasn’t enough to sway a hesitant bride, his face completed the masterpiece—cerulean eyes sparkling with mischief, a dazzling, flawless smile of sincerity, and deftly combed blue-black hair that resembled raven’s feathers.

He was a dream.

He should have been Margrete’s dream.

Yet even though he was painfully attractive and all of his letters indicated that he was kind, dense dread settled in her stomach like an iron anchor. It grew heavier the closer she came to her betrothed, her feet dragging.

The captain played the part of the proud and fawning parent, ever the gentleman and loving father. Only those in attendance couldn’t see how his grip bruised her, his hold more punishing than affectionate. He led her with grace and poise down the aisle, past those scorching gazes, precisely to where her groom awaited.

“You look stunning, Margrete.” Casbian bowed and reached for her hand, placing a chaste kiss upon her knuckles. His lips looked as soft as pillows, and Margrete wondered what it would be like to kiss them. She supposed she would find out soon enough.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she steeled her gaze on the man bowed low before her. “A-as do you,” she sputtered, her voice ragged and breathless.

The count smiled wide, his teeth blinding her with their pearly brilliance. Everything about him was too perfect. He was beautifully unsettling, much like a red-ringed moon on a cloudless night.

The holy man cleared his throat, drawing Margrete’s gaze. He was young given his station, and his eyes were the purest shade of turquoise she’d ever seen. Although he assessed her with a note of pity, he was likely another of her father’s sycophants planted in the church. She’d lost track of how many “righteous” were under his thumb.

He opened his book to the proper place. “Let us begin.”

Margrete turned from the holy man and his unusual eyes, daring to meet those of her intended.

Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. It was happening. Margrete Wood was about to be married. Destined to follow the whims of this stranger and bear his children.

Little black dots flashed across her vision, her hands instinctively going to her neck, fingers digging at the fabric around her throat. It was so hot, the thick air lacking its typical salty breeze.

Was everyone else hot?

She stole a quick peek to her right, eyeing the nobles in all of their finery. They appeared content. Why wouldn’t they be? They were at the wedding of the year, their smug faces morphing into one sea of ugly superiority.

Her father pulled her wandering hand to her side, his eyes reproachful.

“On this fateful day, we bind two souls—” The holy man continued, but Margrete ignored the rest of his memorized speech. She was too distracted by something else she’d heard.

Again.

That shrill noise returned, the one that had followed her all day. Yet this time, it came in short blasts of three.

Scanning the crowd, Margrete found not one person reacting to the jarring sirens, their eyes trained dutifully on the bride. Oblivious, all of them.

Something’s wrong.

Sweat dripped down her back, making the lace itchy. Her fingers longed to scratch, yank, and pull at her skin, but the lace wasn’t the only thing making her skin prickle.

Ignoring the pointed glare from her father, Margrete’s hand went to her neck again, tugging the tight fabric from her throat. She was suffocating, sheer panic igniting in her core.

The holy man kept talking, clearly unaware of her growing discomfort, and her intended smiled, as if the world were being gifted to him on a silver platter.

Internally, Margrete cursed them both.

But again came the screeching, same as before—three sharp pangs of warning.

Why is no one else hearing that?

Margrete looked over Casbian’s shoulder, gazing at the waves, searching for the source of the sound.

“…it is important for a wife to abide by her husband…”

Nothing was out of the ordinary. The same colossal ships filled the aquamarine cove below the keep. Many of them bore her father’s sigil of a gilded hawk, its wings outstretched across shades of red and onyx.

“…to carry out his wishes and wants…”

Margrete scanned the ships for anything out of place until her eyes finally landed on a brilliant blue vessel that hadn’t been there an hour before.

“…she mustn’t raise her voice or question…”

Captivated by the unfamiliar craft, Margrete stared at its lustrous sails, noting how the early evening light cast eerie shadows on the canvases. Amber flecks glistened like tiny starbursts against the cobalt hull, a polished silverhead reaching into the sky like a sharpened spear in flight. Fixed to the bow, a spindly octopus figurehead kept watch, two black gems vigilant in the light of the dying sun.

Margrete had never seen a ship like it.

It was magnificent in the way a gale could be devastating.

“…this will ensure a happy union, one that will last the test of time…”

There. A glint of silver caught her eye. Painted on one of the sails was a shining crescent moon, a golden star pinned to its center. Freckles of gold dotted the cloth, framing a sigil that looked so very familiar. It reminded her of a mystical symbol she’d only seen drawn in books—in childhood fairy tales, to be exact. It was a symbol of death. Rebirth.

One of myth.

“Margrete!” Her father’s hushed voice shook her out of her daze. “The man asked you a question,” he hissed between his teeth.

The count shifted, avoiding his bride’s eyes. She was meant to say I do, or yes, or whatever words would tie her forever to a man she did not love.

“I—”

The sun had nearly set, her dreams for a future all her own setting with it. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong—

“Margrete!” Her father hissed again, louder. “Say it,” he ordered, no longer hiding his irritation.

And then another set of shrill sirens split the air. Margrete covered her ears and cried out.

Count Casbian, to his credit, embraced her as the stinging of the alarm wormed its way into the deepest recesses of her spirit.

On the third and concluding ring, the sirens ceased, leaving the air still and haunting. Nothing. Not even a wayward bird sang or a breeze dared bluster.

Casbian’s soft hands helped her rise. The guests sat stunned, mouths agape in speechless disdain. Her father would surely punish her for—

The sound returned. Louder than before and wholly penetrating.

This time, everyone noticed.