Flint pats him on the shoulder. “I’m doing a simple kindness, is all. Our Moira is looking to go somewhere, and I’ve offered to take her.” He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that so, Moira?”
“Hardly the weather for it,” says Warren.
“Why, this?” Flint gestures to the storm clouds overhead. “It’ll blow itself out before evening.”
Warren grunts and releases him with a shove. I watch him walk off toward the boathouse, until Flint draws my attention back, saying, “You are looking to go somewhere, then.”
I pause. I’d come here with a mind set on taking the ferry, but that’s time and money I’d rather not spend. Snapping my umbrella shut, I jab him with the pointed end. “I’m not paying you.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t want your coins, Moira.”
I didn’t expect so. Flint is always asking something of me, but it’s never in the form of silver. He presses me to read his compositions, to join him in a duet at the dances. It’s ironic, really. He’s the main reason I cut ties with the hall.
“You oughtn’t ask anything of me,” I tell him. “Where’s your boat?”
Flint jerks his chin toward it. Terry Young is there on the dock, tightening knots against rough tide. Waves lash the harbor posts, choppy and white-capped.
The stormy weather isn’t fierce enough to trouble the sirens. I imagine looking over the edge of the pier to find one there: a silvery flash emerging from the dark waters, smiling up with sharp teeth. Most times their dislike of iron—an essential part of many fishing vessels—is a good enough deterrent to keep them from the harbor.
Most times.
Terry glances around at the sound of our footsteps. Like his name, he’s young—fourteen at the most. He’s also excitable and kind, which makes me worry over him. I know what this island does to softhearted boys, how much it takes from them, wearing them down just as the wind and sea erode our cliffs. Removing his cap, he waves to us. “Hello, Miss Alexander. You picked a fine day to come out.”
Flint claps him on the shoulder. “Get these knots untied, Terry. Miss Alexander has business”—he looks to me—“where?”
“Lochlan,” I answer.
“Lochlan. Right.”
Terry grumbles, but crouches down to do as he’s told. Flint’s boat rocks to and fro with the current, the blue paint on the hull peeling and cracked through. Flint jumps aboard and holds out a hand. Ignoring it, I step down after him.
There’s a bundle of tangled line on deck and, beneath it, a box of fishhooks and a slim knife. I sit and take up the knife to study it. It’s stained and well rusted for something that ought to be used only for cutting line.
“Mind,” says Flint. “I’m not answering to your mother if you slice your finger off.”
I scowl at him and drop the knife back into the heap of fishing line.
The storm seems to worsen once we’re underway. Each wave threatens to spill over the hull, and Flint curses, grip tight on the tiller, as he concentrates on steering into the wind. I pull my coat close, blinking against the rain.
“What are you needing in Lochlan?”
I hadn’t thought he’d start a conversation, with the wind roaring in our ears, but he manages. I’ve not even answered before he’s asking, “How’s Wick faring these days?” And the way he says it, I can tell he knows Jude’s whereabouts. Gossip is second only to siren song in enchanting the island, spreading like wildfire in the daylight hours. News of Jude’s arrest and subsequent imprisonment would’ve struck like lightning.
“They’re going to release him,” I say shortly.
“He’s off his head.” Flint’s tone is wicked. “Sitting up at that lighthouse all by his lonesome. Matter of time, if you ask me.”
I glare back at him. “I haven’t asked you anything.”
He smiles just enough to show his teeth. “You think he’s innocent.”
“Of course he’s innocent,” I snap. “He’s Jude Osric.”
Flint groans. “There you go sounding like everyone else at the harbor.” He takes a moment to tighten the sails, then touches the back of his hand to his forehead like some fainting maiden. “Our Wick? Accused of murder? It’s them sirens who took dear Connor!”
I cut my eyes away. The island’s cliffs loom over us, tall and ethereal in the mist. “The sirens are still suspect,” I say.
“Aye.” Flint shifts our angle. The boat pitches up and down on the growing swells. “That must tear into you, eh?”
I don’t speak. Curling my fingers around the gunwale, I gaze over the side to watch the hull cut through strings of kelp. The sirens will be in the depths below, waiting, swimming in the silent blackness. Sometimes, in the back corner of my mind, I think I wish to hear them sing. I want it with a desire that is nameless and cares not if my ears bleed from the sound.
Sometimes the things I desire terrify me.
Flint calls, “Nearly there,” and adjusts the sails to keep us parallel to the shore. I stare across the expanse of water until Lochlan’s harbor appears out of the fog. It’s larger than Dunmore’s, with several ferries anchored at port. Men in wool sweaters and trousers stuffed into heavy boots walk up and down the docks, checking lines, logging the arrival of each ship. They remind me of Jude, in some way, and I shake my head to dispel the image.
Flint passes the boat’s line over to one of the men at the edge of the dock. He has a shock of ginger hair and a quick smile, his hands tying the fishing boat in place with smooth efficiency. We step onto the pier, and he takes down our names.
“Awful weather to sail in,” he says. “Do you know when you’ll be casting off?”
“Before evening,” I reply. “We’ll not be staying long.”
We walk away from the harbor, up the wooden staircase set into the side of the cliff. Every step is slick with rainwater, and Flint is thoroughly irritated after almost slipping twice. A tourist ship has disembarked its passengers, probably the last of the season, and a trail of people follow behind us. Their voices are loud and accented, rising easily over the noise of the harbor.
Neither Flint, nor I, nor any other islander I know holds much fondness in their heart for tourists. Even Jude’s goodwill—seemingly limitless—begins to chafe after long exposure.
I hazard a glance over my shoulder to catch a few of the newcomers leaning forward at the dock’s edge, peering into the water. I’ll be surprised if any one of them had the foresight to carry iron on their person.
Flint looks around, spots the group, and lets out a single bark of laughter. “Don’t even need singing to,” he says. “They’ll just fall right in.”
Every summer tourists come to call as though the sirens have sung them to our shore. It’s little wonder their self-absorbed selves account for most of the siren death tally. They see Twillengyle’s sirens as charming curios rather than creatures who could charm them into a sea grave.
Above the harbor, the smart cobbled streets of Lochlan stretch out before us. Shoving both hands in his pockets, Flint asks, “Where to?”
“Well, I’m off to the library,” I tell him. “You’re free to do what you like.”