My gaze returns to the closed door. The wood looks black as oil, there’s so little light in the hall. I take a slow, even breath.
“We’d best get going,” I say. “We have until dawn.”
* * *
Before we set off, Jude tends to the light. He disappears into the tower to check over fuel, trim the wicks, wind the clockwork. While he does, I collect a thick wool blanket from the drawing room, then wait for him in the kitchen. I stare out at the darkness beyond the window glass, his iron ring like a weight around my neck.
Jude enters the kitchen wearing his wool sweater over his dress shirt. He has his oilskin jacket with him and offers it to me. I have to roll back the cuffs a couple times to free my hands. Together, we walk through the cottage and stand before the door at the hall’s end.
I pass Jude the blanket. Taking it, he opens the door, stepping into the room. I watch from the doorway—as the siren tips her colorless face up to his, as Jude kneels in front of her.
“Hallo,” he says gently. “It’s me; it’s only me.”
He wraps her in the blanket, taking her into his arms.
“Are you all right with her?” I ask.
“Yes.” Jude’s voice is hollow as he turns to me. “She’s very light.”
The siren’s eyes are wide-open and dark in her pinched face, but she remains quite still in Jude’s arms. I look away, heart hammering, and make a start down the hall. Jude follows after, and we step out into the damp night air.
This past evening, I’d left the lighthouse with my violin in hand, Jude Osric at my side, the sunset warm and lovely along the horizon. Now I’m here as mist carpets the moors, bundled up in Jude’s jacket, while he stands holding a scarred siren to his chest.
Fear splinters my bones. We head for the stone walls that mark the way to the harbor, and I imagine the police coming upon us, someone waiting on the docks. Reaching the cliff’s edge, I survey the beach, but I see no lanterns in the darkness. I hear only the rush of the surf, the breaking of waves against the rocks.
I say, “They’ve gone,” yet I whisper as though we’re not alone. I glance back at Jude, and he looks as pale as the siren, his eyes just as wide.
We take care on the wooden steps down to the docks. Jude’s boat is tied neatly to a cleat; I fetch the oars from inside the boathouse. Jude gazes out at the stretch of blue-black sea, his breaths quick and uneven in the quiet. I can see the beat of his pulse at his throat.
His grip tightens around the siren. “Moira, if you would…”
I nod. “I’ll row us out.”
Settling into the boat, I untie the rope from the cleat and lock the oars into place. Jude sits facing me, and I’ve some childish, desperate urge to grab him by the sleeve, as if my hold could protect him as well as iron, as if I could keep him in the boat once a siren sang to him. The siren in his arms shifts, her attention fixed on the water. What a strange thing it is, seeing her so close. Her clawed hands curl around the edges of the blanket, her lips parted to show her needle-like teeth. She could scratch Jude’s eyes out from where she sits, but perhaps she isn’t strong enough for that. I imagine she’s been kept on land longer than any other living siren.
We push away from the dock, and I row out into the bay. The oars scrape my hands, but I concentrate on keeping them balanced, the heavy thwack as they hit the water in time with each other. My arms soon tire, sooner than they would had I not spent so much of the evening playing violin. In front of me, Jude has his head down, whispering to himself or to the siren; I can’t hear him over the wash of the breakers. I pull the oars from the water, resting them against the gunwales.
“Quickly,” I say. “Release her here.”
Panic crawls up my throat, lacing into my words. Our boat in the otherwise empty bay surely hasn’t gone unnoticed by sirens. Now that I’ve stopped rowing, I’m all too aware of the night, of the dark depths below us. I wonder if they already realize Jude is iron-less, if they’re watching him…
He lowers the siren over the side of the boat. She pulls free of the blanket, flitting into the deep, swift and silvery as a fish. It happens so fast, both of us are left staring down after her, motionless even as the boat begins to drift.
Jude moves first. He gathers up the blanket, the wool now soaked through and dripping. Looking to me, he says only, “I’ll row back.”
I pass him the oars. He steers us back toward the island, toward the beam of his lighthouse on the cliffs. I put my arms about myself, pressing my fingers into the cotton of his jacket. We dock at the harbor, and Jude helps me out of the boat before securing it to the cleat. His expression is unnervingly blank, but his silence is what truly worries me.
As we reach the steps, he slumps to his knees, head bowed as he clutches the blanket to his chest. “A year,” he whispers. “More than a year, and I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, tears slipping down his cheeks. “God forgive me, I did not know what to do.”
I crouch beside him. “Jude…”
“I tried to be kind to her. I tried to keep her alive.”
“And you did.” I place a careful hand on his shoulder. “She’s safe now. She’s free.”
This does not soothe him as I hoped it might. He presses his forehead to the dock, taking great, heaving gasps like he can’t find air to breathe. “I didn’t… I didn’t dare tell anyone,” he says. “I thought they would kill her. Oh God, I couldn’t…”
My throat tightens. Tears flash down my cheeks before I can push them back. “Jude,” I say softly. “Jude, you’re not the one at fault here. You didn’t put her in that room. You didn’t bring the knife to her skin.”
He chokes on a sob, covering his eyes with one hand. I want badly to take him from the harbor; he is still without iron, still too close to the ever-present dangers of the sea. Instead, I wrap my arms around him, pulling him into an embrace. I let him cry into my shoulder as he let me the day of my father’s funeral.
Drawing away, he wipes his face with the sleeve of his sweater. “I apologize for not telling you sooner. You… You always know just what to do.” His red-rimmed eyes look out to sea. “I hope she’s all right.”
I bring a hand to his cheek, turning him back toward me. He swallows.
“She’s home,” I say. “Now we ought to return to ours.”
He nods. “Yes.” He breathes in deep, steadying himself. “Moira—thank you.”
His voice cracks like glass. I move my hand to grip the front of his sweater. “I’ll stay with you tonight, shall I?” I look over his face, the tracks of his tears plain even in the dark. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
Jude nods again. The wind ruffles his hair, the boats around us creaking. Just behind him, something winks above the sheer wall of the cliff. For an instant I think it’s the shine of the lighthouse beacon, but this light is too dim for that, too low to the ground.
It’s like someone’s lantern—like someone is there at the cliff’s edge, looking down upon the harbor.
My expression must shift in some way, because Jude chances a look around. The light is already gone, but the memory of it ghosts eerily across my vision.