Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

than, say, being attacked out of the dark by a demon? Than having her identity and immortality stripped from her with her pelt? Than being hit over the head and left to age and die?
     
    “What kind of a problem?” she asked.
     
    “There’s no room at the Inn.”
     
    She stared at him, uncomprehending.
     
    “They’re full up,” he explained. “I was afraid they might be. They only have nine guest rooms, and with the season starting...”
     
    She struggled to process what he was saying. “I need a place to shelter. At least for the night.”
     
    Her caves . . . But she could not reach her caves in her current condition. In her human shape.
     
    “Not a problem,” Caleb said. “I’ll take you home—to my father’s house. My sister can put you up for the night. You shouldn’t be alone anyway.”
     
    “I won’t be alone. I can stay with you.”
     
    His mouth tightened. “That’s not a good idea.”
     
    “Why not?”
     
    “I only have one bedroom.”
     
    She did not see the problem. “You have a bed.”
     
    “I won’t take advantage of you that way. I can bunk on the couch for a couple of nights, but it’s not a solution. Not a long-term solution.”
     
    “I cannot think about long-term right now,” Margred snapped.
     
    Silence.
     
    “You’ll like my sister Lucy,” Caleb said at last. “Everybody does.
    And she could loan you some clothes.”
     
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    The clothes decided her.
     
    Or maybe it was his unassailable kindness. His determination to do the right thing.
     
    Margred glanced at the covering the doctor had provided, a loose turquoise smock and pants decorated all over with pink dancing bears.
    “As long as they don’t have bears on them.”
     
    Caleb’s face relaxed. “No bears,” he promised, and started the Jeep.
     

     
    Lucy was dreaming when the phone rang. Not the usual dreams of drowning or being chased by red-eyed monsters. She dreamed about her mother. Her mother, singing. And her mother’s songs whispered and echoed in her head like the ebbing tide.
     
    Lucy didn’t remember her mother. She hadn’t dreamed about her for a long time, even though when she was little— six or seven—those were her favorite dreams, the ones she pulled out and played with during the day. They were all pretty much the same. One night the phone would ring or a knock would sound on the door, and when Lucy woke the next morning, her mother would be in the kitchen cooking breakfast, pancakes with blueberry syrup like Jennifer Logan’s mom or muffins studded with walnuts and cranberries like Mrs. Barone.
     
    She never told anyone about the dreams. Not Caleb, who always left her cereal in a bowl and a note on the counter before he took the ferry to school. Not her father, who left the house hours earlier to haul his traps and set his lines. Bart Hunter never wanted to hear his daughter’s dreams.
    Or a word about her mother.
     
    By the time Lucy started college, the dreams stopped. But sometimes at night when the phone rang, she felt her heart leap and then hurry in a childish, hopeful beat: What-if, what-if, what-if . . .
     
    Usually, the caller had simply dialed the wrong number. Tonight, though, Caleb was on the other end of the line, and he wanted her help.
    Or rather, one of his cases did, some poor woman, homeless and hurt, who had been assaulted on the beach.
     
    Caleb had always been chivalrous, kind to underdogs and strays.
     
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    “I hate to bother you,” he said. “You still keep a key on the porch?”
     
    “Under the lobster buoy, same as always. But I don’t mind getting up to let you in.” She was flattered that for once Caleb was asking for her help instead of riding to her rescue. Flattered and happy.
     
    Or she would be if she weren’t so groggy.
     
    She scrambled out of bed, pulling her University of Maine at Machias sweatshirt on over her LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE, TEACH T-shirt.
    By the time Caleb’s Jeep crunched onto the gravel drive, she had fresh sheets on one of the upstairs beds and the tea kettle whistling on the stove. Turning down the gas, she hurried to the door.
     
    Caleb climbed the three steps to the porch, moving slowly, as if he’d had a long day. Or his leg hurt him. “I appreciate this, Lu.”
     
    She flushed, unused to thanks. “Don’t be silly. This is your house, too.”
     
    Caleb grunted. “Dad still up?”
     
    “No, he . . . he was sleeping in his chair when I got home.” She glanced over her shoulder at the