Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

form before.
     
    Most selkies chose to whelp on the beach, living beneath the wave until their young matured to Change. Or at least were weaned and could survive on their own.
     
    Babies were even more dependent than pups, Margred thought, watching a mother buckle her bundle into its carrier seat. Helpless.
    Useless, with their small, grasping starfish hands and clear, bright eyes and wide, toothless smiles.
     
    How lowering to realize she wanted one. A small, curled weight against her heart with eyes as green as the sea . . . Her breasts felt heavy at the thought. Tender.
     
    The mother picked up the plastic clamshell cradling her infant, calling to Regina behind the counter. “See you, Reggie. ”
     
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    Regina waved. The tiny cross of the murdered Christ glinted on her bosom. “Bye, Sarah.”
     
    The tall man waiting for his change shifted, crackling his paper take-out bag. Something about the sound whispered along Margred’s nerves like smoke. The hair along her arms stood up.
     
    But she was distracted by the baby and the woman struggling with the heavy door.
     
    “You forgot your bag.” Margred scooped up the cloth bag bulging with mysterious baby things and held it out.
     
    “Oops.” The girl bumped the door with her hip and transferred the carrier to her other arm. The baby kicked small, stockinged feet.
     
    “I could carry it to the car for you,” Margred offered.
     
    Sarah smiled. “That would be great. Thanks.”
     
    Margred helped with the door and the bag. She watched from the sidewalk as the girl and her child drove away, an unaccountable feeling of loss tugging at her chest.
     
    The silver road, a sprinkle of bright grass, and a line of steeply pitched roofs led to the harbor. Dark masts and white sails rose up from the deep blue swell of the sea. The wind carried the smell of the boats, fish and fuel, and the cries of the birds that followed their wake.
     
    Too many to count, Margred thought, watching them circle the harbor. They rose and fell, spiraling on the wind. Calling back and forth, almost as if they were searching for something.
     
    Her breath caught. Searching for someone.
     
    For . . . her?
     
    She hurried into the restaurant, tugging on the strings of her apron. “I am leaving.”
     
    Regina looked up from refilling the sugar dispenser. “You feel okay?”
     
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    “I am fine. I must go.”
     
    “You have twenty minutes left on your shift.”
     
    Margred blinked, taken aback as always by this human preoccupation with time. She wanted to go now .
     
    And then it struck her. She had been waiting for a response from Conn for three days. What was another twenty minutes? When had she begun to divide her existence into measurable, even increments?
     
    With shaking hands, she retied her apron.
     
    “Twenty minutes,” she said.
     

     
    Maggie had a body any man would notice and no man could forget.
     
    So why the hell had nobody seen her?
     
    Caleb rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he should have gone around the docks with a pinup photo instead of a head shot. But even in a grainy photograph, sporting a bruise and a line of stitches at her brow, Maggie’s beauty was remarkable. Memorable.
     
    “Recognize her? Sure.” Henry Tibbetts pushed up his ball cap with his thumb and scratched his forehead. “That’s Maggie, Antonia’s new waitress. I thought you two were, like, tight.”
     
    “Yeah, she does look kind of familiar.” Stan Chandler spat over the side of his boat, the Nancy Dee .
     
    Caleb waited, stifling his impatience as Stan studied the photograph.
    Water slapped the pilings. Rusting ironwork stained the long, scrubbed deck like blood. Over the water, the gulls were going crazy, like extras in The Birds. Somebody must have thrown out a bucket of chum.
     
    “Lara Croft,” Stan announced triumphantly. “You know, the actress?
    Looks a lot like her.”
     
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    But nobody remembered taking Maggie on as a passenger. Nobody admitted renting her a boat. Nobody recalled seeing her arrive on the island.
     
    There were other days, Caleb told himself as he drove to pick up Maggie after her shift. There were private docks and beaches all around the island. Somebody had given her a lift or noticed her getting on or off a boat. She didn’t—damn it, she didn’t swim to the island, whatever she said.
     
    He had been too easy on her. Too careful. He couldn’t let . . .
    feelings . . . get in the way of doing his job.
     
    He pulled