Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

hardy Yankee stock. Stubborn as the beach roses that bloomed along the cliffs, tenacious as the goldenrod that sprang among the rocks. She had endured island winters when the pipes froze and the harbor froze and the ice ran like a waterfall down the porch steps and had to be hacked with an axe. She had struggled to adulthood in a house haunted by her mother’s ghost and the specter of her father’s drinking.
    “ You are stronger than either of us imagined, ” Conn had said.
    Maybe.
    Yes.
    She released a shuddery sigh. Time to start acting like it, then. She could begin by getting dressed.
    Something in that wardrobe had to fit her.
    She approached the tall wardrobe. Beauty at the castle of the Beast. Too bad there were no friendly spirits, no motherly teapots, to pick out something for her to wear.
    Madadh raised his head; pricked his ears.
    Something bumped and clattered below.
    “Bollocks!” cried a voice on the stairs.
    Lucy jumped, pressing a hand to her mouth.
    “Watch it! You nearly took my fingers off.” A second voice, young, male, aggrieved.
    “Well, if you weren’t so fucking clumsy—”
    “Shh. She will hear us.”
    The hound gave a soft woof and lurched to its feet, its big paws scrabbling on the stone floor.
    “I can hear you now,” Lucy said.
    Silence.
    And then a scrape. A thump.
    “Ma’am?” The voice cracked. A boy’s voice, she thought.
    “I . . . Yes?” she called.
    “We cannot pass the dog.”
    Obviously not. Madadh guarded the doorway, shoulders hunched, head lowered, tail stirring from side to Page 48
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    side. Good sign? Bad sign? She had never had a dog.
    “Um. Madadh,” Lucy said, feeling foolish. “Here, boy.”
    Would it obey?
    She forced more authority into her voice. “Madadh, come .”
    The hound’s narrow, bearded head swung in her direction. Slowly, slowly, the tall hips and long body followed. Padding to her side, Madadh sat with a thump. The dog’s head came to her elbow.
    She clasped her hands tightly at her waist. “You can come in now.”
    A grunt, another thump, and a man—a young man’s legs—appeared as he backed over the threshold, carrying one end of a large trunk. His companion followed, carrying the other. Setting their burden down, they turned to face her.
    Boys . She released her breath. They were just boys—sixteen? seventeen?—in long white shirts and ragged shorts, one big and broad with a shock of dark hair and a belligerent expression.
    Tough guy , Lucy thought with a teacher’s instincts and a smothered smile.
    His companion was wiry and lean, not quite grown into the strength of his wrists or the size of his feet.
    Beneath a mop of blond-streaked hair, his eyes watched her, guarded and golden as the dog’s.
    He nudged the trunk with one foot. “Warden said you needed clothes.”
    She swallowed. “Yes. Thank you.”
    The bigger boy shifted his weight awkwardly. “There’s more.”
    “Other clothes. If these do not fit you.” The tawny one frowned in apparent concern. “You are taller than Miss March.”
    “Miss March?” Lucy asked cautiously.
    “She was our teacher.”
    Was? “What happened to her?”
    “She got old.” A girl spoke from behind the two boys.
    Their age , Lucy thought, or maybe older . With girls, it was hard to tell. She had sleek, dark hair the color of mink and a wide-lipped, sulky mouth.
    “She died,” said the big, dark boy.
    “I’m sorry,” Lucy said.
    The girl shrugged, her eyes cool blue and disdainful. “She was human.”
    Her casual dismissal chilled Lucy. She was human. Did that mean . . .
    “Are you a teacher?” asked the tawny-haired boy.
    “I . . .” Lucy dragged her scattered thoughts together. “Yes.”
    “We don’t need a teacher anymore,” the girl said.
    The boy shot her a look. “Speak for yourself.”
    “Suck-up,” taunted his companion.
    The wiry teen clenched his fists. “Stupid.”
    “Fisheyes.”
    “Tell me your names,” Lucy said. As if this was the first day of school, the first fight on the playground.
    The tough guy scowled, unwilling, maybe, to back down in front of the girl.
    “Iestyn,” said the other boy, the one with the strange, pale eyes. “This is Roth.”
    The girl tossed her head. “Kera.”
    She looked like a model, a girl made up to look like an adult. A beautiful almost adult in a short silk tunic the color of apricots that left her arms and most of her legs bare.