Page 12 of A Magic Deep & Drowning

Everything about the guild hall was heavy and dark, from the doors that shut against the daylight to the enormous paintings of the guild members in their ruffs and black silks. Men congregated about in groups, the strain of a harp floating from the musicians in the corner. Dutifully staying by her father’s side, Clara scanned the stuffy room before her gaze landed on her intended. Hendrik’s wig sat stiffly on his head, a hundred prudish curls refusing to lie naturally against his cheeks as fashion dictated. Catching her gaze, he made his way over to her, colored, and gave an apologetic laugh. “You must forgive my dress. These functions require a level of formality to which I am seldom accustomed.”

She smiled and put her arm through his. “Not at all. You look most charming.”

This elicited a deeper shade of red and much nervous throat clearing that did not ultimately lead to any further conversation. Clara took up a goblet of wine from a passing server and took a long draught.

So, it was still to be thus, awkward silences and much prodding along. “The little ship was so very droll,” Clara offered. “Is it modeled after one of your own?”

He nodded. “Wapen van Friesland,” he told her. TheWeapon of Friesland.Pausing, he slanted her a shy look. “Perhaps someday I shall name a shipThe Clara.”

The idea tickled her and she smiled. “And what would my ship carry? Sweet spices from the Indies? Tulip bulbs from Constantinople?”

“Oh, no. Like all my ships, she would be a whaler.”

“A whaler?” The smile faded from Clara’s face and she slowed her steps. “You’re a whaler?”

Hendrik looked both surprised by her interest and wary, as if he was treading on thin ice and trying to find his footing. “Well, yes,” he said uneasily. “Surely your father told you that? He will gain a twenty percent share in the business, and your dowry will go toward my newest ship.”

“I see,” she said tightly. The taste had suddenly gone out of the wine. She thought of the whale on the beach, battered and robbed of its dignity. Not only was she to marry a man who hunted those noble sea creatures, her dowry would finance such bloody endeavors.

Hendrik hovered at her elbow. “Clara? Have I said something to upset you?” He glanced nervously about, as if his colleagues might see his bride in distress and assume the worst about him.

Forcing a smile, she took a deep breath and turned to face him again. “No, I’m only surprised my father never told meyour trade. It was silly of me to assume you were a merchant, and my mistake.” The apology curdled on her tongue, but what could she do? She was betrothed to the man, and no matter his profession, she would have to stand by his side, as any good wife was required.

Helma pursed her lips, listening to Clara recount the events of the dinner that evening as she helped her get undressed. “You should be glad he is a whaler and not a slaver. After the war, there aren’t many respectable professions for a man with a fleet of ships. Not since the herring fisheries collapsed.”

“Respectable! Oh, Helma, how can you say that? You saw that whale on the beach. The poor creature. It was murder and nothing less.”

“Well, I can’t say that I like it any more than you do,” Helma said as she slipped the nightgown over Clara’s head. “But I don’t see what’s to be done about it. Your parents have already arranged it and you’ve already agreed. It’s not the man’s fault that you only just found out his profession isn’t to your taste.”

“I suppose,” Clara said. But it was more than that. How could she explain that it didn’t matter who Hendrik was or what he did? He would never be exciting or passionate. The fact that he was engaged in an ignoble pursuit only served to heighten her disappointment. She had thought that she could put Maurits from her mind, yet she was more consumed than ever with the mysterious man who made her feel as if she was teetering on a dangerous precipice. It was impossible not to draw comparisons between her awkward bridegroom and the strapping young man in the boat. Perhaps Helma had been right that day at the beach. Perhaps the whale had been an omen, and a bad one at that.

Chapter Nine

After Helma had blown out the lamps and retired to the antechamber where she slept, Clara lay in bed, staring at the dark shadows stretched across the canopy. Images of dead whales, bloated and rotten, filled her mind. When her eyes finally became too heavy and she was just drifting to sleep, there was a faint tapping at the window. She rolled over, trying to slip back into sleep, but the tapping came again, this time followed by a fluttering.

Hope bloomed in her chest. The magpie! Throwing open the bed curtains, she leapt out of bed and ran to the window. Pale moonlight illuminated the gleaming black feathers of her remarkable little messenger, a silver fish in his beak.

As quietly as she could, she cranked the window open. The magpie cocked his head at her, his little marble eye glinting in the moonlight.

“He’s come again, hasn’t he?” she asked in a whisper, as if the bird might answer.

The magpie carefully laid down the fish on the sill, then threw her a meaningful look over his shoulder before taking wing into the night.

Clara threw on her dressing gown and slipped downstairs, quiet as a thief. This was very wicked indeed. She had never been out of the house after dark, and certainly not unescorted. If she were to be found she could expect to feel the full force ofher mother’s wrath, and her upcoming marriage would most certainly be in peril. But as she felt her way down the stone staircase and into the hall, she could no more stop herself than a painter could from putting brush to canvas; the possibility of seeinghimwas a pull too strong to ignore. It would be the last time she saw him; she swore it. She could not go on, betrothed as she was. She would see him one last time, and then put her romantic fancies from her mind.

She liked knowing that she was the object of a man’s desire. Deeper than her vanity, though, she was desperate for the feeling of his body close to hers, the light pressure of his hand on her arm. The tingling warmth that flourished through her body when he kissed her.

Helma had told Clara about men when she was younger, sitting her down on the bed, unable to meet her eye. She had likened them to dogs, sniffing about young women for favors, and then absconding as soon as they had been granted. But the rather bleak picture Helma had painted of the opposite sex was at odds with the dashing heroes of the fairy stories she had told Clara since she was a little girl. Now Clara realized how little she knew of men, of their true intentions.

He was standing by the canal with moonlight softly falling on his solemn features, but he broke into a slow smile when he saw her. It had started raining again, and Clara had to hold her shawl over her head. Her body was fidgety with wanting, and she felt as if she might die if he didn’t come and kiss her again.

But she would not so much as take another step until he satisfied her need for answers. “You’ve been a fishmonger, a servant, and a liar,” she said without malice. “Why will you not tell me the truth? Who are you, and why do you come here?”

His gaze was all fire and heat, even in the darkness, but still he did not move from where he was rooted. “Why do Icome here?” he echoed. “I come because I cannot seem to stay away. I come because—”

“Yes, yes,” Clara said, cutting his words short. “Pretty words are all well and good, but if you truly cannot stay away from me as you claim, then telling the truth should be a simple enough tax. Is Maurits de Vis even your real name?”

She thought he would finally relent, or perhaps ply her with another falsehood, but instead he had gone very still, his throat working compulsively as if struggling to form words. Then he cursed, running both hands through his hair and turning from her. He looked... tortured.

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