Page 16 of A Magic Deep & Drowning

“We’ll go to the fishmonger’s first,” Clara said, gazing about the bustling square for an indicator of where it might be found. Perhaps Maurits truly did work there and that much had not been a lie, at least.

“First?” Panic flashed across Helma’s face. “Do you mean to say you don’t know where he is?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” Clara answered, wringing her hands. But then she nodded, and said with more conviction, “He’ll be at the fishmonger’s, I’m sure of it.”

Helma heaved a sigh. “Follow me,” she grumbled.

They made their way through the strolling couples and women selling vegetables from baskets on their arms, Clara occasionally stopping to peer into shop windows. If it had not been for the promise of seeing Maurits, she would have been sorely tempted by the sparkling jewelry and mouth-watering pastries. There was a whole world that existed outside the stone walls of Wierenslot, and she knew so little of it. Someday she would patronize all these shops, have accounts, and run up extravagant bills that Hendrik would graciously discharge for her. That was what ladies did, wasn’t it? That was what she had dreamed of for so many years, so why did the idea now fill her only with apathy?

A large wooden fish, painted turquoise and gold, swung above the fishmonger’s shop. When they pushed open the door, a bell tinkled and a big man in a dirty apron looked up in surprise from behind the counter. “Vrouw Helma,” he said pleasantly. “I was not expecting you. Was there some mistake with your order?” When he saw Clara enter behind her, he swept off his cap and dipped his bald head. “And this must be mistress Clara, a true surprise. But a pleasure, of course.” He looked between them quizzically.

Helma shook her head, and Clara could see she was struggling to find her tongue. Helma had never been a good liar. Clara swooped in. “No, there is nothing wrong, sir. We haveonly come because as you may know my wedding is next month and your delivery man told me that you had some mackerel that must be tasted fresh at the shop.”

The man’s thick brows drew together. “Dirk said that, did he?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and shook his head. “Can’t see why he would—we haven’t had any mackerel these past weeks, and if we had, he could have brought it to you.”

“I believe his name was Maurits?” she said, her voice rising at the end in a hopeful question.

“I don’t know of any Maurits.” He frowned. “But it matters not, and you’re here now. Allow me to offer you some cod instead, just caught.”

The fishmonger was elbow deep in a barrel, pulling out fish for her to examine, but she hardly heard him over the blood pounding in her ears. She hadn’t really thought that Maurits would be here, had she? He had lied about who he was twice; why did she think that this would be any different? Worse still, she had no other clues, no way to find him.

She nodded absently as the man wrapped some fish up in paper, until she felt Helma tugging at her sleeve, silently begging her to leave off this foolish errand.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, mistress?”

Clara realized he was staring at her, awaiting her answer. “Oh,” she said weakly. “Yes. I mean, no. That will be all, thank you.”

Ignoring his peeved expression, Clara plunged back into the square, Helma on her heels. Her mind spun as she made her way back to the carriage, the afternoon sun bathing the crooked brick buildings in sanguine gold. What had she expected? Why was she so disappointed when she had only wanted to see him one last time to say goodbye?

“Perhaps there is a reason he lied about his identity,” Helma said, breathing heavily as she struggled to keep up withher mistress. “Why would you risk your reputation and future for a man who will not even trust you with his name? What do you know of him? A thief, that is what he must be, or an outlaw.”

Clara did not dignify Helma’s baseless accusations with a response. If her maid had seen the earnestness in Maurits’s beautiful eyes, she would not be so quick to paint him in such poor light.

The carriage ride back was silent, prickly with tension. They rattled past the same old fens, the same old fields stretching endlessly to the horizon, back to her monotonous life of disappointment.

Interstitial

Though the most common of the Old Ones, elves are seldom seen. They live not in our world, but in an overlapping veil of light. Acts of mischief and trickery are the only marks they leave in our world. Cows with their tails tied together, or cooling pies stolen from windowsills are sure signs that an elf has been at work.

But the true danger of an elf is not just its wiles nor its trickery; beware the stranger that approaches you asking for help, or looking to make a bargain. For elves are clever, and with their silver tongues bind you to a bargain that you will end up repaying with your life.

Chapter Eleven

So that was it then. Like a little fish caught in her bare hands, no sooner had Clara found love then it had wriggled through her fingers to return to the sea, lost to her forever. She had thought that she had wanted a diversion, a little adventure before her marriage, but now it had veered into something deeper, something urgent.

As soon as the carriage came to a halt, Clara threw the door open and stumbled out before the coachman could come and assist her down. All she wanted to do was run upstairs to her bedchamber, close up the curtains around her bed, and fall into a deep, dark sleep and never wake up. She didn’t want to think about her trousseau or the lifestyle she would soon be living that was made possible by her husband’s violent profession. All she felt was a hopeless sort of anger: Maurits had lied to her, but worse, he had made her feel something that she had no hope of ever feeling again.

She had barely made it through the front hall when a voice stopped her.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Hands on hips, her mother stood blocking the stairs.

“I... Just up to my chamber. Helma and I just returned from town and I’m tired.” She forced a light smile, but the look in her mother’s hard eyes said she was not fooled.

“Liar,” Katrina hissed. “Piet told me that he saw you with a young man the other night, so I sent a rider to follow you today. Did you really think that I wouldn’t discover the truth? Did you think that I am stupid?”

Clara’s blood turned cold, the black and white tiles beneath her feet swimming. “Mama, you don’t understand. It wasn’t—”

“You are a whore,” she said, interrupting her. “My daughter is an ungrateful whore.”

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