Page 28 of Finding Love at the Magical Curiosity Shop
‘Not everyone has that. My dad could never afford holidays – it didn’t do me any harm. After a rainy weekend in a caravan my grandparents hired on a storm-ravaged clifftop, it was decided that holidays were better avoided anyway. Adrenaline-rush rollercoasters had nothing on the sway of that thing.’
He laughs, and comes to stand next to me at the counter, just a teeny bit closer than strictly necessary, and I get another hit of his aftershave, amber and dark orange, and so skin-close that you’d need your nose in his neck to smell it. I got a hint of it when we hugged, and now it seems like his skin has heated up enough to make it even more intoxicating.
11 February 1899
The sky is ablaze with forks of lightning and the thunder rolls angrily overhead, so close that it is shaking the entire island. The wind is so strong that it seems like it’s trying to push him back into the ocean. This storm is brutal and unforgiving. He is drenched to the skin and his body is racked with shivers. He has got onto his hands and knees and attempted to brace himself against the gales, but it is of no use. I fear he will not survive until morning. I must get him inside.
‘Inside?’ Ren looks up in confusion. ‘All this time, there’s been an “inside” and she’s only just mentioned it? There’s a building or something on this abandoned island?’
It makes me feel like we’re missing something. I was picturing them on a beach with nothing but waves and open sea, like Tom Hanks inCast Away, but this new information throws me. What ‘inside’ is this? What kind of building would there be on an isolated island? I glance up at him and his blue eyes meet mine, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing – if she really is a mermaid, how can she goinsideany place?
I have never got this close to him while he was awake before. He says something to me, he has to shout, but I cannot hear him over the pounding rain and screaming wind. I have found a tree branch and I offer it to him to lean on in place of his broken leg. I help him get to his feet and try to support his weight. He puts an arm around my shoulders and leans heavily on me.
I have never been this close to a man before. My sister is courted by men, she giggles and fawns and acts silly around them, but men are terrified of me. This one knows what I am, but rather than being scared, he seems glad of the help.
His body is still battered from the shipwreck, and this is the first time he has tried to walk. He screams when agony overtakes him. It is excruciatingly slow to shuffle towards my shelter. So much of his weight is leaning on me that I am convinced I shall drop him. We are both gasping for air by the time we reach the inside, and he falls down, collapsing onto the floor in front of the fire.
Sweat is mixing with the rainwater that streams down his face and I feel guilty for leaving him outside as long as I have. He tries to thank me but he’s shivering so much that the words don’t make it out past his chattering teeth. He’s panting painfully, like a fish that’s been left out of the water, his body heaving, the pain making his face turn a concerning shade of grey. I can hear the wheezing noise his lungs are making from across the room. I have blankets that I take to him. I motion for him to take his clothes off – he will never warm up with wet clothes clinging to his body. Eventually he gets himself into a sitting position and peels his shirt off, and I find my eyes tracking the movement as raindrops run down his pale, bruised skin. I wrap a blanket around his shoulders and when I do, his hand slips over mine and squeezes it. I didn’t expect the contact and it startles me. I pull my hand away quickly and take his shirt to hang it up to dry, but now it is hours later and I can still feel the imprint of his hand around mine, like he has branded me. I wish I had not pulled my hand away so quickly.
I make a motion of eating to ask him if he wants something to eat, but he shakes his head. He tells me how ill he feels. I boil some water over the fireplace for drinking, and he sips it gratefully, barely able to hold the cup because he’s shivering so violently.
He falls into a fitful sleep by the fire, and I move closer. Once I am sure he is asleep, I take a cloth and use it to dry his hair, letting my fingers touch the damp strands. I am drying his hair, but really, I sit beside him and fantasise about a world where he is mine. A world where someone would love me enough to let me take care of them, where I could sit beside someone and show them affection and receive affection in return. Wouldn’t that be a lovely world?
I put my hand on my chest and make a noise of longing. ‘That’s so sweet. She’s really starting to care about him. A mermaid falling in love with a human.’
‘You can’t honestly believe…?’ Ren mutters. It’s another question that doesn’t need finishing, and it’s not the first time he’s asked it as we’ve been reading this book. ‘How is she helping him to walk when, if she had fins and a tail, she’d be unable to stand herself, never mind let him lean on her and move around a… presumably a house because we know they’ve got a fire, a way of boiling water… Unless, of course, this is a work of complete codswallop.’
‘Codswallop!’ I smack at his forearm in mock outrage. ‘She doesn’t saywhatthey’re inside of. Maybe she means a cave or something? A cave would have water for her and shelter for him. The fire could be a campfire. Maybe it’suswho are interpreting this wrongly.’
‘Seriously, Mick? You have an explanation for absolutely everything?’
It’s the first time he’s shortened my name, and it feels so friendly and easy-going, the opposite of how uptight he often seems, and it makes me feel all warm inside. Friends shorten my name and it feels like a significant step towards us being realfriendsrather than strangers. ‘Anything is possible.’
He laughs, and his fingers slip over mine and he gives my hand a squeeze. He lets go all too quickly, but he shifts imperceptibly closer as we read the next entry, leaning over so his stubble is catching on my hair, and it sends a little tingle down my spine because I didn’t think anything would ever make him retract his prickles at first, but now hewantsto be this close to me.
12 February 1899
I watched over him all night. I tried to sleep, but all I could think about was him. It unsettled me and I found myself calmer when I sat on a chair in the same room. I tried to read a book, but my attention kept drifting to him, watching the way his hair fell from his forehead as it dried, the way his closed eyelids moved in his sleep, and I touched my fingers to the skin of his arm and felt it gradually growing warmer.
When the morning comes, the sun comes with it. I should help him back to the beach, but it is winter and the sky is both bright and filled with foreboding clouds that pass by. Another storm may arrive before nightfall. He must stay for now. I am unsure if he is strong enough to make it back to the sand.
He groans when he wakes. He makes noises of pain as he stretches his body and slowly sits up. The fire has died to embers, but the morning sunlight is streaming in the window and it makes me feel more hopeful than I did before. His stomach growls, and I laugh at the loud noise in the otherwise silent room.
We eat breakfast together without a word. It is the first time I have ever shared a meal with anyone, apart from my sister, who spends most of them berating me. He thanks me for my help last night. He tells me about a dream he had. He fills the silence that I am unable to fill with his lilting accent and deep, reassuring voice.
‘Can you not speak or do you choose not to?’
I shake my head, unsure of how to answer him, and then I hold up a single finger – one, indicating the first answer – and he understands what I mean.
‘You can’t?’ He waits for me to nod. ‘That must be awful.’
I don’t know how to answer so I nod again. It is awful. No one has ever acknowledged that before. I am not like others, and therefore, I am an outcast, a creature to be made fun of and teased or pitied. He is the first person who has ever tried to consider it from my perspective. He addresses me like I am normal. Like I am not a thing from another world. Most people act as though I can’t hear them as well as being unable to speak, they treat me as if I am stupid and talk about me like I am not there. He talks to me as I have always wished someone would.
He looks much better this morning. His skin is a normal colour, his hair has dried, even his clothing has dried from the heat of the fire. He’s holding the blanket around himself, trying to cling to the heat it provides.
His eyes flit around and eventually fall on the desk in the corner with my books and pen on it. ‘Can you write?’
I nod and he motions for them, but when I pass them to him, he refuses and pushes them back to me. ‘Write your answers. What is your name?’
