The Sky Beneath Her(19)
My fingers skimmed the rough skin just below my neckline. It was a crescent scar that mirrored the signet ring my husband had worn.
Alfred heated his metal signet ring in the fireplace and crossed to me. I was so naive. I didn’t understand what he planned, but then he climbed on top of me and pinned my arms with his knees.
As the hot metal drew closer to me, I squirmed. “What are you doing?”
“This is for your own good.”
The heat drew closer. “Alfred, please stop, I beg you.”
And then the metal pressed hard against the skin above my breast. My flesh seared. Shock gave way to pain. I screamed.
When he pulled the ring away, I struggled to catch my breath. “What man does this to his new bride?”
“One who loves her more than life.”
He climbed off me, and I rolled to my side. Tears streamed down my cheek.
He set the ring down and reached for a vial of ointment. Gently, he rolled me onto my back.
“Stop,” I demanded. “Not again.”
“Shh.” His salve-dipped finger smoothed the wounded skin.
I winced. “Please, you’re hurting me.”
He continued to rub, and soon the pain eased. “You’ll find that I’ll always do what’s best for you.”
His touch was now so gentle. So soft.
“You understand, don’t you?” he asked.
Back was the kind man who’d wooed me with rare books and treats for an old cat, protected our little bookshop from those who would burn it, and helped me bury my uncle.
When he kissed me on the lips, I tasted the champagne from our wedding toast. His face hovered inches from mine, and he said tenderly, “I love you so much. Tell me you understand.”
I wanted to believe the monster was gone forever. But the worst monsters shifted shapes and never vanished completely.
“Yes. I do.” But I would soon learn that Alfred enjoyed cruelty.
The warning signs were lost on me early in our marriage, and I paid dearly with more of his lessons in love. But I grew to watch his moods carefully, ready for a light mood to darken. Eyes to narrow. His voice to harden. A fist to rise. I quickly learned never to ignore harbingers of trouble. I’d lived on tenterhooks for three years.
Now, I stared at the ceiling of my cabin, watching the sun dim and cast shadows. Most nights, I never fell into a deep sleep. My mind always hovered somewhere below consciousness, as if I was ready for danger.
Shouts rang out from the hallway, and I sat up. My heart knocked against my ribs. Sweat dampened my upper lip and pooled at the base of my spine.
Swinging my legs over the bunk, I rose. The rolling floor caught me off balance, forcing two quick staggered steps until my unwieldy frame steadied.
And then the clock chimed six. Somehow, I’d fallen into a deep sleep.
Footsteps thumped past my doorway. I had become skilled at listening for signs that Alfred was outside my door. Now, I heard only the rattle of keys and the tones of conversations. Whoever was passing by my cabin sounded relaxed, slightly joyful. A deep voice mentioned beef tips and sorbet.
I looked toward the tray of food. Safer to eat here and keep to myself. But I didn’t want to remain in this cramped room alone with my darkest memories.
I walked toward the washbasin and filled it with water. I splashed cold water on my face and pressed fingertips to puffy eyes. I didn’t dare gaze in the mirror as I turned from the stand and dried my face. These days I didn’t recognize myself, and the near stranger staring back reminded me of my own stupidity. I brushed my dark hair, noting more strands clinging to the bristles. I secured my hair in a twist with the few pins I still had and brushed the wrinkles from my dress.
Lowering myself into the tufted chair, I slid on my shoes and grunted slightly as I leaned over to tie the laces. In five days, I would be in the United States. I would deliver this child in a hospital, and then I would leave the infant behind in the care of people better suited than me. Though I hated what this child represented, I prayed my small act of mercy would allow me to one day forgive myself.
Chapter Seven
Tula
Tuesday, June 9, 2026, 7:15 p.m.
Outer Banks, North Carolina
I arrived at the rental condo, carrying a basket of folded, freshly cleaned towels and hand cloths. The scent of pine drifted around me as I waited for the renter to answer the door.
The door opened to a tall guy with tanned skin and dark hair that skimmed his wide shoulders. I was smiling even before I raised my gaze because that was business 101. You mess up, you be nice.
My gaze rose over flip-flops, board shorts, and a black T-shirt. His dark hair was tinged with strands of silver, and even the curiosity darkening his eyes didn’t register. Time, context, whatever, wasn’t syncing. And then the past drew back like the tide, and I saw familiarity in blue eyes that even seven years hadn’t changed.
“Nathan.” I clutched the towels, holding on to them as if they were armor. “Wow. How are you?”
Nathan Rogan had interned with my mother when we were in Greece, and he’d followed us to the United States to dive the Oceanus. He was an excellent diver and was a wizard with maps that charted the ocean surface and bottom. He’d mapped the entire area around the Oceanus for Mom. Because of him, Mom knew where the large hole had punctured the vessel’s hull. She knew the boat lay on its port side, and one of its two smokestacks had cracked and drifted two hundred yards south. The plan had been for Nathan to dive with Mom that last day. He was going to be her eyes and ears and the lone voice of reason Mom would accept.