Signa had never seen a drowned spirit before. Had never seen bloated skin or water pooling from lips embedded with barnacles, made so much worse by the fact that he was a child. She clutched her reticule tight as the boy backed away, motioning for her to join him.
“Thank you for your concern,” she hurried to tell the shopkeeper. “But I don’t need anyone to tell me what a tragedy it was. I lost people that night, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Signa knew full well how odd she must have looked to anyone watching as she threw the door open and sprinted down the pier, following the boy. All the while the fishermen’s words from earlier rang in her head—a woman looking at the tides and a boy who wasn’t coming back. Not a sailor, as she’d thought at the time, but a child.
This close to the sea, wind lashed water and salt upon her, plastering Signa’s hair to her neck. She barely caught herself from slipping on slick planks by grabbing hold of a splintered ledge. Farther and farther the spirit continued, and Signa ignored all curious looks as she followed him to the end, to where a woman sat alone, her bare feet dangling over the pier as she stared ahead without any obvious awareness of Signa approaching.
“You can see me.… But you’re not like me, are you?”
Signa stilled at the sound of the boy’s voice. He didn’t sound waterlogged. He didn’t sound bitter or frightening, or anything like how he looked. Signa forced herself to look back at him—to see past the horror and crouch to his level as she whispered, “I’m not.”
The spirit exhaled, relieved. “Then can you tell her something for me? I want her to know that she doesn’t have to keep coming here. It wasn’t her fault, and every time I see her here… I just don’t want her to be sad.”
There was something about the boy’s request that reminded Signa of the night Lillian had passed from this world. Through Signa, she’d been able to communicate with Elijah and let him know that she loved him, and that it was time for them to all move forward.
It hadn’t been easy, but it was what they’d both needed. Only after that goodbye was Lillian able to pass on, and Elijah had finally been able to put the scrambled pieces of his life back together. If that was a gift that Signa could grant to someone else… how could she say no?
Squaring her shoulders, she crossed to the edge of the pier and took a seat beside the woman. “I know what I’m about to say may sound strange, but I have a message for you.”
There was tremendous sadness in the woman’s eyes. She didn’t acknowledge that Signa had spoken.
Nerves crawled along Signa’s skin, telling her to leave before she made this situation worse. But the moment she thought those nerves might get the best of her, a cool breeze settled over her. Death’s arrival came as a kiss of wind against her cheek, bracing her. She tried to settle into the knowledge that he was with her as she worked up the confidence to tell the woman, “Your son doesn’t want you coming here anymore. He wants you to know that this wasn’t your fault, and that it hurts him to see you so upset.”
“Tell her it was a riptide,” said the spirit as Signa relayed. “I know I shouldn’t have been out. I’m sorry.”
Halfway through that final word, Signa careened back as the woman landed a sharp slap. The ocean thrashed around them, the wind howling its rage as Signa doubled over, cupping her stinging cheek as the woman gathered her boots and stood.
Signa drew her hand from her aching face, grateful for Death’s chill as the wind soothed her skin. There were tears in her eyes from the sting of the slap, but one look at the boy’s urgent expression had Signa pressing on. “Your son is wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. He doesn’t have any shoes on, and there’s a scar on the top of his left foot—”
“From when George and I tried to climb the rocks!”
“—from when he tried to climb the rocks with George.” Signa wrapped her hand around the ledge and hauled herself to her feet. Across from her the woman trembled, boots slipping from her hands. One of them hit the ledge before slipping into the sea.
“If you think this is a joke—”
“I assure you I don’t,” Signa promised, watching as black tears rolled down Henry’s waterlogged face and he smiled, skin pulling around the barnacles in his cheek.
“Tell her that I miss her.”
Word for word, Signa did as the spirit instructed. She no longer had any awareness of her surroundings as she held the woman’s hand and relayed every message, letting the woman cry until the words were gone and the skin around Henry’s face began to smooth as the barnacles fell to the pier with a quiet clack.