Chapter Text
His sword carves a gorge in the dirt, dust swirling in the sunlight left behind him. The sun threatens to fall before he makes it to the center of the village, but it doesn't dare fall before he gets the chance to finish his day's work.
You watch him from the window of your family's house, lucky enough to be close enough to the center that you can see him coming for ages. Your fingers dig into the windowsill; the wind - salty from the nearby bay- blows gently through, rattling the windows you threw open the moment your sister whispered that he was coming down the road. There are only moments before Mother will storm upstairs, chastising you for trying to watch what's going down below.
"It's not appropriate for a girl your age to see this," she'll say for the hundredth time, slamming the windows shut. The wavy glass will distort his features, and leave you nothing but a hint at his form, but even then Mother won't let you continue looking. She'll pull you downstairs into the kitchen with your two sisters and set you all to work.
"Your father and uncle will be hungry when they get home; you all pitch in," she'll say, pantomiming joy when just outside a man will lose his head - your father and uncle observing from the crowd. Father will come home grim, and not speak over the dinner that you and your sisters cooked, and will go to bed silent.
In the morning when you go to the market for whatever Mother needs for the day, blood will have stained the stones paving the center of the village. And the executioner will be back in his small cottage situated far away from everyone in town, not to be seen until he was needed again.
But this time, Mother takes longer. You hear her speaking sharply to your youngest sister, about how she needs to be more aware of her surroundings and stop sloshing all that damned water all over the place . Today you get the chance to see him come closer.
He's large and cloaked - you know from the village boys whispering that he has a mask on to cover his face.
" It's covered in ashes - smeared to look like a skull. "
" It's to remind those on his chopping block that he is Death. "
No one accompanies him on his journey to the dias that all the buildings spiral away from; every person that will be there is already waiting for him to arrive, breath held in their throats as they hear his approaching footsteps. You watch as each house he passes draws its shutters shut to him as if they could be next if they looked at him. The sea rages down past the docks, far enough away to be just a faint chorus as he approaches your house.
The tilt of his shoulders enamors you - he's enormous, but walks with a grace you can only wish to have. You don't need to be near him to know that the only sounds are the swish of his cloak against the ground, and the sword drawing against the ground.
You startle when Mother grasps your shoulder, letting out a gasping noise, but you don't turn away from the window. As if he could hear you, the executioner's head snaps towards you. You see just a hint of the white ash smeared across his mask before you're pulled inside. Mother throws you into the room with enough strength to cause you to hit the wall behind you, rattling the porcelain that sits on a nearby shelf. She slams the window hard enough that the glass rattles before slamming the storm shutters and latching them.
"What are you doing?" Mother's voice is venomous as she rounds on you, eyes burning. "You are going to humiliate this family acting the way you do."
"I'm sorry Mother," you appease, pulling at the wrinkles in your skirt and avoiding her eyes. "I was just curious."
"Your job isn't to be curious."
"Yes, Mother."
"How would your suitors think about you hanging out the window to watch something so grim?"
You close your eyes to hide the sudden anger behind them; your head stays down and you don't answer. Anything you say won't be good enough for her. It's the same every time there's an execution.
"Come - let's prepare dinner."
You follow, slowly. Inside the kitchen it's warm, and smells of honey and meat. Your mother gestures to a lump of dough that needs kneading and you roll your sleeves up. Your sisters, still eager to get a nice word out of Mother, patter around, stirring and checking on the baking. You know you were given the dough because everything else in the kitchen fails you.
Mother had been attempting to get you some proficiency in the kitchen, giving it her damnedest, curses flying out of her whenever you burnt something. For the past two years, she tried to no avail.
"At least you're a smart girl," she'd say with a sign. "And you can do books - you'll just have to hire someone who can cook."
For three years, your father and mother had been trying to find someone for you to marry.
"Seventeen is when I met your mother, and I courted her for three years to finally get her yes. And you're her elder by three."
The story sickened you.
You'd had some luck that not many wanted to court you - it wasn't unknown in the village that you argued with your mother and father. Everyone whispered behind your back about the time you tried to smuggle yourself on one of your father's cargo ships, bound for somewhere far away and exotic. They whispered about how you fought the sailor that found you tooth and nail, leaving him a scar down the side of his face as he dragged you to the deck. No one wanted a wife that wouldn't listen.
But still, some had come knocking.
Nice young men who would wait the years it took you to be ready to marry if you would just say yes. Nice young men who winked at your younger sisters across the dining table, who pressed flowers into Mother's hands, who clapped Father on the back at the end of the night.
Nice, young, boring men who wanted a boring wife to oversee someone else doing the cooking.
Nice young men who would want their wives on hands and knees cleaning during the day, tongue out at night.
Nice young men you detested.
You'd rejected each one that came knocking - fits that included screaming loud enough that the neighbors could hear, and a few shattered glasses. Once Mother locked you in your room and threatened to send you to a nunnery if you didn't stop screeching. But your father had called on them, spinning a web that you'd been intrigued by them and to come back for dinner again in a few weeks.
You'd been threatened with the nunnery and the whip if you misbehaved the next time they came back, so you sat there, unspeaking while the men spoke only to Mother and Father.
You're broken out of your reverie by your youngest sister, Lily. She presses against your side, tugging your apron to pull you down so that she can whisper in your ear.
"Mother is going to check on you tonight."
You give just a curt nod, eyes trained on Mother and your oldest sister, Maggie. They have their backs turned to you and Lily. Lily who has always hidden your secrets and you have hidden hers. Lily who knows you sneak out at night, climbing carefully out of your window onto the trellis and down where the horse is stabled. Lily who knows you spend all night swimming in the dark ocean, imagining the merfolk and monsters that linger there.
You press a quick kiss to her temple, a thank you for the heads up, as you begin shaping the dough into two loaves of bread.
The front door opens and the sound of your father's boots on the wood breaks through the kitchen. Mother wipes her hands on her apron, flour falling onto the dark blue skirt below, and leaves to say hello. Maggie follows closely behind, leaving you and Lily behind to finish dinner. Lily does most of the work, directing you on what to do to keep everything from burning.
When everything is finished, the two of you cart it to the dining table where Maggie straightens the plates to perfection. You hear the gentle hum of Mother and Father talking, no doubt about your antics in the window. There's an extra plate at the table.
"Who is this for?" You ask Maggie, skewing one of the spoons.
"Edward. And don't mess everything up." She reaches across to straighten the spoon.
Edward the apprentice tailor, her two-year suitor who no doubt will agree to marry before the end of the year. You feel relieved that tonight you will be ignored, you and Lily can eat at the end of the table in peace, whispering jokes to each other.
You leave to wash up in your room, scrubbing at the black dirt that you collected from the windowsill. You wonder if the executioner has made it home; if he drags his sword behind him or does he sheath it. Does it drip blood as he retraces his path?
Lily waits for you at the top of the stairs, and you lace your fingers together as you make your way down the stairs and into the dining hall. You pull faces at each other across the table, and stifle giggles into your napkins - ignoring the dirty looks Maggie sends to the two of you down the table.
Dinner is tortuously slow - when it's over and you're clearing off the table you can see Edward and Maggie in the hallway, pressed against each other in a way that would make Mother blush if she were to see it. You elbow Lily and point toward them, sticking your tongue out and pretending to puke. She laughs loud enough to catch Maggie's attention and the two of you scurry out of her line of sight.
After getting ready for bed, you brush out Lily's hair, perched on the bed you share. Her hair shines midnight beneath the brush, long and thick. The most gorgeous in the family.
"Can you braid it in two tonight?" She asks, trying to turn and look at you, but you turn her head forcefully back to the front.
"If you stay still I can. Keep wiggling little mouse, and you're going to have crooked braids."
Her hair slips heavily between your fingers as you cross one strand over another. You're wrapping a tie around the bottom of the first braid when she speaks again, this time in a whisper.
"Do you think being married would be terrible?"
You concentrate on the tie, measuring out each word before saying it.
"Why do you ask, my little mouse?"
"It's just - Maggie seems so eager to marry, and you're the opposite. Mother and Father seem happy."
"Well, Maggie and I are different people. Maggie is wonderful at this house stuff, and she wants that life. I want to explore, to see more. I want to fall in love with someone that isn't a pick of Father - someone…" You trail off, unsure of what you're trying to say. "Anyway, marriage isn't terrible for everyone. And if your marriage was, I would come and rescue you myself. Even if it means killing your husband. I'd sweep you out of that house, and back with me."
Lily giggles at the suggestion.
"You would end up under the executioner's sword then."
Inside, something twists at the idea of lying down, looking up at the broad man staring down at you.
"He doesn't scare me," you tell her, finishing the second braid. "Nothing scares me."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
The two of you settle into bed, Lily tucking herself into your side. Just as she said, in the middle of the night, Mother comes in, candlelight casting long shadows across the room. You keep still, pretending to sleep until she disappears. It's too risky to leave tonight, so you let Lily's warmth and soft snoring lull you to sleep.
***
The next night, you press your ear to your bedroom door. You can hear Father snoring faintly down the hall; the moon, directly overhead, tells you it's late enough to slip out. You press a kiss on Lily's forehead and slide your legs out of the window, skirts bunched up to keep from getting caught.
The trellis groans under your weight, but you're sure it won't break underneath you. You climb down, familiar with where to put your hands, where the spiders like to build their webs, and the weak spots - you drop the last few feet down to the ground. The horse nickers softly from her spot in the small stall she's in. The village is quiet, the only sound the whisper of the sea.
You keep to the darkest spots, the shadows even the night fears as you sneak through town. It's too hot for a cloak, but you still keep yours over your head, just in case anyone other than the spiders and bats is awake to see you. The closer you get to the sand, the faster you walk, pausing just once for a drunken sailor to slip past you without noticing you are hidden just feet away from him.
The port is small - bringing in just one or two ships - nearly all of them laden down with wool your father sells. But this time of year there is only one ship, here to pick up sailors that were on leave. It bobs gently across the water in the small port, the flicker of a candle seen sporadically. From this distance, any soldiers on it look like dolls in the distance. The air is cooler rolling off of the ocean, and the salt in the air sticks to your skin. Your bare feet hit the sand and you race to a spot hidden in a cove that separates the village from the ocean - a hidden spot used by couples in the town when they wanted to get away. But at night it was always empty.
Your toes dip in the water, and the bottom of your cloak gets soaked each time a fresh wave breaks on the sand. The water in the distance is still, reflecting the moon and stars. You let your cloak slip off of your shoulders, beneath you'd laced a dress up loosely, enough that if you were caught, you could feign innocence. It comes undone and pools at your feet. Your skin erupts in gooseflesh when the ocean air rolls over it - your chemise not thick enough to block out the wind.
You wade to your hips- the water is warm and still. Beneath your feet the sand shifts, shells sharp against your skin. You turn, making sure that you're still hidden from anyone who may be walking to the port at night, and when you're sure no one is there looking at you, you dive.
Your eyes burn in the darkness, moonlight filtering down just enough so that you can see your hand in front of your face. You push farther out into the bay, not resurfacing until your lungs burn from lack of air. Breaking the surface, everything is blurry, you fall back so that you're floating on your back until your eyes readjust and the stars come back in sharp focus. You float there, watching the subtle shift.
And all at once you feel it: someone's eyes on you. You flounder until you can get your feet underneath you, eyes straining to see the shore - you're farther out than you thought you were, toes barely able to scrape the sand below. You can see your dress and cloak, still pooled on the shore, but there's no sign of anyone nearby. Slowly, worryingly, you push towards the shore, until it's back to your hips. Your eyes never leave the shore, looking for someone there.
That's when one of the shadows ripples forward. You freeze your heart stuttering in your chest as you watch someone walk towards you - you can't think of what to do. Even if you screamed, no one would be able to hear you. You realize for the first time how foolish the venture is.
When the moonlight fully covers the figure, they stop feet from your clothes. Your hands clamp across your chest, the thin white fabric covering you completely transparent now that it's wet. Neither of you moves, and you realize that if you don't, they probably never will.
Hands still clamped across your chest, you walk to the shore. With each step it becomes clear just how massive the person on shore is - it has to be a man, you've never seen a woman that tall, that broad. You're in ankle-deep water when you catch just a glimpse at them beneath the hood of their cloak: white ash, reflecting in the moonlight.
Your panic increases tenfold, but you think if you move too fast, he'll move faster. Snatch you up. So as if he were a dangerous animal, you reach down and grab your dress from the ground, leaving it over your arm as you pull your cloak around yourself. Your eyes never leave him. He waits until you're completely covered before he turns to look at you - just the barest hint of flesh around his eyes.
"Don't you think it's dangerous to be out here alone?" His voice is gravel and honey, deeper than you'd expect. You wonder if it's that way because he doesn't get to speak often.
"It depends on who's out here," your voice wavers, but doesn't crack. He seems to like that answer, letting out a short 'hmm'.
"There's plenty of monsters out here in the darkness." He speaks but still doesn't step toward you. You tighten your cloak around you, wishing for once to be back in bed with Lily.
"The merfolk and the selkies are the only things I worry about." You take small steps backward as you speak, feet shuffling over the sand.
"I've seen worse lurking in the near forest," he says, suddenly stepping towards you. You trip over your own feet, but before you can crash into the sand, his hand is around your elbow, pulling you up roughly. You don't mean to, but you let out a small squeak at his touch and recoil away; he drops your arm as if it burns him.
"You should go home," he says, nodding his head back towards the village. "It's too late for you to be out."
"I think you and my father would agree on that matter."
You can't tell if it's a trick of the light, but you see the corner of his eye crinkle for just a moment.
"I'll walk you back up, then you are on your own to get home safely."
He walks ahead of you as he talks as if he expects you just to follow without saying anything. And you do, terror and intrigue mixing inside of you. His scent wafts to you in the wind, woodsmoke, and metal, and something sweet- like rotted wood. It flashes through you, just a second long - to bury your face in his cloak and take a deep breath. Your curiosity is raging inside of you, mingling with the apprehension of being near him - the same man Mother refuses to let you even look at through the window.
You slip on the sand and rocks behind him, his boots leaving footprints that dwarf yours. It takes just moments, but the two of you emerge out of the hidden crag and onto the soft grass that overlooks the ocean.
You're panting, your heart still beating erratically in fear of him, the executioner, here at night on a dark roadside, and no one to notice the two of you. He pauses, just long enough to throw a look over his shoulder at you - you recognize his silent instructions to hurry home. You take two small sideways steps, eyes trained on him as he walks in the opposite direction, to the small cottage situated between the forest and the sea and far away from where he found you. His exile - where he never ventures out unless called. As soon as he's far enough away, you turn and run.
When you make it back to your trellis you're out of breath, a stitch cutting your side open. You ready yourself to climb up, trying to catch your breath and remember his scent and the way he towered over you.
You wonder if he'd been there with you before, hidden in the shadows.
***
"What are you doing? Are you senseless?" Maggie's voice cuts through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. Your fingers slip over the apples in your hand as she grabs your wrist, pulling you back towards her.
"You're supposed to stay with me and Lily; not wander off to do god knows what?"
Her face is pinched, angry - you jerk your wrist out of her touch.
"I'm sorry Maggie, I just got busy looking at the produce."
She gives you a look that says she knows you're lying, but you fall in step behind her anyway. You had been lost in thoughts of the executioner, of how his eyes shone in the moonlight and his smell. Her hair, lighter than yours and Lily's, is pinned up elaborately; she spent two hours in the mirror this morning doing it. She didn't have to say it, but you know she hopes to run into someone who will run back to Edward and tell him about how gorgeous his future betrothed was today in the market.
Lily slips her hand into yours, and you two trail behind Maggie - ducklings behind their mother duck. Lily had whispered to you this morning between bites of breakfast that Mother had set Maggie to watch you to make sure you didn't slip off. She couldn't catch you out at night, but she knew you were disappearing somewhere.
She'd been creeping into the room for the past two weeks, only to find you pretending to sleep beside Lily. You'd close your eyes, and bury your face into the pillow, trying to sleep, but instead filled with thoughts of the executioner. Wondering if he was out there standing in the same spot, the waves soaking the bottom of his cloak, the ash on his mask shining in the moonlight. Wondering if he was thinking about you.
"I'm going to take Lily to the butcher; it's stupid for all three of us to go to the same place," you say, winking down at Lily. Maggie stops and sighs, heavy enough that you can see her shoulders heave.
"Mother said for us all to go together."
"What trouble can I get into with Lily?"
You elbow Lily just before Maggie turns to level a suspicious look at the both of you. Lily speaks up for the two of you, trying to keep her face serious.
"I can keep an eye on her - no one will get into any trouble when I'm around."
Maggie rolls her eyes at the two of you, you can see her wearing down.
"Besides if we go to the butcher, then that means you can take the long way home. And pass the tailor's shop."
That gets her - Edward will be there, working with his father, and if she doesn't have to cart you and Lily around, the two of them can meet in the alley.
"Fine. But meet me at the end of the street and don't tell Mother."
"I would never think of it."
You and Lily watch her disappear into the market vendors before the two of you turn in the opposite direction.
"What do you want to do?" You ask, nudging Lily with your shoulder. "We have at least an hour of freedom."
"Let's go by the bakery; I want something sweet."
"Something sweet? You are the best baker in the house, all you do is eat sweet food."
The wind blows your skirts around as the two of you walk across the village, dodging loose stones and puddles. You're trying to jump from one stone to the other when Lily grabs your arm.
"Look!"
Thirty feet away from the two of you, in the middle of the street, the executioner stands. People shove themselves onto the sides of the buildings, straining to get away from him. He doesn't seem to pay anyone any mind as he walks. Lily pulls on your arm, trying to pull you to the side, away from him. But you're stuck fast to the ground; even from this distance, you can see him looking at you as he walks.
Lily whines your name, pulling harder on your arm. He gets closer, close enough that you can almost make out the wrinkles beside his eyes. His eyes catch yours - you can tell recognition sparks in them. You want to say something to him, but you know if you do, it will get back to your Mother. So you let Lily pull you away from him, closer to one of the buildings, but your eyes never leave him.
He passes by, nearly silent for such a large man, black boots shining in the sunlight.
"Why is he out?" Lily hisses in your ear as he passes. You pull your attention from his broad back to her.
"I'm sure he also has errands to run."
"He's so scary."
You watch as he disappears around the corner - wondering what he thought about you, about what he'd say if you stopped and spoke to him, say hello here in public. The thoughts stick with you as you and Lily duck into the bakery. You're stuck thinking about it as she bribes the young boy behind the counter to give her two sweet rolls for free, promising that she'll pay him back next time. The two of you eat them as you walk to the butcher's, honey coating your fingertips.
You watch the butcher wrap meat in brown paper, but your mind is on the executioner: on how he refused to look at you until you were dressed, how he walked you back to the edge of the village. It takes just a short walk to make it back home, Maggie waiting for you at the end of the street so that you can all walk in together. You notice the way one of the pins in her hair is gone, a single lock of hair falling.
Inside it's a commotion - the three of you come through the door to your Mother rushing past with an armful of clothes.
"You all took your damn good time! Hurry up and go get clean for dinner. We're going to have guests tonight."
You press yourself against the wall as one of the hired girls hustles past, a tablecloth in her hand.
"Who's coming? What is this?" You inquire, as your mother shoves a dress into your arms. You try to peer at her over the royal blue material.
"Your uncle is coming to dinner, and so is Jonathan." Your heart sinks. Jonathan . A suitor hand-picked by Father for you. You've barely digested the information before your mother whirls on you, hair in disarray and fire in her eyes.
"And you will not act like a brat tonight. You are twenty years old - nearly twenty-one. Your sister will be getting married this year and I intend to announce your wedding shortly after. You will dress like a lady and act like one or so help me, I will send you to the nunnery this time.
And you," she whirls to Lily, her chest heaving. Lily shrinks half behind you, "will behave also young lady. You and your sister will not make a fool of me tonight. Do you understand?"
The two of you nod in unison together, too scared to say anything else. Mother waves the two of you upstairs - you trip over the dress in your arms, slamming your shin into one of the stairs. You emerge at the top, cursing under your breath.
The two of you rush to your room - Lily's dress laid across the bed; you shake the one Mother shoved in your hands out, nose wrinkled. It's one of Maggie's old ones: dark blue and heavy, elaborate embroidery across the bottom.
"I don't know how she expects me to fit into this," you mutter, throwing it across the bed. Maggie, taller than you by an entire head and more willowy, had never been able to share dresses with you.
"What do you think Uncle is coming for?" Lily asks, emerging from the neck of her dress, turning around in a silent request for you to lace her up.
"Probably to ask Father for money for another stupid business prospect, just like the last time."
You lace her dress, loosely.
"Can you tighten it up?"
"Why do you need your dress tighter? You're thirteen."
"The other girls wear theirs tighter."
Lily pouts at you, and you sigh at her.
"Come here; I'm only doing it a little tighter. When you lace mine, make sure it's loose, if I can even get it on. I'll braid your hair for you."
You re-lace her, just incrementally tighter, and redo the braids you did for her that morning, pinning them up in the back. From below, Mother is yelling to hurry up ! You get dressed in a hurry, and to your surprise, the dress slips over you, but you know lacing it up will be difficult.
When your mother comes up the stairs ten minutes later, you have your hands braced against the end of the bed; Lily is pulling with all her might to try to get the back to close.
"Go wash your face, Lily," she says, brushing her away and taking the strings herself.
You know what's coming next; you breathe in, and she jerks the laces tight - you can feel the boning squeeze your ribs.
"Does it have to be this dress?" You ask as your mother pulls the strings again. You press your hands to your stomach, trying to breathe better as Mother ties the back, tucking the strings so they can't be seen.
"Jonathan likes the color blue."
"And that means I have to be packed into this like a sausage?"
Mother sighs, pushing on your shoulders so that you sit on the end of the bed. Her hands are soft in your hair as she pulls it down, and twists it back up, pinning it into place.
"You could do much worse than Jonathan. At this point, he's the only man that will have you."
"Have me? Like I'm a cow."
She sticks another pin in your hair, nearly stabbing your scalp.
"No. Like you're a woman; you can't do everything in this life alone. Besides," she tucks the last piece of hair in, "he travels. You could go with him."
Your hands smooth down the skirt of the dress, picking at a loose thread.
"I want to travel where I want to go, not where someone is going to show me off."
Your mother's fingers are soft on your shoulders as she turns you so she can look at you.
"We don't always get what we want in life. Sometimes we just have to take what we're given. Come on. Your uncle is waiting downstairs to say hello."
She holds your hand down the stairs; at the bottom, your Uncle Henry stands - taller than your father and thinner but not nearly as imposing. He kisses you on each cheek before moving to Mother. You leave them to talk and take your place at the dining table. It's empty except for the plates already sat down. In the kitchen, you can hear the hired girl banging around. The sound grates at your nerves, and the dress itches at your back where you can't reach.
There's a knock at the door - it sounds like a funeral cannon going off. You try rearranging your face into a smile and push yourself up from your chair. You're sure you look more like you have an upset stomach. In the hallway everyone explodes into a chorus of greetings. A moment later, Jonathan walks into the dining room.
If you're being honest, he's not the worst pick that your mother and father could have chosen. He's never been rude or forward with you, and he's not horrible looking, but as he reaches you and takes your hand, all you can think about is how small they must be compared to the executioner's hands.
"Hello, Jonathan." You try to smile at him as he kisses your hand.
"Hello, darling."
He turns just in time to miss the grimace on your face - turning to shake your father's hand when your father walks in behind him. You take your seat, waving at Lily to come sit down beside you quickly.
Dinner passes slowly; you're barely able to eat anything from the rolling in your stomach and the way the dress presses into you. The conversation is flowery and fake - Uncle Henry laughing too loudly, Jonathan smiling to politely across the table. It sets you on edge; Lily can see it because she reaches under the table to pat your knee.
It comes to a boiling point when Uncle Henry begins to describe his new business of shipping items.
"We've got a new ship; smaller and faster than the ones usually used. It can't hold as much cargo, but it can sail routes in half the time. With just two of them we can double how much cargo we're moving out of ports."
Your mother is leaning into the conversation, no doubt to know what she's going to tell Father no to later, Father is enraptured by your uncles conversation, and Jonathan leans across the table, listening in.
"You know," Jonathan says, cutting into the conversation, "I think you'd have more success using them to ferry people. Imagine how much people would pay to get where they're going faster."
Uncle Henry points at him across the table, a grin spreading over his face.
"The boy understands."
"Of course he does," Father says, pausing to take a drink, "he's already got plans to take my daughter on a cross-oceanic trip after the wedding."
Your fingers falter on your glass, it nearly spills, red drops spattering across the table like blood.
"Excuse me?"
Everyone turns to look at you, and you get the feeling that there's a joke you haven't been let in on.
"Well," Father says, shifting awkwardly in his seat. Mother cuts her eyes at him, a look you don't miss. "We were going to discuss this later."
"Discuss what?" You ask, voice rising. "Because it seems as if the decision has been made for me."
Jonathan's gaze swivels between you and your father; you bunch the tablecloth in your hands.
"Calm down dear," Mother says, rising slightly from her seat, "we will talk about this later."
"No!" You yell, slamming your hands to the table and pushing yourself up. "We won't. Because I know how the conversation will go. I will be forced to agree. This is an ambush!"
Your cup spills, staining the table red. Everyone in the room seems to hold a collective breath. Jonathan moves to stand; you turn, knocking your chair over. Across the table, Maggie gives you a look of contempt - it's enough to push you toward the door.
Everyone calls your name; you can hear your uncle laughing behind you. Someone's hand grabs at your wrist, but you jerk yourself away without looking to see who it is. Outside it's dark; windows are lit up with candle light and fires flickering. In the distance lightning strikes, grey clouds rolling towards you.
You run, slipping on the grass, towards the cove. You scrape your hands, cutting one of them on a sharp rock as you scramble down. You ignore the sting, and the sound of fabric tearing. You land hard on the sand, scrambling to pull yourself upright.
Across the cove, you see a flicker of white and a shadow ripple.