Read Online Somewhere Beneath Those Waves by Sarah Monette - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Monette
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doorway—white as a ghost but fully dressed.
“Lane,” I said. “Lane, you oughtn’t—”
“Gerard?” she said again, and then they were clinging together in the doorway, talking and laughing and crying all together in a horrible tangle, and I knew that she was going back. Going back to Hylfeneth, going back to him, going back to the life I’d thought and hoped and even prayed she’d renounced. I’d thought she’d begun to see me again, the way she’d seen me before some fool traveling peddler had infected her with dreams of Hylfeneth and she’d stopped seeing anything but the blood-red minarets and lace-spun bridges of the stories. I’d thought, when she came back, that the reality had cured her of the mindless dreams, that if we could just wait out the last throes of the fever, Lane would be back, my Lane who’d never laughed at me for being raw-boned and ugly and dark, who’d never called me goblin, who had shared with me things that this handsome hero would never understand. He didn’t know the Lane I did. I’d thought Lane had realized that, too, but the radiance on her face told me I was wrong.
They were deciding to leave as I watched them. I could see it on their faces. They would go riding off into the clouds together, and Lane wouldn’t have to face Father or explain herself to Gertrude or confront any of the remnants of a life she didn’t want. She didn’t even see me when she said goodbye, only her faithful half-sister—every heroine has one.
I don’t know if there was something I could have said, some way I could have reached her. I lie awake nights, wondering. But there was nothing I could have told her that she didn’t already know, and if what she knew was not enough to keep her here, then what use would any words of mine be?
She strode out ahead of Gerard, eager for the next adventure I suppose, and I caught his cloak and said, “When she dies, don’t bring her body here.”
I don’t think he understood me, not really, but he understood something, because he nodded and said, a little awkwardly, as if he wasn’t used to it, “Karlin, I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “She’s made her choice.”
He left then, following her as he would follow her anywhere, and I stayed behind, as I had stayed behind the first time she left. Stayed behind to keep the lamps clean and lit, to keep the household running, to keep carrying the responsibilities Lane had let fall.
I’m no heroine. I don’t have a story. And Lane’s story is not mine to tell, except for this: she made her choice .
Ashes, Ashes
Snow fell from the gray sky like ashes.
I stood at the window, defying the weather to affect my mood. After months of restoration and renovation, we were finally moving into the house where my husband had spent his childhood summers, the house of the grandmother he loved, who had died when he was fifteen. The house had been standing vacant ever since, and for a time we had despaired of rendering it liveable at all.
I wanted our success to be greeted with dazzling sunlight, but instead we had gray louring clouds and snow.
Martin came up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, and kissed the back of my neck. “Penny for your thoughts, beloved.”
“I was just watching the snow,” I said. I turned in the circle of his arms and stood up on tip-toe to kiss him. “And thinking how glad I am to be here.”
He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Grandmother Louise would be happy. Do you want to take a walk?”
“Yes, I’d like that,” I said. “Show me where you used to play.” I let him help me with my coat.
The snow was falling slowly, big wet flakes that melted like kisses as they touched the ground. We chose a path that led down into the woods behind the house; I held closely to Martin’s arm. The doctor had said I did not need to treat myself as if I were made of glass, but I could remember my grandmother and her sisters trading their cautionary tales
“Lane,” I said. “Lane, you oughtn’t—”
“Gerard?” she said again, and then they were clinging together in the doorway, talking and laughing and crying all together in a horrible tangle, and I knew that she was going back. Going back to Hylfeneth, going back to him, going back to the life I’d thought and hoped and even prayed she’d renounced. I’d thought she’d begun to see me again, the way she’d seen me before some fool traveling peddler had infected her with dreams of Hylfeneth and she’d stopped seeing anything but the blood-red minarets and lace-spun bridges of the stories. I’d thought, when she came back, that the reality had cured her of the mindless dreams, that if we could just wait out the last throes of the fever, Lane would be back, my Lane who’d never laughed at me for being raw-boned and ugly and dark, who’d never called me goblin, who had shared with me things that this handsome hero would never understand. He didn’t know the Lane I did. I’d thought Lane had realized that, too, but the radiance on her face told me I was wrong.
They were deciding to leave as I watched them. I could see it on their faces. They would go riding off into the clouds together, and Lane wouldn’t have to face Father or explain herself to Gertrude or confront any of the remnants of a life she didn’t want. She didn’t even see me when she said goodbye, only her faithful half-sister—every heroine has one.
I don’t know if there was something I could have said, some way I could have reached her. I lie awake nights, wondering. But there was nothing I could have told her that she didn’t already know, and if what she knew was not enough to keep her here, then what use would any words of mine be?
She strode out ahead of Gerard, eager for the next adventure I suppose, and I caught his cloak and said, “When she dies, don’t bring her body here.”
I don’t think he understood me, not really, but he understood something, because he nodded and said, a little awkwardly, as if he wasn’t used to it, “Karlin, I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “She’s made her choice.”
He left then, following her as he would follow her anywhere, and I stayed behind, as I had stayed behind the first time she left. Stayed behind to keep the lamps clean and lit, to keep the household running, to keep carrying the responsibilities Lane had let fall.
I’m no heroine. I don’t have a story. And Lane’s story is not mine to tell, except for this: she made her choice .
Ashes, Ashes
Snow fell from the gray sky like ashes.
I stood at the window, defying the weather to affect my mood. After months of restoration and renovation, we were finally moving into the house where my husband had spent his childhood summers, the house of the grandmother he loved, who had died when he was fifteen. The house had been standing vacant ever since, and for a time we had despaired of rendering it liveable at all.
I wanted our success to be greeted with dazzling sunlight, but instead we had gray louring clouds and snow.
Martin came up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, and kissed the back of my neck. “Penny for your thoughts, beloved.”
“I was just watching the snow,” I said. I turned in the circle of his arms and stood up on tip-toe to kiss him. “And thinking how glad I am to be here.”
He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Grandmother Louise would be happy. Do you want to take a walk?”
“Yes, I’d like that,” I said. “Show me where you used to play.” I let him help me with my coat.
The snow was falling slowly, big wet flakes that melted like kisses as they touched the ground. We chose a path that led down into the woods behind the house; I held closely to Martin’s arm. The doctor had said I did not need to treat myself as if I were made of glass, but I could remember my grandmother and her sisters trading their cautionary tales
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