Summary: A remote 19th century English fishing village-windswept hills, salt-stained cottages and a harbor that smells of brine and sawdust-thatâs what greets eighteen year old not yet wed Pippa Fitz Amobi. This town that whispers of selkies and sea wives. Pip born to a well read father and a mother who died young-childbirth. She embarks on a six month long journey-her father a professor of antiquarian studies is on the hunt for the lasted find. The fossils are like home-the catalog bird calls are calm and comforting. âThe villagers speak of sea wives and seal brides- I asked Mrs Penrose if she believed in them. She said âI believe in grief and thatâs close enoughâ. Pip finds you on the shoreline-your trembling and cold-terrified-eyes wide like youâve seen the worst of men-the sea wonât take you back. Not without your fur-the men who stole it had laughed and left you stranded in skin that felt like mourning. Then pip finds you-a girl with ink stained fingers and a calmness in her eyes. Pippa fitz Amobi doesnât ask you if you are mad-she asks what you need. What you lost. Connections strengthen-love lingers beneath small smiles and pieces of sugared biscuits-and you think maybe you could possibly stay.
Notes: 19th century pip is a favorite of mine.
Warnings: Scottish Mythology, Irish Mythology, mentions of Pirates in the historical sense, Gothic influences, Pippa Fitz Amobi being curious by nature, not as detective or mysterious but more gothic in nature. 19th century Pippa Fitz Amobi, Selkies, sea wives, Pippa Fitz Amobi being heroic and swoon worthy, homoerotic friendship, found family, angst if you squint, gothic in feeling.
1891, AshWick-on-sea, England, United Kingdom
The rustling of her fatherâs tools in his knapsack and the few belongings brought with them break the girl from her previous entanglement-the most precious reprieve- sleeping in oneâs rickety carriage-each wheel sloshes uncomfortably- each horse grunts in sorrow from the whip that falls on its back. The single oil-lit flame in the carriage allows little light, but itâs just enough for Pip to make do with the dark sea that greets her from the window
It's a treacherous, long journey far from the comfort of London. From her father's estate that now feels worlds away. You only need to look at the moors and jagged hills to realize the land is alive with energy and the air crisp with something Pip cannot name.
The sea is a constant reminder of this endeavor; her father, a professor in antiquarian studies, has been waiting for a chance to sink his teeth into this side of the atlantic with hopes of finding some new research.
Pip, for all her curses, cannot reason with herself why her father included her in his adventure plans, but she is grateful nonetheless. London is stifling this time of year, with heat and humid temperatures that would make even the dead roll in their graves. Pip has no other diversions to keep her occupied, her french is fluent, her German even more. A few months in a salt stained village seems like a wonderful reward, far away from London society and expectations.
âThe sea looks as if itâs going to tumble the rocks away and weâll all go flying into its depthsâ she observers twisting the apples of her cheeks
Her father in turn shies away from his newspaper, a low and harmonious chuckle failing off his lips as he moves the pipe from his mouth, letting the smoke wither around the carriage, finding no sign that it bothered his dear daughter.
âIâve heard great many things about this village, Pipâ he stated, then moved closer, the smell of tobacco filling Pipâs lungs and making her nose twitch. Youâd think she would have built up immunity to the violent stench having grown up with it as a child.
âThis part of Yorkshire use to be a port for pirates in the 16 and early 17th centuries. Think what we could find on that beautiful coast-jewls-as well as fins and fishâ he concluded.
Pipâs eyebrows rose in concentration at the words, lighting up at the mere mention of pirates, Pip was a clever girl, born with an iron will when it came to education. She was in constant contact with learning, reading, graphing any kind of knowledge she could take between her fingers. Every culture, every tongue, and piratesâŚthat just sounded like a come hither thought.
The carriage began its descent down the Yorkshire Road, its wheels sloshing the remaining water from the rain. Pip peeked her head out of the window, her fatherâs voice calling after her in what he hoped was a firm voice, but seemed to have no desired affect.
âCareful, youâll bring this carriage down with your flighty movementsâ.
The air was crisp, filling her lungs with the smell of the ocean. The village was bathed in darkness, but Pip could just make out the sign that tossed in the wind. The carriage lights flickering over the words as they passed.
Ashwick-on-Sea. Founded 1432. Where the cliffs whisper, and the sea forgets.
âItâs too dark to make anything outâ she spoke, to which her father chuckled, tugging her down with a soft hand.
âDoubtless youâll be out at first sunrise tomorrowâ he stated, âwhat use is a daughter if she wonât explore?â He added.
The soft lamplights of the few servants that worked the only Inn around for miles seems to reflect off the waves of the sea, sending a curt and reflective flash to Pipâs eyes, who after sitting in a darkened carriage with only one small oil lamp her eyes were unforgiving and having trouble focusing.
Her fatherâs rough calloused hand was all she trusted as he gently guided her out of the carriage, âmind the mud, it seems even the coast cannot shy away from rainâ her father joked.
Pip, once down allowed her mind to settle, allowed her lungs to breathe, to smell the soil of the earth. She could see the waves bashing endlessly, the small inn looking warm and inviting. Salt on her tongue.
âWelcome to Ashwick-on Sea, letâs get them in before they catch their death out hereâ croaked a very old woman, who with the biggest smile waddled on over to Pip and her father, âI am Mrs Penrose, and goodness child what cheeks youâve got!â She exclaimed, ârosy as mid morningâ.
Mrs Penrose was a frightfully exciting older woman with rosy cheeks and large eyes, and seemed to talk a mile a minute as she lead both Pip and her father into the Inn. The wooden boards creaked and groaned as they walked along the hallway, the flame bouncing off the walls casting shadows as they went. paintings of all colours clung to the walls, and Pip tried to keep up but found she was no longer, eying all the paintings as they passed.
Pirate ships. Pirates. The sea. Cliffs. Seals.
âMy father told me this use to be a port for piratesâ Pip began, moving to Mrs Penrose, who looks gleeful at Pipâs words, like she was itching to blurt out every story that ever passed through this salted port of earth.
âSomething of a history lover are you?â Mrs Penrose asked, Pip smiled, the upper half of her lip moving in what she hoped was a kind and welcoming smile.
Mrs Penrose, a quick and loyal friend it seemed, moved to take Pip by the shoulders, âyour room is just pass your fatherâs up the stairs. And if you really are a bright and intuitive girl as you say you are, you might consider coming down to have tea with me tomorrow I have in my collection a little treat you might find feeds that appetite of yoursâ.
After saying goodnight to her father, a kiss on the cheek and a promise to rise tomorrow to see him off Pip followed old Mrs Penrose up the steps, flame casting a glow.
âA General History of the Robberies and Murrders of the most notorious Pyrates-â Mrs Penrose suddenly spoke, an amused brow lifted as Pip merely sputtered on her heels, nearly crashing into the womanâs back, mouth agape.
âThatâs only the 1724 work served as the primary source for the biographies of famous pirates like Blackbeard, Anne Bonny, and Mary Read-â Pip began, reciting the words so fast Mrs Penrose could only giggle.
âMy, my you are quite the scholar. Where did your father find you?â.
Mrs Penrose opened the door to reveal a drafty but pristine and elegant room. Nothing eye catching, for this was a simple place to rest your head before moving on. But the window overlooked the cliffs, the sea, and Pip found her legs walking over, pressing the pads of her fingernails to the glass, if she closed her eyes now, she could hear it, the waves.
Such beautiful noises they made as they clashed and met the cliffs.
It would be an even heavenly sight in the morning.
âI thought you would enjoy this room. Itâs the only room overlooking the sea. I ask you to forgive the lack of electricity. I know you must have an abundance in London, but here we use candlelightâ Mrs Penrose lit the candle by the bed, pulling back the duvet and placing Pipâs trunk near the bed.
âRest Miss Fitz Amobi. I dare say Iâll see you before sunriseâ. And with her cheery old smile she was gone, disappearing down the dark hallway, leaving Pip alone in the small room.
Pip began preparations for bed, thinking of all the things she wanted to accomplish on the morrow. Sheâs had a hankering to go by the cliffs, to the seashore, of course along with her father, but also by herself. Sheâd never been this close to the sea before, sheâd lived near the River Thames back in London, but the Thames compared not to this beauty. To the salt of the air, the freshness that brought life and essence.
Once she had changed into her nightgown, pulled down her hair, she moved to get into the bed. Its canvas was rough compared to back home, but she didnât mind. A bed was a place to rest your head.
Pulling out her notepad which was dusted with pencil markings did she write down the date, with one word etched onto the binding.
The smell of the wick burning as she blew was apparent in the air, the room becoming dark and taking with it the mysterious yet ancient barks of the seals that ghosted along the shores.
***********************************************************
The noise is what woke her first, the soft push and pull of the waves as they clash against the cliffs. The salt she could taste now even in sleep. Through tired barely awakening eyes Pippa Fitz Amobi stretched, and in an instant was up and out of bed, eying the contents of her window.
The blue marbled sea that stretched and stretched, the fishermen already out deep into the water, boats sloshing and reels descending and nets being cast out into the abyss. The women of the village walking to and from. Some with children by their side, eagerly twisting the dress of their mothers. The People were not fashionable by any means. Their clothes were muddy and stained and looked not the least bit of high society, but to Pip she found them all extraordinaire.
Something so Dickensian about the way the village operated. As if Charles Dickens himself had shook his novels and the village came tumbling out the yellowed pages.
âPilchards for four pence a piece!â
It wasnât long before the Inn steps were struggling to contain the ear splitting screech as footsteps, not neat in decorum, but laced with youthful energy came strutting the high incline of stairs as Pippa Fitz Amobi descended. Blue eyes wide with a high you could only get off knowledge. Cheeks as rosy as if she stepped out into the sun, her cheekbones high as she met Mrs Penroseâs gray eyes of amusement as she eyed the clock.
âNot a minute too soon. You beat your father. He is as quiet as a mouse. Which is surprising given that he was talking up a storm about parting earlier yesterdayâ.
âMy father often tells tall tales Mrs Penrose. If he mentions rising before the sun it usually means long after-like when the stars shineâ. The jest landed well and quite elegantly between the two.
Penroseâs eyes, which rose over Pip, from head to toe, rose in fascination, as if she herself had never seen such a young woman before.
âGoodness me what is it you are wearing dear? It looks positively medievalâ.
Pipâs eyes rose in indignation before calming, a small smile laced underneath her calm lips, âthis is proper apparel for a days worth of exploringâ. Was all that needed to be said.
She wore short trousers a button up top with the edges of the writs pulled up neatly, no lace, no sight of a dress anywhere, save for her Sunhat with a dove colored ribbon tied into its base because of course she was a lady-
âNever before have I seen such fashion on such a young woman. But I have a sense you are far from normal Miss Fitz Amobiâ. If it was meant as an insult it did not register.
Pip allowed herself to sit on the seat across the table, allowing her eyes to finally take in what was kept hidden under the dark at night. Hidden from the flame that was used to guide her to her room.
âHorse and Groomâ sat etched onto the fine wood of the top of the ceiling, where the pub started Pip guessed. The wood was glossy and staircases with such fine etchings of circles and craftsmanship that led up to the rooms. Garlandâs of such greenery clung to the walls, producing such a smell that felt like Father Christmas and winter setting in, far be it from winter. Stone as old as time from what Pip could tell sat a good few feet from the table, withered and retaining an almost reddish hue as a fire crackled and roared to life.
Checkered floors met Pipâs feet as she moved her feet to get a better look at the flooring. It was a chessboard if Pip had ever seen one. Black and red boxes lining her feet, pip half expected to play a game, and she found her eyes subconsciously looking for knights or perhaps a queen. Maybe littered somewhere behind the counter, which smelt of fried eggs and mushrooms and the rich smell of tomato.
Above the ancient red fireplace sat oil paintings, a carving of what looked like a seal-a seal for the second time, something that made Pipâs eyes squint. Above the carving was a lamp, not yet in use.
âI thought you said electricity was not used hereâ Pip quipped, getting up from her seat to pad across to the fireplace, not to look at the lamp, but the seal.
Mrs Penrose sat down the plate of fried eggs, mushrooms and a tomato, âin the rooms. It cost quite a pretty penny for all the rooms. Out here is the only lamp. Weâve only got a few here and there around the village. Which reminds me, heed the rule no exploring after dark. Poor Cedric Mosley fell into a ditch once. His mother went mad with worry-took hours to find the poor childâ.
Pip hummed In acknowledgment, the seal itself was intricately carved, with a fine hand, but it was the carving of what looked like a pelt beside the seal, that made Pip turn back on her heel, sitting down at the table, thanking Mrs Penrose, âwhy seals? You have a great big ghastly amount of them littered around this inn. The paintings, the carving-is there a reason Ashwick-On-Sea is so fond of seals?â.
Mrs. Penrose looked up from polishing a glass, her kind eyes brightening as though Pip had asked exactly the right question.
âAh. Youâve noticed.â She set the glass aside and leaned in close, like a secret. âMost visitors donât. Or they do, but they donât ask. Folk here prefer not to speak of certain things unless someone asks proper.â
Pipâs curiosity sharpened instantly. âI like proper answers.â
âOh, I know you do.â Mrs. Penrose chuckled. âYour fatherâs been in here telling me all about your cleverness. All he could talk about last night getting him settled. Says youâve a mind like a trap-once somethingâs in it, it never gets out.â
Pip flushed, but only slightly. âI just like to understand things.â
âWell then.â Mrs. Penrose lowered her voice, though the inn was empty save for a dozing fisherman by the fire that Pip had noticed till now. âAshwick-on-Sea was a pirate port once, back in the sixteenth century. Rough men, rougher deeds. But the sea has always had its own rules, and the folk who lived here before the pirates⌠they knew better than to cross them.â
Pip tilted her head. âCross who?â
âThe selkies, child.â
Mrs. Penrose nodded toward the drawings. âThose arenât just seals. Not to us. The old stories say the selkies watched over this coast long before any ship dropped anchor here. They kept the storms gentle, the fish plentiful. But theyâre sensitive creatures -proud, too. Harm one, and the sea itself will rise against you.â
Pipâs eyes flicked back to the sketches, studying them with renewed intensity. âSo the villagers drew them to⌠honor them?â
âTo remember,â Mrs. Penrose corrected softly. âThere was a time when forgetting cost us dearly.â
Pip leaned in. âWhat happened?â
Mrs. Penrose hesitated not theatrically, but with the weight of someone deciding how much truth a young woman could bear. âA pirate captain shot a seal pup for sport. Thought nothing of it. That night, the tide came in higher than it ever had. Swept half the harbor clean away. Only the houses with selkie charms above the doors were spared.â
Pipâs brows knit. âYou believe that?â
Mrs. Penrose smiled, not offended in the slightest. âMy dear, belief has nothing to do with it. The sea remembers. And so do we.â
Pip folded her arms, thoughtful. âThere must be records. Ship logs, weather accounts, maybe even court documents if the damage was severe enough. I could look.â
Mrs. Penrose laughed a warm, fond sound. âOf course you could. And if anyone could make sense of it, itâd be you. But mind this, Pip Fitz-Amobi: some truths live better in stories than in ledgers.â
Pip didnât argue, but her eyes gleamed with that familiar spark â the one that meant sheâd already decided to investigate anyway. The one that put her fatherâs blood on edge.
Mrs. Penrose saw it and shook her head affectionately. âYouâre your fatherâs daughter, right enough. The sea will like you. Curious souls always fare well here⌠so long as they show respect.â
Pip glanced once more at the drawings at the dark, knowing eyes staring back.
âI always do,â she murmured.
The story stewed with her. Percolated. Sat underneath her skin like some sort of itch. Not even the book Mrs Penrose gave her on Pirates seemed to amuse her. Pip sat idly by, eating the breakfast cooked for her and watching Mrs Penrose as she greeted guests, which was few and far in between. The only other guest was a man from Scotland with bushy brows and an accent Pip struggled to decipher.
âWhat time did my father say heâd be up?â She questioned, taking the last bite of buttered toast, the bread bristling inside her throat, she quickly swallowed the water from the cup and stood, dusting her fingers.
âI believe he said noon. Why? Going off already?â Mrs Penrose spoke.
Pip halted, the soles of her shoes squeaking.
âPerhaps. If my father wakes tell him Iâll be here shortlyâ.
Mrs Penroseâs lips raised into a smile, âtake an apple at least for that stomach of yours!â
Ashwick-On-Sea was unlike any other Pip had come to notice. The sky was ash-like, a blotting sky that pelted its residence every half hour. Pip had started out in the small village outside the Inn, walking along the road, watching the residents as they passed by in their carriage, mostly important wealthy men with glinting pocket watches and eyes that betrayed them. The streets were cobblestones, some sticking up uncomfortably causing the carriages to keel over ever so slightly. The buildings were far and few, and the market consisted of fish and oysters and salt stained stalls.
The air smelt of spices that made Pipâs nose turn and she quickly sped up, turning on the rows of houses. Pip had grown up use to the grounds of an estate, where she cantered and ran and enjoyed life. Her lessons were given by a tutor of fine education. These houses were made of stone and looked as if they held secrets. Latticed windows, chimneys stewing hot ash into the air.
The ports were a thing of beauty. The boats bobbed on the calm waves of the sea, men sat in boats, fish nets in hand, either looking grim or positively beaming with pride. Some lifted their hats off to Pip as she passed, âTop of the morning to you love!â
Pip nodded politely as she passed the boats and the men.
Thatâs when she heard it, the sound of a man, who seemed deeply dissatisfied, as if he was one minute away from blowing his top off. A man stood a few feet from the Port, a tall figure he was, with orange hair plastered to his perspiring face, and large grey eyes hidden by a fishermenâs hat that made Pipâs eyes rise in interest. The sun shone once a year here. So why the hat?
The man was busy at work. Eyes on the port as his fingers felt the wood, searching for something, and it was then Pip noticed it. Glinting from the far edge, about to tumble into the salt sea.
âExcuse me sir, would you be by chance looking for this?â Pip held up the shuttle needle with careful fingers moving to hand it to the man.
The manâs eyebrows rose, and he let out a booming laugh. One that made Pipâs ears ring for how loud his shriek was. But he nodded and took it with greatful fingers.
âThankee lass. I was. Would have been looking for it all long if ye hadnât come and shown meâ. He tipped his hat gratefully, extending his hand, âthe name is Byron, Charles Byron. And what is a wee thing like you doing out here on the port?â
Pip let the edges of her lips crease, âIâm new to the village. My father is a sea explorer. Though not in those words. Would you happen to know which area is less populated? By the sea I mean?â
Byronâs eyes creased, and with a look of recognition pointed to the far side of the island, âthat way. But careful with the tide. Mrs Penrose told me about you. Sheâll be wanting you back soon enough.â
Pippa nodded, tipping her own sun hat and starting off.
She stayed to the path Mr Byron had offered and quickly made it out of the village and along the rough road, no cobblestones to greet, just plain dust path of mud and grime. Evidence of carriages and horses hooves along the path. After about ten minutes of walking Pip came across a stone, massive in nature. She squinted as she eyed the stone, âAshwick-on Seaâ with a an arrow to the right, the direction she had come from to the left, âSaweâ a nearby town only an hour away.
The farther she walked from AshwickâonâSea, the more the coastline seemed to shed its human shape. The cottages thinned, the path narrowed, and the wind grew sharper, carrying the taste of salt and something older. Perhaps ancient.
Thatâs when Pip saw it. A house or what remained of one perched on a rise overlooking the sea. Built of gray stone, the kind quarried from the cliffs themselves, it sat hunched against the wind like an old creature bracing for another blow. The roof had partially collapsed, leaving ribs of timber exposed to the sky. Sea thrift grew in the cracks of the foundation, pink blossoms trembling in the breeze.
Just the steady roar of the waves below and the faint rattle of loose shutters tapping against the frame.
She took out her notebook, jotting a quick line:
âAbandoned stone dwelling east of village. Likely 17th century. Position suggests former lookout or fishermanâs home.â
Pip trudged on, over rocky mulch and green marshes, till finally she came upon the beach. It was moments like this that always made Pip stop and take it in. The sea gulls reared their heads, flying like they were always meant to be there. The waves lapped at the shore, sea shells embedded in the soft mulch dirt.
Pip allowed her fingers to ghost over the shells, taking in the way the shells felt in her hand, the air. Everything was so beyond beautiful, so bright-so alive.
Pip laughed, the edges of her lips lifting in joy, her marble blue eyes setting on the sky as she laid down flat on the ground, fragments of sand and the feeling of water lapping at her clothes.
It was a wonderful thing-the six senses. Pip often use to play a game, hold her fingers to her ears, listen to her heartbeat, smell the scents of the earth. But now, she simply listened. Tried to pick up anything that could exist on this island.
The waves, the sea gulls, the grass that flew in the wind, and-
It was unmistakable. It was fear stricken, and it made pipâs heart pound hard in her chest.
The wind carried it, brought it till it sat right in front of Pip.
Goosebumps arose on the girlâs skin lighting her whole body in a flame.
Because it wasnât a cry of a human, it rose and fell with the wind. Held some sort of ancient grip on her. And soon without even meaning to Pip flew to her feet and began walking.
The clouds cast a shadow over the beach, like somehow the cries had made the atmosphere darker, like it heard the pain.
The wind rose in every direction, the waves moving as if they too were troubled. The sea gullsâs cries were louder, and pip watched as the boats she had seen just minutes before were gone, some rowing back to port because of the waters which rose and crashed like they had minds of their own.
Pipâs feet made indents in the murky sand, pebbles meeting the sole of her foot as she walked.
At first she thought it was a young child, or what seemed like a young child, sitting upon the murky sand, shoulders heaving, moving as if in deep peril, but the closer she got to the figure, the clearer and more troubling the image came.
You were washed up on shore, mud and grime and dirt clung to your body, your shoulders shook as you sat, hair impossibly long, raven colored that glinted such a fine color. It was obvious you were in distress, your hands were to your lips, and you were bare. Naked.
The sight should have made Pip queasy, should have made her look away and turn back. Thatâs what ladies of her station did. They would turn back without the slightest thought. But not Pip. In fact she was the opposite. She was going to help you. She had this deep need to help you. Her chest rose as she stepped closer, and soon your head whipped around, scared and frantic, and Pip held her hands up, careful in her movements, in her stance.
Pipâs heart leap in her chest as she took in your face. It was etched perfectly, strong jawbone, chiseled cheeks, eyes that caught the light even in this dour English weather. It was a face so beautiful and soft that Pip swallowed. A face etched in storybooks she would read as a child. Drawn in portraits.
âDonât be frightened. Iâm here to help. Youâre cold.â Pip chose her words carefully, licking her lips, and noticing the way you eyed her straight back, flighty eyes, arms wrapped around your bare chest, hiding what little skin you could. Saving what dignity you could.
Tears clung to your cheeks like racetracks, sticking to the apples of your cheeks mixing with the saltwater, little hiccups that made Pipâs heart flutter.
You hiccuped again, your voice lost. You were either in shock or didnât understand her.
Logically in Pipâs mind you could have been lost at sea. She had heard of ships losing their passengers on board. Had read it in a newspaper once. Her eyes flew out to the sea, imagining you falling out at sea. But without clothes? The pit that opened in her stomach thinking about you-in a less than pleasant situation made her stomach jolt, and a fierce protective instinct took hold of her bones.
Pipâs eyes immediately flew around the beach, searching for anyone in the distance. She needed to get you in clothes and away from the shoreline. Away from prying eyes.
âItâs dangerous to be out like thatâ she spoke, âmen fish around these waters. And they wonât take kindly to such a beautiful girl like yourselfâ. Pip had said it fast, but it was obvious you understood because you gripped your shoulders tighter, a slight tinge of red on your cheeks.
Pip removed her button up long sleeve she had worn, rushing frantically as she undid the buttons, you simply watched as she pulled it off, hair a mess of brown strands that fell just below her chin. The sight of her, standing in front of you, strong willful eyes filled with warmth, made you feel safe? Made you feel content. Made your racing heart beat. Like just maybe you had found a friend.
You had never seen a human up close before. And by up close, close enough to see the flecks of blue that lined her eyes. Her arms, which were strong, her pale skin. Your eyes widened a fraction when she lifted the button top, and you made contact with her embroidered lace undergarment.
A silver necklace hung below her neck before disappearing down her lace top.
Pip didnât move closer to you, she just held the button up in her fingers, like a gift. With soft eyes and a determination in her jaw.
âI would offer you a coat but it seems I underestimated the weather yet again. I promise this will keep you warm and clothed.â
Pip averted her eyes as you stepped closer, hands eagerly seeking the piece of clothing, she turned on her back, hands behind her back, giving you privacy. Her eyes focused on the surroundings and not your pale milky skin, your hourglass figure, the baby fat that clung between your thighs and the soft cleavage you covered like a lifeline. Most definitely and utterly not that.
The button up smelt of ink and rain, and you couldnât help but brush the soft fabric to your nose, sniffing like some child. It smelt of the sea. Reminding you of home. You moved to put the shirt on, it fell just below your knees, seeming a bit big on you, and you struggled to button up the buttons, your fingers not use to such trivial human actions.
You felt out of touch. A fish out of water. Scared, cold, and hungry.
âIf you need some assistance with the buttons please donât hesitate to ask-they can be quite trivial, my mother made me that blouse before she passed and she sewn them on a bit oddâ.
You didnât need to speak, because Pip was turning, and her cheeks grew with such a fine shade of red when she caught sight of you.
A mysterious girl with a face so beautifulâŚstanding on the shoreline in her oversized button up. It was a dream, a fancy she had on nights where she allowed such thoughts.
âAs I suspected. Itâs rather big on you, but I suppose thatâs a good thingâ. She let out a terse smile, âshall I help with the buttons?â.
You eyed pip for a minute, not saying anything, letting the pregnant pause dance along the shoreline between you.
There was something about Pip that made your heart beat, made your instinct to run and never turn back, to return to the sea even though you were not welcome fall into deaf ears. It was like you could sense the bone deep loyalty she held in her veins. Sense something was different about this human.
When you gave a simple nod, pip moved, keeping in mind your personal space, but close enough her fingers weaved every button, her eyes focused, lips sewn together in concentration.
You could see silver in her irises. The soft baby breaths hair of her eyelashes, how they curled down. And when the last button was finished, she stood back.
Assessing her own handy work, âthere we areâ. She spoke it in just a soft tone, filled with all the ease of a girl just practicing embroidery than a girl who had come across an unkempt girl naked, alone, and afraid on a shoreline.
âMy name is Pippa Fitz Amobi, but my family call me Pip. Is-is there anyone I can call for you? Are you hurt? Alone?â She questioned.
You shook your head wistfully, eyes cast off to the sea, and your heart soared and halted at the same time. You were no longer welcome by home. The sea use to call to you, now it cast you off, releasing you to this purgatory of land.
âI cannot go back. I am no longer welcomeâ. The words were said wistfully, between clenched teeth. Pipâs back straightened at your words, because your voice was smooth and pleasing to the ears. A hint of a smile filled her lips, because it was the first words you had spoke to her.
Pip, always understanding, always calm, solid, simply nodded.
âAlright, so we wonât call anyone.â
Pip was just about to ask when you spoke, beating her to it. The question that rose on Pipâs lips.
âThey wonât take me backâ
Pipâs brow furrowed, âyour family?â
âNoâ. Your voice was thin and frayed at the edges, and then the words were said, âthe seaâ.
Pip stilled, brows raised in recognition. She allowed herself to look at you, to truly look. Not with human eyes. With eyes of age. Eyes that didnât forget. Eyes that respected the past.
Your eyes were a beautiful color, cheeks almost pink, body a perfect creation, and Pip allowed herself to eye your stance, like it hurt you to stand, to walk.
You were a creature born to temp men.
And thatâs when it clicked. The pieces fell into place so suddenly and so quickly that pip almost felt stupid for not realizing sooner.
You were a creature of mythology.
And you only seemed to confirm it, eying her with blatant trust in your eyes.
âIt doesnât know me like this. Not without what was stolenâ.
Pipâs breath caught, âwhat was stolen?â.
You hesitated, eyes glimmering with something ancient and old and melancholy.
âMy skin. The one that fitsâ.
Thatâs why she had found you, crying, and bare. You could not return home without it.
You swallowed, continuing, âI use to belong to the water. It carried me. Knew me.â Your voice trembled, âbut now it recoils from me. I am wrong. I am unfinishedâ
Pip could feel it, the turmoil in your chest, the want. The need to go back.
âYou must miss your family something dreadfulâ she found herself saying, eyes downcast, marble blue facing the rough troubled waves.
You blinked your eyes, once, then twice, utterly surprised by the way Pip seemed to understand. She was a empath it seemed.
âI miss them so much I feel my heart might burstâ the admission was pure and simple.
âI understand the sentiment. My mother passed on a few years ago now. I still wake up thinking of her. Itâs a life I didnât want to live but I find life has a few pleasuresâ.
Before you comment on or say anything else Pip was gently taking you by the hand.
âThe weather will get worse. You need proper clothes. I have a room at the bride and groom, itâs an Inn. Youâll have proper lodgings and food. Then we can make a plan on what to do about the sea needing you backâ.
You werenât sure what made you nod, what made you follow this girl, but you did. You followed close at her heels, just enough space between you both as she led you through the road up to the Inn. You clung to the button up Pip had given you, holding it tightly between your white fingers, clutching. Clutching to her fingers. Afraid to let go.
Pip for her part only adjusted her hold on your fingers, softly weaving her fingers through yours in a calm hold, like you were some frightened bunny in need of tender care.
Your eyes got bigger and bigger as you walked the path across the beach, passing an old building made from stone and moss, your feet were sore and blistering by the time you made it to the cobblestone streets of the village. It was a type of pain you had never felt before-almost quiet in the way it spoke to you, quiet yet roaring its head at you, lingering in the heels of your foot and causing cracks of red into the dirt beneath.
A part of you marveled at the human side of you-how pain felt in such a fragile form, a part of you also believed you deserved it. And a part of you wanted nothing more than to go home.
You were so busy in your self loathing, your inner thoughts that you failed to notice the way Pip was staring at you. With eyes so focused you might as well be art. Her eyes flew down to the way you walked, with a slight limp, a crook of your toe lifting up, and the blood red smudges that followed your left foot like a trail. In an instant, and without much thought, she began to lift off her shoes, which were leather with a few curious straps. Buckles. Thatâs what they were. Were they called buckles?
âThese should fit. You look about my size.â Pip spoke, all but buckling the shoes onto you, leaving her feet bare.
âI donât need them-â you began, voice soft, as if carried to the wind, but Pip just gave you a stare so venomous, in a way that made your heart race and your cheeks blush. Her blue eyes rimmed with a quiet âdo not test me, for I will winâ look.
âYour feet are bleeding. It is not a matter of my comfort. I have been far more uncomfortable in my life than this. I am anything but selfish-in fact I aspire to be selfless-so for you to deny my help is very much a slap in my face.â
It was said with such serious eyes, and yet, watching Pip with her pale barefoot feet, her dove ribbon in her hair, outfit complete and utterly messed up on account of you now wearing half of it-you couldnât help but feel secure. Secure in the knowledge that this young woman-was a safe place to land. In a world you didnât know-a world so filled with betrayers and everything you had ever heard of humans-their was still good.
That people still could be good if given the chance.
âThank youâŚâ you found yourself saying, fingers automatically clutching the button up Pip had given you, arms woven around your frame like a frightened child, quivering, alone, terrified-yet not? Yet-secure?
The smile that graced Pipâs features was feather bright, kind, but firm.
âNo need to thank me. Itâs simply what is needed. Now, we are just about to reach the village.â The way the words were said, like Pip had said it as something that was not exactly ideal, as if the people had pitchforks or knifes or pointy teeth-as if the people of the town were anything but friendly.
The pit in your stomach turned into a Chasm, so deep you felt sickly. And this wasnât the calm way you would feel sickness, this was violent, twisting and turning and making your insides feel like being sick all over the road.
Humans displeased your kind. Humans were dangerous. They treaded the waters like they owned it, took plenty of cod and eel and other varieties from the sea, plundered more like.
âTheyâll look and loiter, but pay no mind to them. Iâll keep you well looked afterâ Pip spoke, a kind of charming smile on her lips as she turned on the road, the sign reading Ashwick on Sea, you watched as the sign was caked with dirt and grime.
You read the sign, the very human part of your brain, which was new to an extent, read the letters, committing to memory, your mother had taught you to read, not that it was useful living in the sea, but at the age of twelve, when you first turned into a human girl, the body you had been given under the pelt, your mother had taken it upon herself to reach you the ways of the world. Because the world was scary.
Reading had felt like a chore then, so much to do, so much to see, that you hated sitting, in human form, with your lengthy legs and a body so timid and unmoving, like one of those big giraffes you had seen in a textbook, and heard one of the fishers talk about on his boat as he passed.
You were glad your mom had done that. Because now, it mattered. It mattered. It mattered in the way that you walked, without poise, with pip and her careful gentle fingers helping you up, a hand on your arm, soft and gentle, holding you up as you took each step. It mattered in the way the men halted, eyes wide, their oars, nets, fishing boats halting as you passed the pier, Pip with her head held sigh, giving them all a commanding smile, not afraid, not caring what they thought, because you were small and afraid and she was all you knew.
âThis use to be a pirate town a long time agoâ pip spoke, trying to smooth the mood, âall these people know is the water. A bit like you.â She said it warmly, softly, but you still couldnât help but scoff, and you did, the sound registered before it even met your lips, and the way pip eyed you, blue eyes-almost like the ocean, tidal waves in her irises, with a crease in her eyes and a sudden lift of her lips, smug, like she was proud of you-
âI understand you must have a different perspective. Iâll enjoy hearing it once we get you settled. The inn isnât very far, youâre doing absolutely magnificent. The men are the worst part-â right when the words were uttered you and pip were on the main road, just pass the pier, pass the old men and men of all ages, who smelled like the sea and some vile smell, alcohol.
Cobble stone met your feet, and suddenly you were glad pip had given you her shoes, for the ground was beyond hard and was sure to have made your feet bleed even more. Pip was content as she walked by your side, dove ribbon in her hair, and her eyes moved to catch you staring.
âDo you like the ribbon? Itâs fairly nice. Iâm not much for ribbons in my hair, not much for dresses either, but I promised my father Iâd try to be more ladylike, it seems like it would suit you betterâ. Still walking beside you, by small shops, the butchers, pass carriages with horses and a row of children screeching, she deftly released the ribbon from her hair, sending waves of brown tendrils down her neck.
She moved to grab your wrist, tying the ribbon on your wrist, her fingers soft as they flushed against your skin, âthere. Iâll teach you how to fit it in your hair when we get to the innâ.
You passed a few wealthy women, with their finery, dresses that glinted in the light and jewelry that made your eyes hurt from the glare they gave off when the sun bounced on them.
Pip kept you close, walking on the side of the cobble stone streets, so you didnât have to walk near them.
Finally the inn was in view, the horse and groom.
Pip lead you inside, âthis is the inn. I know itâs not much, but itâll keep you warm and fed. Now letâs get you settledâ Pip moved around, leading you up the steps, wooden and ages old. She lead you to a door, and opened. A small bed, a candle, a few belongings.
The air was fresh and smelt like-jasmine?
âYou can have the bed. Iâll fancy the floor. Make yourself at home. You must be hungry. Iâll see what I can get for youâ. Pip gave you one last smile before tumbling down the steps. Leaving you standing alone in her room.
The ribbon sat on your wrist like something you couldnât take off, it had a heart of its own, the bed looked comfy, and the room quiet. For the first time, you were alone.
The window was frosty now, but you managed to make a view. Pilchards being sold, a busy street. The sight made you ache. Made you wish for home.
You missed your mother, your family, but now, youâd never get back, never return back, because you were undesirable. You might as well be one of the very two legged creatures that walked on land, be compared to them. It was an ugly thoughtâŚone that made you feel so much.
Because PipâŚshe was human, but she was unlike any you had seen. Or heard about. She was kind, and lovely.
âIâve got some boiled peas, mash, and a sausage. I brought gravy. Iâm not certain if you agree on any of this but itâs what I could findâ pip spoke, moving a plate onto the desk across from you.
She eyed you with sweet eyes, âplease, you should eat.â
You tentatively walked to the desk, eying the contents. Your diet consisted of mainly fish, nuts, and whatever was in the ocean. This was an entirely new diet. The peas looked greener than the sea weed that grew outside your home, the sausage a bulbous shape with seared edges, the gravy, thick and hot, sending waves of heat into the air. The mash, looked delectable.
The smell was otherworldly, invading your nose, and Signalling to your now new body, because you were human now, a signal. Your stomach suddenly came alive, and with an act you didnât know you could have, you reached for the fork, and began scooping up the peas and mash and bringing it to your lips.
The minute the food reached your tongue it was like everything hard from the day disappeared. Your stomach kept wanting more, and you ate and ate.
Pip for her part didnât seem off put by your manners, she looked amused, with a smile, but also something you couldnât pinpoint, like she was suddenly realizing how starving you were. Her brows were creased, like she was in thought.
âTake a breath. I can get more if youâd likeâ she spoke, and you eagerly nodded, pushing your already empty plate into her hands.
True to her word pip came back with a new plate, setting it down beside you, and she took the seat next to you, watching with eager eyes, the way the fork scrapped against the plate, the way your mouth moved, the way you chewed, the way your hair fell against your shoulders, the soft lines of your eyes-
Her eyes moved away, because she couldnât, âI hope you donât find this forward-but-I managed to sneak some sugar biscuits from the kitchen, have you ever fancied them? My father would bring me some from Denmark, delectable things.â She reached inside the cloth and settled it close to your plate. Taking one in her hand she watched as you moved to wipe your face, before taking one as well, biting it, and making a face so hilarious her laughter was contagious.
It tasted like butter, salt, and something sweet. Beyond sweet. The texture was perfect, dancing on your tongue with a soft dough.
âI take it youâre not a sugar girlâ she commented, but soon you were eating more.
Pip delighted in seeing you eat, your frame was perfect, but could use more fat on your bones.
âThank youâŚfor the foodâ you spoke, âI-Iâm not sure what I would have done had you not come alongâ.
Pipâs cheeks turned red, but she nodded, âdonât thank meâŚitâs what anyone would doâ.
Your eyes creased, âno-thatâs not trueâ your voice was firm, and your eyes were a storm, a sea of right and wrong and bias and all the unfeeling things you had been told of humans
It was startling, the way your cheeks clenched, the far away look, like it lived and sat in your heart, beating its drums.
Pip drummed her fingers steadily, âhumans are an interesting species arenât they?â She started, âcapable of such wonderful thingsâŚand such horrible thingsâ.
She let that sit in the air, trying to figure out your mood, what made you tick.
âHumans are incapable of choosing the right path. Itâs always destruction. They come plundering the seas, take our food, destroy our sea, all for what? To sell to other humans for profit?â The words were out of your mouth fast.
Pip nodded along, âplunder is a strong word. The sea provides foods for others. For the children that live on this land, so they grow. Itâs not just greed.â It was said softly, no strong words. Just said between bites of sugar biscuits.
âMy father was killed by some humans when I was young, they trapped him for his pelt, and he wasnât able to transform..thatâs why I feel this way about humans. Maybe itâs not right, or justified, maybe Iâm mad-but-you canât sit here and tell me humans are capable of good-when Iâve seen the worstâ.
Pip didnât say much, just reached out to softly take your hand, and you didnât pull away, because her eyes were sad too, like she felt your pain, the chaos of it, the grief of everyday, âIâm sorry.â
Pip was quiet as she moved about the room, prepping the floor, making it nice and comfy, sheets that Mrs Penrose had given her, and a pillow that looked softer than anything you had ever used.
Pip picked out dresses, beautiful, expensive dresses that made your mind spin, for they were beautiful, made of fine silk, and the filled your eyes with a sudden want, but it also confused you.
Pipâs room at the Horse and Groom was small, warm, and cluttered in the way only Pip could manage notebooks stacked on the desk, a mug of halfâfinished tea on the windowsill, a jumper draped over the back of a chair. It smelled faintly of ink, lavender soap, and the sea breeze that always seemed to follow her.
You had been here for three days.
Three days of trembling at every footstep in the hallway.
Three days of curling beneath Pipâs spare blanket while she worked quietly at the desk, pretending not to notice how tightly you clutched the fabric. Of watching her draw creatures made out of ink, of watching her through the window as she ran out of the inn, on fast legs to catch up with her father on the beach, if only for a few hours.
The world outside felt too big. Too loud. Too human. Pip never pushed you. She brought you food from the kitchen, warm bread and soup that smelled like herbs. She let you sleep on the bed while she took the floor, insisting she didnât mind even though she had dark circles underneath her eyelids. She kept the curtains drawn when you flinched at the sight of villagers passing below. Tonight, the rain tapped softly against the window, and Pip sat crossâlegged on the floor, sorting through her notes by candlelight. You watched her from the bed, knees pulled to your chest, wearing the oversized jumper sheâd given you.
âPip?â you whispered.
She looked up immediately. Brows scrunched, yet a smile on her lips, âAre you all right?â You hesitated. âI⌠donât want to go outside.â Pip set her pencil down, giving you her full attention. âYou donât have to. Not until youâre ready.â
âBut I should,â you murmured. âI should learn to walk among humans. To speak like them. To⌠blend.â Pip shook her head gently. âYouâre not a project. Youâre a person. And youâre scared. Thatâs allowed.â
You swallowed, your throat tight. âI donât feel like a person.â Pip rose and sat beside you on the bed, careful to leave space but close enough that her warmth reached you. âYou are,â she said softly. âYouâre just⌠displaced.â
You blinked at her. âYou used that word before. â she had on the first night, when the bed had been to soft, and the pillows too comfortable, when you had gotten up and slept right beside her on the dusty floor. Figuring that her body heat and warmth was safe. Pip had looked into your eyes, tired and droopy, and had said something about feeling displaced from the world. âBecause itâs true.â Pip tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. âYou were taken from where you belong. Forced into a shape that doesnât feel like yours. Anyone would struggle.â You looked down at your hands. âWithout my pelt, I feel wrong. Like Iâm wearing a body that doesnât fit.â
Pipâs expression softened with something like grief. âI know.â You lifted your gaze to her. âDo you really?â
Pip hesitated then reached out, slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you didnât, she took your hand gently in hers. Her thumb brushed your knuckles, warm and steady. âI know what itâs like,â she said quietly, âto feel trapped in a place that doesnât understand you. To feel like youâre pretending every time you step outside.â
You stared at her, surprised. âYou feel that way?â
âMore often than Iâd like to admit.â
You squeezed her hand a small, instinctive gesture. Pipâs breath hitched, but she didnât pull away.
You learned through Pip. For weeks you stayed by her side, watching her, because she was determined to find your pelt and send you home. It was swoon worthy, Mrs Penrose was a saint, bringing you clothes, dresses sheâd lend to for your size, if pip spoke of you being from the sea the older woman didnât confess, only delivered clothes and food when necessary.
You had met Pipâs father in passing, on one of the morning when you felt more inclined to be around others, he was a tall man, with lean shoulders and a smile that made you feel calm, because it was pipâs smile, he was keen and clever, tipping his hat to you as he brought in a few samples from the sea, he studied the sea or at least thatâs what pip told you when you both fell asleep next to each other.
Because the bed was too comfy, too human.
You felt more at ease on the floorboards, next to pip, with her night gown and brown russet curls that smelled of lavander. Youâd been doing this for weeks, and the familiarity you both were feeling, this deep connection that resided in your bones, you, with your trust in pip, to care for you, to protect you, to eventually guide you home, and Pip-believing in you, in what you are, in what you could be, the sweet girl who needed protection and love.
Youâd blush when pip would cut your apples without saying, take you around the village, laughing and not caring about the rest of the villagers. Pip bought you a dress from the dress shop, it was something far too expensive but she had seen it and her eyes had glimmered like she could see you in it-and suddenly she was paying the price and the box was in her hand.
You had first worn it on a gray morning, the mist clinging to every nook and cranny of the village. You stepped out slowly, nervous in a way you didnât understand. Nervous for pip to see you in the dress.
The dress sheâd chosen for you, a pale sea glass green, reminding you of the sea shells youâd collect as a child. The dress fluttered around you in the wind. Your hair was still damp from the basin curling in wild, salt touched waves. You looked fragile and fierce all at once like something the sea has carved and the land wasnât sure it deserved.
Pipâs cheeks turned a shade of red, but she spoke, over the pounding of her heart, âyou look-you look lovelyâ. Her voice was firm and smooth, and you felt it.
You blinked at her, unsure, âI feel strangeâ
âThatâs normal.â Pip spoke softly, the edges of her lips in a calm familiar way that soothed the ache inside you, your frantic mind. âYouâve been inside for weeks. The world is loud when you first step into itâ.
Pip taught you to walk smoothly, like a lady, taught you how to eat like a human, with straight shoulders and fork and knifes-too many to even remember, but you humored pip.
It was interesting, living like a human, being a human, staying in this form for so long, having a companion, because Pip was always at your side, accompanying you on walks, going exploring, taking your hand through the rocky mulch, tying ribbons in your hair with soft fingers, you weee unaware of the human customs-especially romantic undertones that came with two ladies-unaware of the stigma, of the religious undertones, all you knew was Pip was your savior.
The girl who swept you off your feet, showed you the world and how to navigate, without being too pushy, whose touch made your heart race in your chest, whose lips you had eyed as she slept, feeling this odd swirl in your chest when you did.
Pip didnât make it any easier, she was touchy and flighty, always with a hand on your back or around your waist or whispering something in your ear, it was quite torture.
You knew this time, however fast it had been, two weeks at most, would be gone quickly, your pelt called you, like a motherâs voice over the hum of the sea, you could first feel it like an ache, calling to you to come and find and to go home.
But youâd take one look at pip-and your heart would hurt with this heavy feeling you couldnât describe. You dreamt of home, of the sea, of your siblings and simply home. Pip could tell, youâd wake up with such a deep longing for home. And she wasnât going to keep you. Even if you wanted to stay. Especially then.
Pip has read about your kind being forced to stay on land. Of the grievances they had. Of the anxiety and depression that came with being on land too long. And she didnât want that for you.
So, one day she had woken you up and took you out to the beach. The very same beach sheâd found you on, just a month back. It happened on a morning when the world felt halfâawake. Mist clung to the moors like a second skin, soft and silver, and the air smelled of wet heather and distant storms. Pip had coaxed you outside again gently, patiently, the way she always did
âYou donât have to go far,â she said, offering her hand. âJust breathe the air. Feel the ground. Let the world be small.â
You took her hand. Her fingers were warm, steady, grounding. You needed that. You needed her. The inn door creaked shut behind you, and the two of you walked slowly down the narrow path toward the cliffs. Pip kept close, matching your pace, her thumb brushing your knuckles every so often not intentionally, but enough to make your heart flutter.
The world was quiet. Too quiet. Then you felt it.
A pull. A tug beneath your ribs. A thread tightening, ancient and unmistakable. You stopped so abruptly Pip nearly collided with you.
âHey-whatâs that matter?â
Your breath hitched, your pulse quickening. âPip⌠somethingâs calling me.â Her expression sharpened instantly alert, focused, protective. âWhere?â You turned toward the cliffs, toward the narrow inlet where the sea curled into the land like a secret.
âThere,â you whispered. âItâs there.â Pip didnât hesitate. âThen we go.â
You moved quickly faster than youâd ever dared on land your bare feet slipping on wet grass, your heart pounding with something like hope and terror tangled together. Pip followed close behind, her breath warm against the back of your neck.
When you reached the rocks, the world seemed to hold its breath. The tide was low, revealing a stretch of sand littered with driftwood and broken shells. The mist parted just enough for you to see something pale caught between two stones.
Pipâs hand found your shoulder. âWhat is it?â
You stepped forward, trembling. The closer you got, the more the air hummed a low, thrumming vibration that resonated in your bones. And then you saw it. Your pelt. Halfâburied in sand, tangled in seaweed, torn but unmistakably yours. The fur shimmered faintly, as though remembering moonlight.
Pip caught you before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around your waist, steadying you. âEasy. Easy. Iâve got you.â You reached out with shaking hands, brushing the fur with your fingertips.
A shock of warmth surged through you not painful, but overwhelming. Like the sea rushing into your lungs after too long without breath. Like coming home.
You gasped, clutching the pelt to your chest. Pip knelt beside you, her eyes wide, her voice barely a whisper. âIs it reallyâŚ?â
âMy pelt,â you breathed. âItâs my pelt.â
Tears spilled down your cheeks-relief, grief, joy, all tangled together. Pip reached out, wiping them gently with her thumb. âItâs beautiful,â she murmured. âLike you.â
âPip,â you whispered, voice breaking. âI can go home.â
Pip swallowed hard. âI know.â
You turned to her then really turned and the wind caught your dress, your hair, your breath. You looked like a painting. Like a myth. Like something the sea had loved and lost. â Pip,â you whispered, âIâm scared.â Pip stepped closer, her voice low and steady. âOf the sea?â âNo.â Your gaze held hers. âOf wanting to stay.â
Pip froze. The wind howled softly around you, tugging at her coat, your dress, the space between you. âI shouldnât want to,â you said. âI should want to go home. But when Iâm with you⌠I feel less lost.â
Pipâs heart stuttered. âYouâre not lost.â
âI was,â you said. âUntil you found me.â
Pip looked away, blinking hard. âI didnât find you. You let me see you.â
You stepped closer, your fingers brushing her sleeve a touch so light Pip felt it everywhere. âThe sea remembers me,â you whispered. âBut you⌠you make me feel human.â
Pipâs breath hitched a soft, involuntary sound she couldnât hide. She looked at you then, really looked at the windâtangled hair, the trembling hands, the dress sheâd chosen because it reminded her of tide pools and moonlit waves. And she realized, with a quiet, terrifying certainty, that she loved you.
You didnât speak about going back, sort of like you both had reached a unanimous decision. Youâd be going back. Because itâs what pip had set out to do. Send you back home.
The night before you left, the moors were restless. Wind swept across the cliffs in long, mournful sighs, carrying the scent of salt and rain. Pip stood beside you at the edge of the world, her coat whipping around her legs, her hair wild in the stormâlight. You held your pelt in your arms repaired, whole, shimmering like water resting atop still water.
You had never looked more like yourself. And Pip had never looked more afraid.
She didnât speak at first. She just watched the waves crash below, her jaw tight, her hands shoved deep into her pockets as though she needed to hold herself together. Before you, her life had been lonely. And after you, it seemed the lonely companion would sit with her forever.
Finally, she said, âYouâre leaving tomorrow.â
You nodded. âThe tide will be right.â
Pip swallowed hard. âI know.â
Silence stretched between you not empty, but heavy, full of everything neither of you had said.
You stepped closer. âPip⌠look at me.â
She did. Slowly. Carefully. As though she was afraid you might vanish if she blinked.
Your voice softened. âIâm not leaving because I want to be away from you.â
âI know,â Pip whispered. âYouâre leaving because you have to.â You reached for her hand. She let you take it. âMy home is in the water,â you said. âMy body⌠my soul⌠theyâre tied to the sea. Without it, Iâm only half alive.â
Pipâs fingers tightened around yours. âI donât want you half alive.â
You smiled sad, warm, grateful. âI know.â
The wind howled, tugging at your dress, your hair, your pelt. Pip stepped closer, shielding you from the cold without thinking. You leaned into her. âIâll miss you.â
Pipâs breath hitched. âDonât say it like itâs goodbye.â âIt isnât,â you said. âNot forever.â Pip looked away, blinking fast. âYou donât know that.â You lifted her chin gently, guiding her gaze back to yours. âI do.â âHow?â she whispered.
âBecause the sea remembers what it loves,â you said. âAnd it remembers you.â
Pip froze stunned, breathless.
You continued, voice trembling. âWhen Iâm in the water, Iâll think of you. Of your hands. Your voice. The way you look at me like Iâm something worth saving.â
Pipâs eyes shone. âYou are.â
âAnd Iâll come back,â you said. âWhen the tide is right. When the moon is kind. When the sea lets me.â
Pip let out a shaky laugh. âYou make it sound like the sea is jealous.â âIt is,â you said softly. âBut it doesnât hate you. It knows you kept me safe.â
You spent one more night in pipâs room. Cuddled into her side, head against her chest, flickering candle wick disappearing with every hour that followed. Youâd come back. Every opportunity you could. You knew that. Because pip was apart of you now, your seal knew that.
The next morning Pip watched you as you stood on the beach, watching the tide. You were a stark difference from the scared frightened girl she had found.
You would always be something of an enigma to pip. A girl who came and stayed for a month, who she loved more than anybody human on this earth, because she had taught you things, and learned about you, protected you, restored your faith in human kind. You were her phantom, her ghost sheâd carry around, see during tough times when sheâd go sit by the water and cry.
Saying goodbye was the hardest thing. You both cried, but you promised, through tears, that youâd come back. That youâd find pip whatever she was- by water of course, and youâd never be apart.
And between that-the tears and sorrow, you had taken one look at pipâs lips, and thatâs all it took. Your lips met hers, it wasnât soft or sweet or anything of that nature.
Your fingers gripped her chin, lips chasing hers, devotion and utter love spilled into the kiss.
âI have wanted to do that since I first saw you and you offered me your button upâ you confessed, and pip blushed, eyes dark and hollow, and then your lips met again, and again, and sighs turned into gasps and pip curled her fingers low on your waist and you tugged at her hair hard.
âBelieve Iâll come back-â you had whispered, and then you were pulling away, lips kiss swollen, eyes a sea of hope and love and loss-and then you were running, running into the sea.
And then in a blink of an eye, you were gone.
Pip stood at the edge of the beach, watching. Waiting. And then she heard it, or saw it, a seal, and it stood on the water with confidence, and looked right at her, and it gave a small roar, and pip couldnât help but laugh, waving and sending a kiss from her fingers.
And then you were truly gone.
The village moved on faster than Pip expected. People still whispered about the strange girl whoâd stayed in Pipâs room for days, the one with the wild eyes and the tooâquiet voice but the whispers faded. The inn filled with travelers again. The moors returned to their usual brooding silence. Mrs Penrose was quiet yet always there as a comforting presence for pip.
Only Pip didnât return to normal.
She tried. She woke early, made tea, organized her notes, walked the moors with her hands shoved deep in her coat pockets. She told herself she was fine. That sheâd done the right thing. That letting you go was what love looked like. She went with her father on his exploits, trying to feign interest in the sea, when it was the very thing that tortured her. But every time she passed the cliffs, her chest tightened. Every time she heard the waves crash, she paused. Every time the wind carried the scent of salt, she closed her eyes and remembered the way youâd looked at her like she was something worth staying for.
Pip kept going, because thatâs what she did.
Like something inside her had been carved out and replaced with seaâglass.
One evening, she walked down to the shore after closing her notebook for the night. The sky was a deep, bruised blue, the kind that made the world feel suspended between day and dream. The tide was high, the waves restless.
Pip stood at the waterâs edge, boots sinking into the wet sand. âI hope youâre safe,â she murmured. âI hope youâre happy.â
The wind didnât answer.
She sighed and turned to leave.
A ripple broke the surface of the water not a wave, not a gull, not driftwood. Something sleek. Something silver. Something that moved with a grace no human could mimic. Pipâs heart slammed against her ribs. âno,â she whispered. âIt canât be.â
