Chapter 3

Only once Albawas already an hour's walk down an empty road, following it as instructed by the note after disembarking the ferry, did he realize how little sense the directions made the further he went.

Follow the dirt road at the edge of Willowswort south for one mile. At the wooden signpost, turn east toward Mardston. You will find a stone marker three-hundred feet past that. Follow the footpath north for one mile. You will find the road into town past the creek.

Alba muttered curses the whole time he walked, smacking ferns and roots from his feet, pine trees and dangling branches from his face. Constantly checking the instructions again, growing more and more agitated the more worried he grew that the place he searched for wasn't Moon Harbor at all. Whitesand Cove could be anything, any place. For all he knew it wasn't a town at all, and he was walking into some sort of depraved trap where they would rob then strip him naked before sending him back into the wilderness. Or worse. Stranger things had happened to those lost in the woods, and Alba was not well prepared.

He might know how to recognize a siren's song on the sea, but he would have no idea what to do if he accidentally crossed paths with something else equally nefarious and ancient in the trees. He wasn't sure he'd be less willing to cross those paths than for Marco to catch up to him again, though.

His nerves heightened once he spotted what he assumed to be the mentioned stone marker off the side of the road—an aged, moss-covered tablet donning a carved mer-creature nailed into a tree, easily missed if he wasn't looking for it.

Making his way down the footpath on the other side, the rainy sky festered overhead and made his hip throb, sky growing dark enough to nearly make him think the sun had set early. He lit a cigarette to warm himself, to quell the nervous rattling of his bones, telling himself to get a grip. He still couldn't help but glance over his shoulder every time something moved in the corner of his eye; he couldn't help but stop short whenever he was sure he heard a voice somewhere in the trees, only to sigh and hurry ahead once more. At least the landmarks appeared as claimed by the note.

Reaching the road at the end of the muddy path, he could only wonder why that perfectly good thoroughfare was hidden from the main one, deep enough in the trees that there was no chance a cart would roll by that he could bribe into giving him a ride. Detesting how he was being forced to walk it on foot, one hand clutching his cane with every step while the other shakily drew the cigarette to and from his lips. His mother wouldn't be happy if she saw him, if she smelled the tobacco on his clothes, hating the habit he picked up from his crew mates. By the time Alba found the town where he hoped she waited for him, he would have smoked all ten of them in his pocket.

He was sure he would walk that road for an eternity, never finding the end, his penance for a worthless life spent dedicated to lining the pockets of those who deserved it least—but the sound of singing came before he fell to his knees to pray for deliverance. He still nearly did, stopping short so fast the cigarette tumbled from his mouth, bouncing on the hard dirt road and skittering away.

Slowly bending to pick it up again, he watched as a group of five white-dressed spirits passed by just on the other side of the trees. Not noticing him, too busy with their melancholic song, baskets balanced on hips and hands scattering what Alba could smell to be rock salt.

A cold breeze shifted what looked like crowns of dangling white pearls in their hair. Pearls and minuscule shells, thumbnail-sized bells tinkling with every movement to accompany their voices, fluted silver tubes whistling on their belts with the movement and reminding him of the ones that hung from his mother's windchime back home. The sound captivated him more than the sight, like sirens of the land, and Alba couldn't help following their movements as they passed by.

It was only when one of them suddenly lifted their eyes to meet his that he realized—the song was familiar. It was undeniably similar to one Edythe used to hum when Alba was restless as a child, unable to sleep, afraid of the dark things that lurked in the woods on the other side of the window.

He put his hands up innocently as the salt-scatterer paused, still holding his gaze. Patting his hands up and down his chest, Alba finally produced the envelope stuffed full of instructions to reach the town, holding it up for them to see. The woman looked at him a moment longer, then nodded, then pointed in the direction he was already headed. None of the others so much as paused, and the woman went about her task the moment her indicating hand lowered again. Alba returned the envelope to his coat, adjusted his cigarette, and watched a moment longer before continuing on his way.

Five white-clad maidens, both men and woman, singing and salting the earth along the only road into Whitesand Cove, accessible by a footpath only noticeable if one knew where to look. Perhaps that man at the bar in Clearshore was right when he said Moon Harbor was a cursed place—clearly enough that the residents were forced to cleanse the land with salt from baskets.

Alba pulled out another cigarette, knowing he was going to need it—only to jump and drop it, too, when a sixth white figure suddenly stood at the edge of the road, watching him. Naked, hair cropped short, lingering slightly behind a bush like it was just as curious about him as he'd been about the others.

The paleness of its skin made it appear bloodless, like flesh petrified into bone, and Alba almost thought it a marble statue before it blinked and tilted its head. Alba cleared his throat, offering a polite nod of greeting, pausing a moment longer before taking another step forward. It watched him go, not unlike he'd watched the others. Silent and curious.

The treesfinally gave way to the open sky, and Alba smelled the sea before he saw her. He quickened his pace, sighing loudly at the sight of her rich blueness drowning the horizon, lapping against a ribbon of dark beach that kept her at bay from the town sprawling tightly at her feet.

Stone-brick buildings huddled close to one another, snaking down the steep hill toward the water, barely expanding across the wide grassy clearing more than a few blocks. One road led in and out, being the same one Alba followed. In the distance, the lighthouse needing a keeper stood proudly on a cluster of dark rocks, a second taller, listless tower silhouetted alongside her in the ocean fog. Fishing boats spotted the water around them, keeping within the embrace of stony cliffs that extended from the mainland like embracing arms to force the edges of the cove. Natural breakwaters that should have left the water ripe with fish, crab, things to catch and eat and sell.

It all hit him at once, unable to resist grinning. Knowing no Warren dog would find him there so easily. Finally understanding exactly why his mother always knew that town would be the safest to go to once there was no other choice.

Alba carried the envelope in his hand upon approaching the outskirts of the clustered buildings, not wanting anyone to think he was an unwelcome stranger. Not sure yet how forthcoming he would be with announcing he was, actually, a personally-invited stranger. Had his mother already told them about him? Perhaps they would expect him. Perhaps they would see and know him right away, welcoming him, offering him a meal and somewhere warm to sit while they fetched Edythe from wherever she was staying.

When he wasn't keeping an eye out for townspeople—of which there was a surprising few wandering around—Alba was instead taken with the surroundings. From the furthest point at the mouth of the road, the cluster of buildings appeared as quaint as any other small fishing town—but upon closer inspection, Alba saw the age in her structures, foundations cracked and cobblestone streets worn down in disrepair, more mud puddles than walkways. Windows were caked in a thin layer of brine from the sea spray, some decorated with sporadic designs like from a bored child taking their time walking to school.

Doors and exteriors were hand-painted with scenes of people fishing on boats, mermaids under the water, fish and crab and other creatures filling nets with plenty, many of the scenes overlooked by a bright, silver-leafed moon in the sky, full and radiating with beams of light like other artists would paint the sun. Some doorways were permanently shuttered, hinges petrified by a thick layer of coarse salt as if mortared in place intentionally. He couldn't help but wonder if the town had been victim to a plague at one point, reminded of the disease that briefly spread through Welkin, then Belmar, then across Warren ships only a few years prior, some houses still locked tight with bodies rotting inside to that day.

The air was filled with the sound of musical wind chimes not unlike those tied to the belts of the salt-scatterers in the woods, or his mother's back home. The humming song mimicked distant singing voices, and Alba finally spotted silver flutes lining the walls of the buildings that whistled when caught by the wind just right.

He paused beneath one, impressed by the size and intricacy of the pipe, as long as his forearm, some notched more than once as previous holes were clogged by years of salt and rust. Listening as they whistled and hummed, he almost fell victim to recognizing words in the sound. Reminding himself not to seek such magic out, knowing it would only claim his soul in worse ways. His mother used to say as much when he was a child wandering the woods alongside her searching for mushrooms and roots to eat; hardened sea-captains used to say as much while stuffing cotton in their ears when the first sign of something amiss on the far horizon made them perk up.

Alba wondered what their purpose was to those people, whether to keep negative spirits away, or perhaps to attract pretty things into their harbor. His mother had always insisted the reality of mermaids, just like those painted on doorways he passed. He'd never seen the type she described from girlhood while on the sea himself, but something like anticipation pinched the back of his neck as if he might finally have his chance.

Following the road all the way down to where the dock separated the town from the water, Alba read the signage for each doorway as he went. A tavern, doctor's office, undertaker, general store, fishmonger, post office, harbor office, even an inn, though it looked far from patronized.

Reaching what he assumed to be the conservatively small town center, he paused at the dry fountain in the middle, appreciating the stone carving of a mermaid perched within it. Rather than water spilling from the pitcher tucked between her breasts in webbed hands, she was caked with thick layers of salt and long-dried barnacles, not unlike the rest of the buildings. As if that town had been built beneath the sea, only appearing on land when the tide went out morning and evening.

But the people of the town milling around him seemed as land-born as he was, and he noticed how they kept their distance once they finally noticed him in full. Whispering, throwing glances before hurrying away, they seemed to all realize there was a stranger amongst them at the exact same time. Sneaking glances from open doorways, tucking one another behind their backs, most blended in with the surroundings as they wore clothing as faded as the facades of the buildings—clothes worn down and gray from use, but adorned all over in shining jewelry, hair clips, silver embroidery on the cuffs of their sleeves and collars of their shirts.

Many pulled shawls over themselves as stark white as fresh snow, as if caressing heirlooms hand-washed obsessively to keep the color so pristine. Many wore shimmering powders on their eyelids and crimson on their cheeks, though it hardly did anything to hide the dark bags under their eyes or the pallid color of their faces. Alba noted the lack of children running up and down the streets, suddenly aware of how deadly silent that place was of any signs of life aside from the waves against the dark beach and whistling song through the pipes on the walls.

Not knowing where to start, considering the strange looks he received from those crowding around the tavern and against the surrounding buildings, Alba opted for the post office to make his inquiry. A familiar place, one he knew of what to anticipate upon stepping inside. No matter where he went, on foot or by sea, every bar, port, post office, cemetery were all exactly the same.

Inside, the lobby was dark, the counter unmanned, though Alba thought he heard movement from behind a cracked door on the other side of the room. Rather than calling out to the clerk, he opted first to search the labeled post-boxes on the wall, quickly skimming the names under each cubby to see if his mother's happened to be there. He even checked the box for non-residents, but there was neither letter nor telegram inside.

He searched the outgoing box last, moving quickly so no one would spot him and think him up to no good, though it was as empty as the rest. More than empty, he realized, upon removing his hand to find it coated in a layer of dust. Essentially dormant.

Pulling the original telegram from his pocket, Alba double-checked the location information, even confirming the origin number engraved on a sign over the resident boxes. He wouldn't put it past his mother to sneak into the telegram office and send something without anyone knowing, but that only sparked more questions in the back of his mind. Mainly—why she would have to do something like that in secret, if she really was as safe in that town as he'd assumed from the start. If the words SEA PRINCE weren't included with his name on the message, he might have even had a moment of doubt that it was his mother to send it at all—but that diminutive was all the proof he needed.

The bell on the office door clanged, and Alba jumped, turning quickly to find an older man stepping inside. He held a shotgun tucked behind his leg, partially in view. Wanting Alba to see it, but not to threaten him right away.

"Can I help you, lad?" He asked. Alba quickly slid the telegram into the envelope of the work request, hiding the motion beneath rifling through the papers.

"Is this Moon—erm, Whitesand Cove?"

The man grunted in lieu of replying, never taking his eyes from Alba. Alba took that as a yes.

"I'm—looking for someone who told me I might be a good fit for this job posted in Bluecastle Township. Her name is Edythe?"

The man's tense stance relaxed at the sight of the job posting. He looked Alba up and down more than once, eyes lingering on his face the longest, and Alba wondered if he could see the resemblance he had to his mother. Her blue eyes, sharp nose, narrow jawline, round lips. Last, the man's eyes lowered to the cane Alba leaned on, and he cocked an eyebrow.

"Never heard of no one called Edythe," he said first, given in a way that implied he wouldn't be taking any argument from Alba about it. A way that made Alba fight the frown on his lips, sensing something else unspoken under the words. A lie, perhaps a half-truth, he didn't know. Perhaps it was only the instant knife of cold disappointment in his chest. "And that flier's askin' for a wickie, y'know. Tower's got 150 steps in ‘er."

Alba answered on instinct, ignoring the man's first comment about knowing nothing about anyone with his mother's name. For all he knew, she'd asked them to lie about knowing her, since Warren dogs would be sniffing her out as much as Alba was. He decided to play along, a thousand decisions forming in his mind at once. The need to not reveal too much right away, the need to find a way to stay in that town a little longer, until he could figure out what his mother had planned for them. He extended his foot slightly to prove he was still able to walk as well as anyone else, the cane just helped him along.

"I've got at least two years combined experience tendin' to a lantern," he insisted. "Makes up for my leg. Really only bothers me when it rains, anyway."

"It's always rainin' here," the man responded, but it wasn"t combative. He added: "Where at?"

"Northeastern coast."

"Warren lighthouses?"

Alba forced himself to remain calm at the mention of that name. Considering the number of Warren-owned lighthouses lining the northern coast, it wasn't strange to ask. To assume. "Sometimes. A few different companies."

"Got any work papers?"

"No, sir. You're welcome to hold my wages 'til I prove myself competent, though."

The man's eyes narrowed, but Alba didn't show any insecurity in his expression. It wasn't a lie; the Warrens never wrote up work papers as they never planned on letting anyone contracted to them work anywhere else.

"Don't pay wages until after the first month," the man countered. "Most don't last that long, anyway."

Alba recalled the post clerk in Bluecastle Township saying something similar, how there was a new flier on the job board every month like clockwork. He almost asked why that was, but decided against it, not wanting to come across as someone eager to stick their nose into others' business right away.

Something told him he'd have to prove himself harmless, trustworthy before those people told him anything about where his mother was hiding. She must have been somewhere truly safe, protected by her childhood flock, and Alba wouldn't press it too soon if that was the case. He internally thanked them for it. He wouldn't let himself wonder why they were so surprised to see him, why his mother hadn't ever said anything about him coming.

"No complaints from me, sir."

The internal conflict on the man's face remained for a moment longer, before he adjusted his knitted hat and combed fingers down through his white beard. Alba saw peeks of tattoos on the palms of his hands, his fingers, worn down at the knuckles and skin thick with callouses.

"I can work on fishin' trawlers, too, if you need any hands there," Alba went on, just in case.

"You seem a little young to have so much experience in lighthouses and doggers both, lad. If you don't mind me sayin'."

Alba smiled like he was in on the joke. "I've been sailing since I was a teenager. Got shanghai'd when I was barely thirteen."

"Sorry to hear it."

"Taught me how to work," Alba answered like a promise.

In the doorway, a handful of skeptical faces leaned inside, more hovering through the salt-fogged windows. Clutching their white shawls close, whispering to one another like Alba was a ginger-haired cursed come upon them. He silently prayed they weren't the type of town to kill the likes of him on sight, the type to worry his presence alone would sour their secluded fishing spot. They might have been even more eager if they knew he'd been born like a woman, too.

"Aye, you can tend to the lantern and prove yourself, if y'like," the man finally said with a nod. He put out a hand to shake, and Alba took it right away. "Name's Eugene Michaels. I'm the Harbor Master of this place. Don't got no mayor or elected officials, so I'll be the one you come to if you've got any problems."

"Alba Marsh," Alba answered despite knowing how risky it was to offer his real name. Hoping it would spark some kind of realization in the man's expression, that maybe after all was said and done, he'd hurry off to where Edythe was hiding to let her know. Eugene Michaels' hand in Alba's only flexed slightly, jaw clenching for the briefest moment before relaxing again into a polite smile.

"I'll get a pack put together for your first couple days out there, then row you out myself, Mr. Marsh. You're welcome to a drink and a meal at the bar until then."

"Appreciate that." Alba folded and tucked the work request back into its envelope, sliding it into his jacket pocket before anyone could ask for it back. Before anyone could see how his hand trembled the moment he was released from the handshake. Stemming from a growing apprehension rooted deep in his being, having to tell himself again to trust what his mother had planned.