The first week after the shipwreck passed tortuously slowly for Argider. Confined to bed, he had little else to do but watch the angle of sunlight shift through the window and wait for Esma to bring him his meals and medicine.
He looked forward to her visits, not just as a way to alleviate his boredom, but also to hear her voice, kind and soothing in her matter-of-fact delivery, and to watch the subtle play of emotions across her features as they spoke, which all too infrequently culminated in a smile that warmed his heart. She was not nearly as stoic as she may have believed herself to be, but he was not about to tell her so, lest she keep the concerned arch of her eyebrows or the playful sparkle in her eyes to herself going forward.
One evening—the fourth, or perhaps the fifth—Esma entered the cabin with a large, covered tray, which she placed at the foot of Argider's bed. Wordlessly, she retreated to the living room and returned with a chair, then sat herself down at the side of the bed.
"I thought you might like some company during supper," she said, lifting the tray's cover to reveal two large, steaming bowls of stew and several hunks of crusty bread. "Is it all right if I stay?"
"Absolutely." Argider sat up and arranged the pillows behind himself, careful not to disturb the tray. "I can't say the last few days haven't been lonely."
"I apologize for that. I haven't been a very gracious hostess, nor much of a caretaker."
"You feed me and give me medicine. That's all you can do. The rest—" he patted his injured leg "—is going to take time."
"Does it hurt much, in between doses?"
"Not if I don't move it. The swelling isn't so bad anymore, either. I think what hurts the most is not being able to get up and move. I can't remember the last time I stayed in one place so long."
Esma blew on a spoonful of stew to cool it. "So, you'd describe yourself as an itinerant?"
"I meant having to stay in bed, but, yes, I suppose I am. I got aboard my first vessel when I was a boy, hauling in nets and gutting fish, and haven't really stopped since. I've worked my way around the world twice over by now." He stirred his stew. "Can't think of any other way to live, honestly."
"Do you have any family? In Rothecona, perhaps?"
Argider snorted. "Not much of one. It was my father who put me on that first ship, said he had too many mouths to feed as it was. Even when that ship came back, I kept going. Went along up the coast to Curcea and found my own place."
"What about your mother? Your siblings?"
"Not every family is as close as yours was." They ate in silence for a while, until it dawned on Argider how bitter his last remark sounded. "You're lucky, I'm sure you know. It must be nice to have that support, that kind of affection."
"Not that it's doing me any good now."
"Maybe not now, but it must have been nice to have felt it back then, at least. And I'd be willing to stake a whole trip's pay on that being the reason you became such an incredible person."
"Incredible?" Esma's head snapped up and she looked at him, eyes wide.
"What else could I call you? You rowed out to sea in the middle of a storm to rescue two men who might not even still be alive, and then you offer to care for the one you did save."
"It was my duty. I saw you fall from the ship; everyone else in Calmeni was helping the Westerell and the crew they could see. I... had to at least try."
"Duty or not, it was still an amazing feat."
Esma looked down at her meal. "What do you hope to gain with such flattery?"
Argider grinned and ignored her question. "How did you learn to row so well?"
"I've been doing it since I was a child. My father used to row me across the strait to go to school, but that meant that on inclement days, I would need to stay home. So, I asked him to teach me. I would go to school or run errands for him and my mother while they tended the lighthouse and cabin. Then, after my mother died, and my father devoted himself fully to the lighthouse, my rowing became even more of a necessity.
"So, you see," she added with a rueful grin, "my life wasn't always sunny and carefree, either."
"And the lighthouse," Argider pressed on. "How long did it take you to learn its operation?"
"Not very; there's not a lot to do, but it must all be done daily. The hardest part is learning to stay awake through the night. And if there's fog in the morning..." Esma chuckled. "One time, I stayed awake for nearly three days, between the storms and the fog. I was so glad to see the sun, I fell right asleep in a morning sunbeam."
"Like a cat."
The chuckle became a full-blown laugh. "Yes, I suppose it was very cat-like. It's a wonder I didn't develop a craving for mice!"
Argider joined her in laughter, though he wished he could hush himself simply to hear her laugh. There was something intriguing about her laugh. It was a soft, high-pitched sound, so different from her speaking voice, and it rang with a sense of abandon completely at odds with her usual stern bearing.
It was an inviting laugh, and anyone who heard it would be compelled to join in with very little hesitation.
Argider stared at the bright smile Esma tried to hide behind her fingers, and his eyes wandered a bit lower, to the pendant that she wore. Though he'd seen it since he'd met her, this was the first time he noticed the detail. It was half of a clamshell, the inside of which had been painted in bright colors, which, in the lantern's light, practically flamed against the gray material of Esma's dress. He motioned toward it and tilted his head.
"Lovely pendant. What's painted there?"
Esma looked down at the clamshell, still smiling. "A scene from Calmeni harbor. I think it's meant to be sold as a souvenir to visitors, but I was so taken by the artist's skill..." She slipped the pendant over her head and handed it to him. "Isn't it amazing? A glimpse of life captured in such minute detail."
"Indeed, it is." Judging by the light in the picture, it depicted a sunrise at Calmeni harbor, vendors propping open their dockside stalls, sailors making ready for departure. The masts of two ships stood tall and black against the vibrant sky, and a flock of miniature gulls flew past them.
"You can hold onto it, if you like," Esma said, collecting the bowls. "This room can be very drab once the sun sets."
"Thank you. I'll take care of it." He watched her cover the tray again and bid her goodnight, then brushed the crumbs off the covers and leaned back against the pillows with a sigh. He dangled the pendant before his eyes, watching the bright paint give way to the more muted colors of the outside of the shell, and return again. Though he had seen the bustle of the harbor from afar for the past few days, the painted scene brought a sting of familiarity to his chest. How many mornings, at how many harbors, had he been part of something like this? His legs twitched under the quilt, the call of the sea throbbing in his veins, and he longed to be out of this bed, back on the docks, back on the decks.
But as the pendant twirled once more to reveal the rough texture and gentle hues nature had created, he thought of Esma, and his legs stilled. What a mystery she was, at once generous and withdrawn, hardened and warm! She had made him feel, in just the span of several days, at home in her little cabin and in her presence. Her voice steadied his restless mind, and her touch—always incidental and always surprisingly tender—soothed his heart. He had been injured many times during his years at sea, and had pushed through most of them with gritted teeth and sheer will; this was the first time in memory that he'd been tended to as a person, whose comfort and well-being held were important. One whose life held as much value as anyone else's.
He grasped the pendant in his fist, then extinguished the lantern. He watched the dance of shadows and moonlight across the ceiling, feeling the ridges of the clamshell pressing into his flesh. And somewhere in this silver night, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
The crumbling apartments along the Rothecona coast, half a mile from the docks, were no place most families wanted to find their sons. White stucco with sun-bleached blue trim and stone steps already chipped at the edges, the apartments served as a combination of flop house, brothel, and meager homes for sailors at the beginning of their careers. That Argider's father did not mind that his son had chosen to live there spoke poorly enough of their relationship, but when he demanded Argider turn over his pay to the rest of his family, Argider bristled.
"You put me on that ship to get rid of me," he said. "And I assumed you meant for good."
"I'll admit I didn't think I'd see your face again," his father replied, hand outstretched. "Thought the sea would take you, or maybe some dockside ruffians. But since you're here now, you might as well make yourself useful. Tere hasn't eaten for three days."
The image of his younger sister, thin and weak from hunger, flashed through Argider's mind, but he shook it away and looked his father in the eye. "Then why are you here, and not home? She's your responsibility."
His father coughed. "I had some business in the area."
"To make money, or to spend it?"
"To make money you have to spend it. Luck just hasn't been on my side for a while, that's all."
"Aren't there any real jobs you could take?"
"A few, but you know how they are. Long hours, little pay, they take too long. I need the money now!" He swiped at Argider, who stepped back, shoving his money farther into his back pocket. His father straightened, his upper lip curling into a scowl. "You're not the only one I could turn out, you know. Tere would work out good here. The ladies upstairs are nice, always looking for more. And she's got such a sweet face, you know the men would—"
"Don't you dare!" Argider shoved his father against the wall. "Don't you dare talk about it, don't think about it!"
"It's not up to me."
"Of course, it is. You're her father!"
"A father with no money."
"Make some."
"And a greedy son. This," he reached around and patted Argider's back pocket, "this is what we need. Me, Tere, the rest. What could you possibly use it for?"
Argider jumped back. "Survival."
His father scoffed. "Survival. You're just a boy!"
"A boy you threw away! How did you find me?"
"Like I said, I had business here. And for better or worse, a father always recognizes his good-for-nothing son. Now hand over the money."
"No."
"Hand it over, or Tere will be your new neighbor. How'd you like that, eh? Hear her crying, moaning, screaming every night, not knowing what kind of degenerate is up there, what he's doing to her. Maybe she even likes it."
"Damn you!" Argider punched his father, sending the old man staggering back against a table.
"Pretty good," he said, rubbing his cheek. "But not as good as that money. Remember, Tere's life is in your hands."
"It's in yours."
"And what are mine but stained and useless? You have the power now. Save her, or don't."
"And fall back into your trap?"
"Trap? That's a fine way to talk about your home. Didn't I raise you, feed you?"
"Not enough. Or too much, according to you."
"That was until I learned you could pull your weight." He stumbled toward Argider and made a feeble swipe at him. "Come now, those months at sea have made you a man, and men take care of their families."
"What does that make you?"'
His father laughed. "A scoundrel. I never wanted a family to begin with, but your mother… oh, she was irresistible back in her day. Tere'll probably be the same."
"You're disgusting!" Argider opened the door. "Get out."
"And my money?"
"It's not yours."
"Cold-hearted son of a bitch. Just like your mother."
"Get out."
"I'm going. But be careful picking your whores from now on; one of them might be your sister."
"Bastard!" Argider couldn't explain what happened next, lost as it was to a haze of rage in his mind. He launched himself at his father, fists flying; he took a few punches himself, one that split his left cheek open across the bone; they tussled with one another, Argider's father grasping futilely for the money in Argider's pocket; and then, he was gone. Had Argider pushed him, or had he lost his own footing? Either way, Argider's father was slumped at the bottom of the stairs, blood pooling beneath his head.
Argider stared at him in terror, but on hearing the voices of neighbors and knowing they'd soon be around to investigate, he ran back inside his apartment, collected his scant belongings, and left. He feigned surprise at the sight of his father, still breathing, at the foot of the stairs, then kept walking, avoiding the main thoroughfares, avoiding the docks.
He walked through the tall grasses flanking the road out of town, and kept walking, for days, until he reached the next town over, Curcea. He installed himself in an apartment as shabby as the one he had before, and went to the docks each morning to look for work.
One morning, the dock was bathed in a brilliant orange light, masts standing tall and black against the vibrant sky, gulls flying past. Vendors opened their stalls, and the women who had not found a client the night before headed home. One turned to him, her thick black braid swinging over her shoulder, green eyes blazing with reproach.
"You," she mouthed, "bastard."
"Tere!" He cried, fighting the tangle of quilt and sitting up in the darkness. He watched the shadows play along the cabin walls and took several moments to remember where he was. With a shaking breath, he opened his hand and saw the clamshell pendant, which he slowly pried free from the grooves it had made in the skin of his palm.
"It wasn't her," he whispered to himself. "She'd have never been in Calmeni. She wouldn't have done that to begin with, even if our father—" Argider punched the quilt. His old man had survived, he later found out, and Argider knew damn well that he would sell any of his children, given the opportunity.
"I could have saved her…" But how? Taken her to sea with him, where she likely would have met the same fate? Tere was always small, never physically strong. Maybe… just maybe, she found someone good to take care of her.
Someone better than him.
* * *
By the second week, with the help of a set of crutches graciously (grudgingly) provided by Dr. Faron, Argider could acquaint himself with the cabin and the overgrown garden outside. He helped Esma with the dusting and shared meals with her at the newly-cleaned kitchen table. When he was not helping Esma weed the yard to find the original perimeter of the garden, or hobbling along the path to take in the view of the sea and the mainland, he walked around the cabin, inside and out, and began to gauge the extent of repairs it required.
The roof was definitely a priority.
As if to underscore his assessment, a storm rolled in at the end of the week with plenty of rain to spare. Argider managed to catch the leaks in his bedroom with the vase from his windowsill and a few rusty pots from the kitchen, and watched as the rest of the cabin became a series of miniature waterfalls that he could imagine one would have to dance between. He started at a loud bang on the door, and then Esma burst through, dressed in a dark oilskin, a tower of pots and pans clanging in her arms.
"I am so sorry about this," she said, getting to work laying pans beneath the streams. Argider took a stack from her arms and did the same.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "An old cabin like this is bound to have some wear and tear." He watched the water drip outside of the pan he placed and adjusted it.
Esma laughed. "I believe this goes beyond wear and tear. I knew the roof was bad, but I never bothered to fix it because I never thought… I never thought I'd use this place again."
"Perhaps I should apologize, then."
"Not at all." She smiled, one of those warm, gentle smiles that stung Argider's heart. If she knew who he was, what he'd done… "It's nice to have someone here. To know that there's life on this island again. Someone to share meals with, another voice to listen to. I've no regrets about letting you stay here. I like it."
"I'm grateful for your hospitality. And your companionship."
"I'm glad. It will be strange once you're gone." She dropped her gaze to the pan rapidly filling with rainwater at her feet. "Of course, I wish you a speedy recovery, but it will take some adjustment to get used to the quiet again."
"Hey, now, you're not going to be rid of me that quickly! I said I'd repair this place, and judging by the roof alone, I may be here awhile."
"I'll help as much as I can. Not to hasten your departure, but because I feel like I should. Like I owe it to the memories made in this cabin, and I owe it to the energy you've brought back into my life."
"Energy?"
Esma shrugged. "Running a lighthouse can be monotonous at times. Having someone else to think about, to care for... That makes me feel more alive, as if I have more to give than lighting a wick and turning a clockwork."
"Of course you do," he said softly, dodging a stream to stand beside her. "You're more than your work, Esma. We all are."
She looked up at him sideways.
"You're warm, you're kind, you're incredibly strong," he went on. "You're a great cook, an even better nurse, and your voice! Gentle, enchanting, a little rough in the right places. Do you sing, Esma? You could charm the stars from the sky, I'm sure!"
She reached up and felt his forehead. "You've got no fever, but surely you must be delirious to think that." Yet the faintest grin tugged at her lips.
"Not at all. You simply don't recognize it in yourself. Perhaps you were a siren once, long ago?"
Esma dropped her hands to her hips. "That's it. I think it's well time you had a rest." Her smile faded and her eyebrows raised. "That reminds me... I'll be back. In the meantime, get to bed."
He watched her go, then, laughing quietly, he returned to the bedroom. With the leaks managed for the moment, there was little else he could do, anyway. He listened for Esma's return through the sound of the rain but was caught unaware again as she pushed open the door and staggered through with a large pile of blankets beneath an oilskin. Where had she found so many?
"Here," she said, setting the pile on his bed and holding up the oilskin. "If you need to go out. I don't want you catching ill."
He held the oilskin up against himself. Broad-shouldered, it had been made for a man. Her father? Or someone else she had yet to mention? He had little time to ponder this before she pushed him gently back against the pillows and began layering blanket upon blanket over him.
"I'm not cold," he said.
"The air after a storm always is, and I won't have you getting sick."
"I'll be fine. I've been through worse on ships, shivered the whole night through."
"You were younger then, I'm sure."
Argider frowned and ran a hand through his hair. There were more than a few streaks of gray in there, he knew, and the sun and salt had worked to deepen the lines on his face, but he was still strong. "I can still handle it. Haven't caught pneumonia yet."
Esma's hands clenched. "It only takes once," she said in a strangled voice.
Argider leaned forward, frowning. "You've lost someone to it," he said quietly.
"It only takes once," Esma repeated, then, with a sigh, patted the blankets over Argider's legs. She looked up with a sad smile. "So, take care, please. For my sake, if not yours."
"Will do." He settled under the blankets and watched her check the pans on the way out. Then, with nothing to do but listen to the patter of the rain on the roof and the quiet streams of water through the holes therein, he fell asleep.
He awoke in the rosy-gray light of dawn, to the smell of damp wood, sweating beneath at least four blankets. He kicked them off, but it did little good; the air inside the cabin was so humid, moisture clung to his skin like an invisible coat. He groaned and reached for his crutches, then hobbled out to check on the pans, but stopped short in the doorway.
There, curled in the plush chair and wrapped in as many blankets as she'd layered on him the night before, was Esma. A book lay open, face-down on the floor beside the chair, and her head rested against her shoulder. He approached as quietly as he could and retrieved the book from the floor, shaking the water from its pages. Then he looked at her. In sleep, the stern lines of her face softened, almost disappeared, and he could practically see the young woman she'd been underneath. Her hair was streaked with silver—marbled, really—from her hairline down, with thicker strands of silver framing her face. Her lashes were long, and her lips were full, a delicate little dip in the center of her upper lip.
She was, Argider realized, not at all bad-looking. Rougher than what would be considered ladylike, he supposed, but soft enough, in the right conditions, to invite admiration. He leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, and let his fingertips linger, not pulling back as Esma searched them out, nuzzling her cheek into his palm. His pulse quickened, and he tried his best to remain still. But as he shifted his weight, he knocked over one of his crutches, which hit the floor with a dull sound.
Esma stirred and, opening her eyes halfway, greeted Argider with a dreamy smile. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, until reality caught up to her. The smile disappeared, her eyes hardened, and she sat up rapidly, shaking her head and apologizing.
"There's nothing to apologize for," Argider assured her. "But why are you here? Did you plan on sleeping here?"
She nodded. "I wanted to make sure you had whatever you needed. If you took ill, if you had a cough, a cold, I wanted to make sure I could send for Dr. Faron right away."
"I'm fine. In fact, I got a little too warm under those blankets."
"You're certain?" She shed her own blankets. "Please don't act strong on my account. If there's a pain in your throat, your nose, if you've a headache, a cough—"
Her hands were gesturing wildly. Argider caught them between his own. "Esma," he said slowly, "I'm all right. I'm not ill. It was just a little rain."
"Just a little rain..."
"I am going to be fine. Trust me."
She looked up at him, and it was the first time he'd seen uncertainty in her eyes. "You'll be fine."
"We both will." He smiled and released her hands. "We have to be. We have work to do." He glanced up at the roof, through which the morning sun was now pouring in.
"Oh, yes, work!" Esma sat up straight and gathered her hair into a low bun. She turned to him and grinned, whatever shadow that crossed her mind having now passed. "This will be the perfect time to finish clearing the garden. The soil is damp, and smells so wonderful."
He followed her outside into the brilliant, muggy morning, and crouched beside her in the grass, having learned from her which plants belonged there, and which were to be consigned to the wild. He stole glances at her while she worked and refused to be the first to pull away when they both grabbed for the same weed.
Just as he refused to pull away when she slid her fingers through his. Instead, he closed them around hers, and in the heat of the summer morning sun, they held onto each other, finding, for that moment, the mooring they both so desperately sought.