Page 58 of The Lighthouse Keeper and the Mermaid
She was absolutely sure she did not want to. “Oh, Mr. Runington, that really isn’t necessary.”
He cut her off. “No, I absolutely insist. I must repay you back in some way, and if you will not leave the lighthouse”—he eyed her again as if looking for a reaction to the contrary, which of course there was none—“then I will have to find some other way to repay you.”
At least he was no longer speaking as if he planned to get her fired. Perhaps after her firmness, he realized that would not work to his favor.
“If you insist,” she said, unable to deny him further without being truly rude. “How about next Tuesday?” She needed him to say a time so she could ensure Kallias would not be around. “As long as the doctors approve it. And of course, if you need to move on before then, I understand.”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment. She wondered if it had to do with shipping and scheduling. No doubt a merchant had deadlines they must meet.
“Again, it is fine if that does not—” she started, but he once again cut her off.
“It will work,” he said, smiling—a smile that was almost evil, though she wasn’t sure why. “Yes, that will work perfectly.”
CHAPTER 67
Mr. Runington’s crew was indeed waiting for him in town. They had managed to steer the ship until the storm passed; then they had been able to row it back into town.
A few practically sobbed when they saw him, seemingly out of sheer relief. They seemed to have been feeling quite guilty that their young lord had singularly fallen into the sea, injured as he was—which was a shame because she had been picturing them jubilant, happy to be free of him, based on her interactions with him.
But she supposed only psychopaths would wish for a man’s death, and she imagined he wasn’t quite the same with them as he was with her. Perhaps it just went to show that everyone had many facets, some good, some bad, but no one was truly evil. Or at least, she didn’t think so. Maybe if she was a better person, she’d go ask the pastor while she was in town, though she had a feeling his only answer would be that all men were wicked sinners in need of repentance.
Sinners? Sure. But surely he would have to admit there was a scale. Some men were decidedly better than others.
She wasn’t certain exactly what the Good Book said about that. She had only been to church twice—once for Grandpa’s funeral where she was four, once for her father’s. She knew other companies not only allowed but insisted upon their keepers rowing into church, but luckily—or unluckily perhaps for her soul—hers never cared, and Father had insisted it was too much time away. In private, he told her it was really because the services were too boring. The agreement as far as town knew was that they had their own service every Sunday, but though the Bible sat faithfully on the shelf, she’d never seen him touch it.
She’d read it once just to know, and if anyone asked, she was sure she’d call herself a Christian, but she wasn’t sure if that was just because that was what was done or if she truly believed. She didn’tnotbelieve, and she certainly saw the glory of nature, but beyond that she wasn’t really sure. She thought she liked the teachings in the New Testament, but from her trips into town, well, it seemed she didn’t really like them in practice.
For as much mercy as there seemed to be in the Bible, she saw very little of it from the townsfolk. People were quick to cast others out. People were shunned. The gossip was endless, and people were rarely treated with love.
Yes, thank the Lord she only went to town on the rarest of occasions.
But since she was here, she decided to pop into Mr. Wilson’s. She went to the bakery first. The woman inside physically flinched when she saw her, and it made her wonder if she had missed cleaning off some of last night’s blood. But then the woman’s look of horror twisted to disgust and then disapproval. Daria decided it was probably a reaction to her unkempt hair that had weathered last night’s storm—or actually it might be because of the pants. Women seemingly only wore dresses here, though Daria didn’t know why. Surely, a dress would get in the way during gardening or cleaning, no? It seemed impractical.
But whatever. She could handle the looks of disapproval. It was nothing new, and she was hardly about to change.
“Hi,” she said, pretending she didn’t notice. The woman only glared at her. “Uh, right, well, do you know Mr. Wilson’s favorite?” It was a small enough town that everyone knew everyone and there was only one bakery.
“Mr. Wilson? Mr.Wilson?” The woman—girl, she was in her twenties—crossed her arms. “Why wouldyouneed to know what Mr. Wilson orders?”
Rather than spread even more gossip—even if it was true—she said, “He made me a new boat. I wanted to thank him while I’m in town.”
The woman huffed and started packing something in paper. “And what areyoueven doing in town?”
“Why? Am I not allowed?”
“As a general rule, no. You’re not supposed to leave your post. Or was killing those men not enough for you?”
The vitriol in the words was fierce, like she wished to murderDaria with them.
Daria looked over her for a moment. There was enough similarity with the redhead she had tried to save on the night she met Kallias. “Why? Was one of them your family?”
The flinch said yes, even if the eyes said, ‘You bitch.’
“I didn’t kill anyone,” she continued, placing her money on the counter and snatching the bread from the girl’s hands. She was grateful the price was written on a little plaque so the girl couldn’t cheat her, strong as her hatred apparently was. “I risked my life to save them. That’s more than you did.”
“Oh? Well, if you really had, you wouldn’t be here either!” It truly sounded like she wished she wasn’t. “You couldn’t have gone out that night! No one could have gone in that and lived!” Her anger had shifted to tears, and though she was holding them back, she looked ready to burst.
“I’m sorry,” Daria said. “I wish I had saved them. If he’s who I’m thinking of, I even had him in the boat. I…I’m sorry.” If the girl didn’t look like she’d punch her, Daria’d offer a hug; the girl looked that distraught.
