The first time she lets the redhead take her home, sheβs diligent about hiding her cloak. She folds it carefully against tears and rips and abrasions, and hides it in a sea cave whose entrance is concealed by the tide.
She does the same, the second and third and fourth times, careful, wary, mindful of her motherβs lessons. Remembers the way her motherβs hands had chafed on her soft cheeks, rough with cooking and cleaning for her fisherman husband, the way her motherβs peat-dark eyes had been tense and harsh with the lesson.
βMind me, Niahm. Never let them find your cloak.β
The way her motherβs mouth had curved, a sickle of dissatisfaction and relief and envy, as she had escaped into the waves.
So she minds her motherβs lesson, and she takes care with her cloak.
Would that she had taken as much care with her heart.
The fifth time, she wears the cloak to the girlβs door, clutched about her throat, dripping along the darkened lanes.
She enters the home, welcomed with soft kisses and gentle touches and kindling passion. She drapes the cloak, artful in her carelessness, across an old wooden chair, the one that creaks and tilts slightly if you donβt sit just right.
When she wakes, in the wee hours of the morning, even before her lover, the cloak still rests, supple and dappled by the sea, on the back of the chair.
She frowns into the softening dawn, dons the cloak, and returns to the sea.
And again, the sixth time. And the seventh.
The eighth time, she finally breaks, prickling and hurt with longing, gripping a handful of russet hair in her hand, firm with emphasis.
βSurely you know what I am,β she says to her lover, the cool froth of sea foam and the call of gulls curling around her voice.
βOf course,β her lover responds, soft and tender in the dawnlight, throat arched willingly, pale as the inner whorls of a shell. βYou taste of the sea,β the girl whispers, reverently.
She shakes her loverβs head gently, fingers tangled still in russet locks. βWhy?β she demands. βWhy wonβt you keep me?β
A long silence that waits and fills, like a tidepool, stretches between them. Cool as a current. Deep as the Channel.
Her loverβs eyes are dark and tender. βMust I trap you to keep you, my heart? Is that the shape of love that you desire?β
She sinks into the thought, struck and stymied, remembering her motherβs harsh hands, her cold eyes. Her hand eases into russet waves, caresses where her grip had punished. Her lips press cool and damp as the sea against the arching curve of her loverβs shoulder. βWhat shape of love will you give to me?β
The answer is easy, quick, certain. βMyself. Only myself, whenever you should wish it. Your cloak by the door, your body in my bed, and the freedom to go, whenever you must. As long as you wish.β
Itβs not an answer a fisherman could ever give, nor would think to.
The ninth time, she hangs her cloak by the door, draped in careful dappled folds next to a drying oilskin jacket.
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