Last Mermaid

Chapter Three Leila walked quickly out of the ballroom and into the violet dusk of the garden. She was moving because she had to move; she was walking because she could not stand still. People were turning to lookslow down, slow down. She did not need attention now. Glancing figures in the shadows, phantom faces, the glitter of diamonds like fireflies in the dark. But she did not slow. Her heart was racing and her hands were trembling. She felt rather ill, as if her corset had been cinched too tight. Of all the queer notions, of all the nights to come undone She could close her eyes and still see him. The man in the ballroom, the stranger watching her . . . She'd never seen a man so truly, fiercely handsome. She'd never seen a face like his, clean carved lines and smoky shadows, the glint of his lashes and eyes of such devilish deep blue. He might have stepped to life from a Renaissance portrait, a painted prince of sapphire and gold, jeweled colors over jet. She had been turning, preparing to traverse the room yet again, and then . . . Then she had seen him, by himself across the chamber, leaning against one of those ridiculous pillars with his arms crossed, unsmiling. A short wig and tailored elegance; he was done up in black, no velvet, no gaudy lace, watching her with utter concentration. As if he knew her. As if she knew him. And the oddest chill had come over her, a most peculiar weakness in her limbs. For an instantsuspended there in sapphire The gravel was noisy, just as she had predicted. Leila rounded a corner, heard voices, and instinctively turned the other direction. She needed air, that was all. A few minutes in the November calm to find her composure, to breathe and think and remember who and what she was. She found a gazebo of whitewashed lattice, a vine of barren ivy buried through it with lavish devotion. There was a bench inside, almost lost to the night, no one about but crickets and owls. She sat down gratefully, peeled off her shoes, and began to massage her sore feet. Che would follow soon. She needed to consider what she'd say. I'm fine. It was too warm. Too many beaus. Too many eyes. I'm fine. Fine. The cold air was like truth, a hard burn in her chest. She inhaled deeply, as much as she could hold, letting it out again in a silent hiss. Silly chit, to lose her head over gold-tipped lashes and a square jaw. The chant of the owl grew louder and then soft; lovers' whispers sidled by, not very near. And then, beneath the ghostly refrain of music still drifting from the ballroom, she heard footsteps. They paused and picked up again, coming ever closer, ending at the stairs to the gazebo. Well. That hadn't taken long. Leila didn't bother to look up from her foot. "No," she said to her stockinged toes. "He did not come." "I see," said a deep, sardonic voice. "Shall I offer commiseration or felicitation?" Her hands stilled. She exhaled a single breath, very shallow, and looked upand yesoh, yes, curse it, it was he. In the tame forest of the garden, the man seemed much larger than before, almost imposing. The fading light should have softened him but instead had the opposite effect: black coat, black breeches and stockings and shoes; against the frilled white gazebo he was completely austere. Formidable. His gaze held hers, and the same singular vertigo she had felt in the ballroom threatened. With his long lashes and devil blue eyes, he seemed to see right through her, as if she were made of rice paper, or ice. Leila forced her fingers to relax, tucking her feet beneath her. The air blew cool across her ankles. He seAbe, Shana is the author of 'Last Mermaid', published 2004 under ISBN 9780553584974 and ISBN 0553584979.