Chapter 8:The Deacon's Wife

Not everyone had been happy to see Marrine in Port Haven.

Mrs. Patricia, the deacon's wife, was the most vocal about it.

Tall and thin with a mouth that seemed permanently twisted in disapproval, she'd made it clear from the moment Marrine arrived at the convent that she was anything but welcome.

Patricia considered Marrine to be a mystery, and that was something she hated even more than a beggar on the street corner.

"She's only a foundling," said Patricia one Sunday morning as she adjusted the lace cuffs on her wrists behind the pews.

"No family, no past.

Who knows where she came from?" Her friend, Mrs. Bell, shot a glance toward the front of the church where Marrine sat with the nuns.

"And the priest's son," Patricia added in a hushed voice.

"Why is he always with her?" Mrs. Bell paused, considering this.

"Zeke?" she finally said.

"Of course Zeke.

The boy is always on her case, walking her home from school, helping her with her chores, sitting with her when she has to stay after school." Patricia frowned.

"It isn't natural." Her friend gave her a strange look.

"It's not like he's her boyfriend or anything." "Kindness has its limits," Patricia said coldly.

She turned her gaze toward Marrine who was watching the altar with great interest.

The girl quickly looked away, her cheeks burning with shame.

Patricia smiled to herself.

"I hear all sorts of things," she said loudly enough for the other ladies to hear.

It didn't take long for the whispers to begin.

They curled through the church like creep-vines, brushing against Marrine's ears as she knelt in prayer.

They slithered through the schoolhouse, slipping from one gardener's ear to another as they trimmed the nuns' flower beds.

She wasn't from around there.

She didn't have any family.

Her eyes glowed in the dark.

Everyone knew that.

My daughter saw them herself.

She said they were the color of the river near the cliffs.

And her hands!

They're all webbed together!

Webbed?

“Yes. Between her fingers.”

Marrine heard every word, though she pretended not to.

She learned to keep her head down when walking through the marketplace, and to avoid the fountain square where the other children played.

At school, she claimed the seat closest to the wall and kept her books in front of her like a shield.

She always looked down when someone stared at her, and wondered if the giggles she heard were directed at her.

She never looked at her reflection in the windows of the convent, but she knew that she was different somehow.

She'd been a foundling when they'd found her on the cliffs, and she knew little of her past.

She had no memories of a mother's lullabies or a father's laughter, no recollection of a house or a family.

Only that she had once belonged to someone, and now she didn't belong to anyone at all.

Still, the nuns had been kind to her, brushing the loneliness from her heart if only for a moment.

It was the church that seemed to breed the darkest rumors- "They're saying she's some sort of witch," Marrine heard one woman say as she carried a basket of linens out to the courtyard.

Marrine stopped short, surprised to find herself eavesdropping.

"That's why the nuns let her stay," said the other.

"They know what she is!" "Now, now, don't be silly." said the first woman.

"They know what she is!" said the other, her voice rising until the words echoed against the chapel walls.

Neither seemed to notice Marrine's presence until the conversation abruptly ceased.

Marrine lowered her eyes and resumed walking, her heart pounding in her ears.

She nearly dropped the basket entirely when she reached the courtyard.

It took all her strength to steady her shaking hands.

That evening, she hardly ate her soup.

When one of the nuns asked if she was ill, she simply shook her head.

"You haven't touched your food," the nun said.

"I'm not hungry." The nun's eyes narrowed, her thin fingers gently pressing against Marrine's shoulder.

"I'm tired," Marrine said, rising from the table.

She barely kept from running away when the nun's hand rested against her cheek.

The sea air was cool and salty as Marrine wandered the village that evening.

Port Haven was lovely this time of year, the sky ablaze with color as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The rooftops glowed like embers and the gulls cried overhead.

The fishing boats swayed in the harbor as men hauled their nets along the wharves.

Marrine hated that she loved it.

It would have been easier if Port Haven had been ugly, if she could have hated the place as much as some of the people.

She loved the winding streets and the gardens full of roses, the soft music that floated from the chapel at dawn.

She even loved the way the sea shimmered when the sun broke through the clouds- but none of it was enough to love her.

The next morning at school, Thomas drew amused looks by tapping Marrine on the shoulder and demanding to see her fingers.

"Show us your fingers," he teased.

"No," she said shortly.

"Why not?" he asked. "Because I said so," she snapped. Thomas laughed.

"I reckon they're all webbed." A few of the other children snickered.

Marrine curled her fingers into her palm and shot a glare at Thomas.

"Leave her alone," said Zeke, who sat two rows behind her.

Thomas turned and grinned at his friend.

"Why? Is she your girlfriend?" The class burst into laughter.

Zeke's face was red with anger as he pushed himself off the bench.

"She's my friend," he muttered. "So what?" Thomas shot back.

Zeke opened his mouth to argue but the schoolmistress suddenly tapped him on the shoulder with her ruler.

"Silence!" she snapped, and the class fell hushed at once.

It wasn't until lunchtime that Marrine finally slipped away on her own.

She wandered the gardens and soon found herself walking up the path that led to the old oak tree at the back of the chapel grounds.

Marrine knew no one ever came here except when they needed to be alone, and she was grateful for the solitude.

She curled up beneath the great tree and tucked her knees against her chest.

For a while, she simply sat there, trying not to think about Thomas's laughter or Patricia's lies or the cruel things the other children had said.

Then the tears began rolling down her cheeks and she buried her face against her knees.

"I hate them," she whispered, wiping her sore cheeks with the back of her hand.

"No, I don't," she said a moment later, wiping away another tear.

"I hate me." "That's not true," said a voice.

Marrine looked up to see Zeke standing a few feet away.

She hadn't heard him at all.

He wore his school bag over one shoulder and his dark hair was tousled from running through the gardens.

"You followed me," she said accusingly. "I looked all over for you," he replied. "You shouldn't have."

"I know."

"Then go away."

Zeke didn't move.

Marrine sniffled and turned her face away from him.

"They're right," she said quietly. "About what?" he asked.

"Everything." Zeke frowned.

"They say I'm strange," she said. "So are you," he replied.

Marrine glanced up at him sharply.

He chuckled.

"Not like you." She looked away again.

"They're right about me," she murmured.

"I'm nobody.

I don't have a family or a past or anything." "You have the sisters," he said. "They're not my family," she said bitterly.

"You have me," Zeke said softly.

"That's not the same thing," she said.

"It is to me."

Marrine looked up at him, surprised.

For once, he didn't seem to want to fool around.

He was angry, she realized, not at her, but at everyone who had made her feel so small.

"They're jealous of you," he said.

"What are they jealous of?" He hesitated.

"You." Marrine let out a choked laugh.

"Jealous of what? I'm nobody." "No you're not." Zeke shook his head.

"You're the bravest person I know." "I'm not brave.

I cry all the time." "So do I," he said.

"How would you know?" she asked. "Because my mother does," he replied.

Marrine blinked at him.

Zeke shrugged.

"Sometimes, anyway.

When she's worried about my father.

She cries, but she's still the bravest person I know." Marrine looked out over the sea.

"I don't remember my mother." Zeke's face softened.

"I know." Marrine looked back at him.

"I don't even know if she loved me." "She did," he said.

"You don't know that." "Yes, I do.

Because nobody leaves a child alone, unless something terrible happened." Marrine was silent for a long moment.

She looked at the sea again, then back at Zeke.

He sat beside her beneath the old oak tree, not saying anything for a while.

The wind rustled the leaves overhead.

Then, without another word, Zeke reached out and took one of Marrine's hands.

She looked at him, surprised.

His fingers curled around her own.

He didn't seem afraid.

Not of her hands, or her strange eyes, or the horrible things people had said about her.

“You're my best friend,”

he said.

Marrine's lips trembled, but she said nothing.

"That's everything," he added.

She looked up at him, searching his face.

He didn't seem to be joking.

Zeke dabbed at her cheeks with his sleeve.

"Nobody's going to hurt you," he said.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Especially not while I'm around." Marrine wanted to believe him.

She wanted to believe him more than anything.

So, in a way, she did.

"Promise?" she asked. "Promise," he said.

Neither of them seemed to notice the figure watching them from the edge of the garden.

Patricia saw Zeke take Marrine's hand and her expression darkened.

"That boy," she muttered, turning away.

By the time supper was served, a new set of rumors had surfaced.

Marrine, it seemed, had bewitched Zeke- the priest's son- and now the boy was under her spell.

Still, Marrine knew nothing of this as she sat beneath the old oak tree with Zeke.

For the first time in weeks, she felt safe.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered, "Thank you."

He smiled, hugging her close.

"Anytime." The sun was setting over the sea, painting the sky with colors of gold and violet.

For a while, at least, Port Haven could say whatever it liked.

In the meantime, Marrine had Zeke, and that was all she needed.

Perhaps, she thought, being somebody didn't mean knowing where you came from.

Perhaps it meant knowing where you belonged, and for once, Marrine belonged right where she was.