Page 94 of Salt Kiss
Isolde is here and in a green dress and she’s safe. She’s not drifting facedown in the Atlantic.
But my relief curdles in an instant.
She’s huddled in a corner, her back to the wall and her shoulder against the deck railing, with her knees drawn up to her chest and her hair loose around her shoulders. Taffeta is spilling everywhere, shifting from emerald to sage to chartreuse, and it’s spattered with ocean spray. The hem is caught around one of her thighs, leaving one leg uncovered, and I can see that she’s barefoot.
Tears are tracking slow and clear down her cheeks. When she slides her defeated gaze to me, I get the impression she’s been crying for a while.
While there’s plenty of mist and splash this close to the water, the deck is sheltered from the wind and out of the way enough to be a good hiding place. I see why she chose it. I just want to know why sheneededto choose it.
I squat down next to her, careful of the skirt.
“I was worried,” I say. “I couldn’t find you.”
She leans her head against the wall, exposing her throat and collarbone. The dress has a low neckline and no sleeves; a row of small buttons the same color as the dress marches down the middle, leading to a thin sash tied at her narrow waist. The surfeit of silky fabric in the skirt, the immaculate tailoring of the bodice...it’s sumptuous and rich. Even barefoot, even without any jewelry other than her engagement ring to set it off, she’s redolent of money.
“I dressed for dinner,” she says, her eyes closed. “I thought—I thought I was ready to see you. But I wasn’t. I came here instead.”
This is my fault. Her crying in a dinner dress on a yacht deck—my fault.
I open my mouth to start my apologies, to ask how I can make it right, but before I do, she speaks, her voice a whisper.
“I think I’m losing my mind.”
It’s like a kick to the throat. “Isolde,” I whisper back. “I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes are still closed. The thin lids are purple-tinged, sleepless and miserable.
“It’s not you,” she says. “It’s him. It’s Mark. He’s in my head, and I think,I always think, I’m guarded against it, but—” She opens her eyes, staring straight ahead at the sunset-orange sky and the water disappearing behind us. Her fingers find the dress’s neckline and dance over it. With every breath, her breasts swell against the fabric. “This dress was in my quarters. There’s a whole closet of them, and they all fit perfectly, and they’re all exactly what I would choose if I could. There’s a dojo and a chapel. That swimsuit, which...”
I blush remembering the swimsuit, and I see a blush on her cheeks too. She must have realized when she got back to her room how revealing the suit was after a swim.
Isolde looks at me. Her eyes are still so wet, her gold lashes spiky with tears.
“It was all by design, this whole trip. To break me down and get in my head. And it’sworking.” The spray has left dark dots of green on her skirt, glistening streaks on her calves and feet, and her tears drop to her bodice, leaving matching spots there too. “The only thing that hasn’t worked is him being here to see it working.”
Is this what Mark imagined when he pictured Isolde wooed? Pliant? Did he imagine her sobbing and wet from the sea?
She pushes her legs down so that they’re stretched in front of her. The farthest edge of her skirt is caught by the air and flutters at her ankle. Her eyes are searching mine, questioning.
“It’s not real, you know,” she says, finally looking away.
“What’s not?”
“Anything to do with him. Anything at all.” An exhale. “But I mean the engagement, the whole marriage. It’s not real.”
I stare. “Like in a philosophical sense, or...”
She gives a rueful laugh. “I wish my only problem was that the institution of marriage is ridiculous. No, I mean that the marriage is arranged. It’s a transaction.”
Arranged.
A transaction.
“I don’t understand.”
“My father wants me to marry Mark to grow Laurence Bank’s reach, and Mark agreed for the same reason but in reverse. Lyonesse’s information coupled with the financial power of Laurence Bank. It would make everyone happy.”
I look at the girl in her ocean-mottled dress, with her tear-streaked face and her shoulders slumped against the wall. “Everyone except for you,” I say.
