Page 45 of Ever After

“Blue!” I say in a shocked voice.

He ignores me. “Do we have a deal?” he asks Branok.

He shrugs dismissively. “If we must.”

“Excellent.” He sits back down. “Tell us more about what you remember around the time of your death?”

I glance at Branok, curious about his response. My eyes narrow. He and his dog are becoming faint, perhaps wavering slightly at the edges. Yes. I can see the chair through Branok’s body.

Branok grimaces. “I must go.”

“Go where?” I ask. “Why?”

“He’s used up his strength,” Blue murmurs. “It’s very draining to talk to the living.” He smiles at the ghost. “Go and rest. We have time to sort this out.”

“You will not forsake me and Xander?” comes the faint voice.

Blue takes my hand. “You have our word. We will help you both.”

A breeze blows through the cottage and when it leaves, Branok and the dog are gone, with only the faint scent of pipe smoke left behind.

“Well,” I finally say. “This is turning out to be a real busman’s honeymoon.”

Blue grimaces. “Fucking hell. I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” I nudge him. “I’m proud of you.”

“Really?” He perks up. “And I did do some great negotiating, didn’t I?”

“Yes, dear. It was like sitting in the UN.”

“It’d be easier there. The people only look dead.”

Blue

I’m back on the monochrome beach at the scene of the shipwreck, but time must have moved on. The ship is broken into pieces, objects bobbing in the sea. A barrel washes up on the beach, and a man runs past me, exclaiming in triumph.

I take a breath and turn. The sand is busy with men running here and there, and the excitement is so strong I can almost taste it.

Bodies lie on the sand, broken and splayed. In the water, over the rocks, more bodies drift with the tide, face down. Then there’s a faint cry, and I’m amazed to see a hand rise in the water. It’s a man, his face grey, and he’s calling for aid.

“Help him,” I call out loudly, but again, no one pays attention. One of the men on the sand detaches from the group and moves to the man in the water. He’s going to help him but he’s moving too slowly. The man could drown.

“Hurry up,” I shout.

I breathe a sigh of relief when he wades into the shallows, grabs the man by his coat, and pulls. The man chokes as a wave of water washes over him. The man rescuing him spins, seemingly getting a firmer grasp on the man’s coat.

Is the tide making it difficult to pull him out? Sick dread fills my mouth. No. The rescuer is no rescuer at all. He’s holding the man down, drowning him. And then I remember. The men on shore are wreckers. They don’t want survivors.

“No. Stop!” I shout, but it’s futile. The drowning man has stopped struggling. The wrecker lets him go, and the dead man drifts, bumping into the bodies of his fellow travellers from the ship.

I drop to the sand, dragging in deep breaths as nausea rises sharply in my belly.

“’Tis not a pleasant sight,” a familiar voice says from behind me.

I turn and see Branok. The wreckers and the ship are all washed in monochrome shades, but he’s in full colour. His long hair is loose over his shoulders, his blue eyes fierce, and his greatcoat stained with seawater.

“You’re here?” I croak.