“Dinner first,” pronounced Mrs. Fentwig, much to Genevieve’s approval. “Then a good sleep, and Wigham tomorrow.”
Wigham was a long armed and stringy fellow who leapt through life with a jerky lack of conviction, like a marionette handled by an unpracticed puppeteer. His white hair billowed around his head like a fume of smoke. His protruding ears were reddish, as was his skin elsewhere, though little of it showed, for he was habitually dressed in a brightly woven shirt covered by stout canvas overalls stuffed into a pair of enormous red boots. Wigham’s boat was called theUnlikely Duck, though it was referred to by Wigham himself asUnlikely, which leant a strange flavor to the conversation.
“Unlikely’llget there,” said Wigham.”Unlikely, she’s a good old girl.” Old she was, as even Genevieve could see, though she looked well enough kept. She had a small, clean galley below, and beyond it a tiny cabin with two bunks hung high on the bulkheads with slant-backed cupboards below, out of the headroom of the table and benches, plus a tiny cubby forward, with a short bed athwartships and one tiny porthole. “You can have the cubby, girl,” said Wigham. “Your pa an’ I’ll do with the cabin. Since it’s only me taking you and your pa’s indifferent as a sailor, we’ll anchor near shore at night to get our rest.”
“The wind’s blowing the wrong way, isn’t it?” Genevieve asked, for she hadn’t taken time to rebraid her hair, and it streamed northward like a flag.
“Now it is. The Northerlies’ll be comin’ any day, howsomever, and once they do, they’ll be goin’ on an’ on until we’re sick of ’em.”
“Will we see the Golden Talking Fish of Merdune Lagoon?” she asked. “Prince Thum—ah, yes, someone I met on this trip said someone named Prince Thumsort talked about them.”
She knew she had made a faux pas, but she thought she had covered it until she saw that Garth’s face was white, and no less Weird Wigham’s. This individual took himself onto the top of his cabin with a leap and a cackle and there began to do a rooster dance, hands tucked into armpits and elbows flapping, crowing as he bowed and pranced, head darting this way and that.
“He’s dancing to avert ill luck,” murmured Garth.
“I’m sorry,” she faltered. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Well, he doesn’t know who Thumsort is.” Garth smiled. “But he caught on to the ‘Prince’ part of the title. Weird isn’t fond of the nobility.”
“Don’t know who he is,” crowed Wigham from his perch, “but he’s no business talking of … them.”
“The man she spoke of comes from over in Sealand,” called Garth. “You know they haven’t good sense over there.”
“Well, I knowthat. Nowhere near the sea! Not good sense at all. Well, young lady, your papa should have warned you. That’s not something we talk of here in Merdune. Don’t take them lightly. Nosir.”
Genevieve actually started to say that the Duchess of Merdune had been there at the time, but caught herself before the words came out. Instead, she apologized, saying she was very sorry, she hadn’t realized.
“Those particular fish,” whispered Garth, “are said to be magical by some, and it is considered unlucky to speak of them.”
Weird came down from the cabin top and the two men set about their business, Wigham ignoring her ostentatiously, though Garth nodded and smiled behind his back to indicate that Wigham’s displeasure would pass.
Soon they agreed that Wigham would lay in ship’s supplies and see to the sails, Garth would see to the foodstuffs, and meantime Imogene might buy herself a few books at the Midling Wells shop, for the boat offered no amusement and the weather might be too chilly for spending much time on deck. They would set sail when Weird Wigham, in his sole opinion (this intention delivered in a declamatory voice, with one or two flaps of the wings) declared that the Northerlies were underway.
So for three days they stayed at Fentwig’s House, eating well and catching up on their sleep. Genevieve spent some of the time walking along the shore, well wrapped against the chill, tirelessly investigating the shoreline. There were many shells to be picked up, and in some places stone walls and truncated chimneys protruded from the surf, the remains of farms that had been swallowed by the sea when the waters rose. At two houses just above the waterline, people were busy moving house, barns, fences, and stock to higher ground.