soul, and left her mark there, and he hoped he’d left some sort of mark or memory on her heart and soul too.
Memories. Wolfgang spent many nights up on the pool level, sitting in the white lounger with a glass of whisky in hand, under the starry sky or the stormy sky, with the rest of the bottle at his feet or cuddled to his side like a baby.
All that research? It had been an excuse toward the end. None of it had been leading him anywhere. He needed a whole team and years to get any answers – if any answers were possible? He suspected a mermaid simply could not change back into being a human, permanently.
He wrote a memoir, a sort of late diary of their weeks together. Every event he could recall was detailed. He did sketches of her, especially of her tail because of its uniqueness, and of her face because she compelled him. The scales on her tail would have made perfect jewelry and it seemed such a pity none of that had been left to him. Not one single scale.
He sketched all of her in black and white, and never could he do her justice.
He wrote obscure love letters to her in the pages, and only realized that he’d been subconsciously doing so when he reached the date she had left. The day he set her free.
His pen had risen from the page. This was so personal.
He was right too, about what he had told her.
If she returned now, he would chain her up and keep her. Properly, this time.
A freshly bloomed red rose waited for him to use it, cut from a garden shrub. One of Merrick’s. The whole flower would not fit inside the book. He fumbled over the side of the lounge, searching for the memoir.
Petal by petal, he plucked them to place one every few pages, then he closed the book and dropped the thorny stem to the grass. A gust blew it, and it rolled onto the pavers until it toppled, stilled, thorns up, with spiky shadows formed by an overhead light.
He took another gulp of whisky, surprised the ice was melted. The sea was quiet tonight, barely murmuring as it swept in and out. Yesterday he thought he’d caught a glimpse of a mermaid, or mer-something – one could not exactly sex them from that far away, and he was done with leaving drones in the ocean. He did not want to know.
If it was her after all, fuck her.
He threw the square tumbler into the pool where it sank immediately.
“Fuck everyone!”
The next morning he woke in the lounge, arm numb, head throbbing, with the morning sun creeping into the sky.
Did he go on writing in diaries? No. He tongued his inner cheek, his teeth. His mouth tasted of dead things. His breath would likely kill a dog at ten paces.
It was time. Been a month or more and lately something inside him had been niggling him. His conscience? He did not think he had one of those. Maybe he had just had enough.
Enough, yes.
His resignation from the Institute had been sent long ago. Since he’d made a point of pissing off everyone there, repeatedly, nobody contacted him anymore. Wallowing in his aloneness was what he had wanted. Saturate himself in sorrow. He had cried his heart out to the sea, some days.
Shameless. Stupid. No one had seen. No one cared.
He did not deserve one jot of anything from anyone.
Time.
Though he dreaded the task he had set himself that first day she’d gone. After all, this was the beginning of the end. He meant to walk into the fucking sea once he was done. That was going to be bad.
Digging in the garden though… pretty sure it would be worse.
CHAPTER 13
He rose, walked toward the steps that led down into the house and felt lancing pain in one foot. Discovered the rose stem stuck to his sole. He laughed and enfolded the stem in his fist, crushing it to his skin. Blood seeped from his fingers.
Karma.
He jogged down the stairs, gulped some water from the kitchen faucet, picked up a notepad and pen, then set off for the garden shed to fetch the shovel. The rose stem, he left on the sofa. He might throw it away later. The pain of the thorns though… he might need that again.
Now.
How many had there been? Seven?
He’d never asked if they were all here. Merrick had not said, and he’d not