It was likely several minutes past Élodie's turn on the swing, but she felt she could get away with a few more pumps while Lucie babbled on about the past week's chores. Lucie's father had left the island to fight the war in the colonies and her mother had grown increasingly needy ever since. It was all Lucie talked about now.
"Maman can hardly cook supper anymore and I have to do everything," Lucie complained. "I tell the little ones they must help, but they don't listen. Maybe if I said they had to make their own supper or starve…but they'd just set the house aflame!" Lucie leaned back against the trunk of the slouching tree, which had clearly borne the whippings of harsh ocean winds throughout its long life. It was a testament to its strength that it could support the swing Élodie's father had tied to its longest branch two years prior. "I wish Papa could have stayed here like yours…Élodie?"
Élodie blinked and locked eyes with her friend, whose crossed arms and flat mouth made her irritation quite evident. Élodie plunged her heels into the sand and sat up from the swing as a peace offering. Lucie seemed unimpressed. "You're not even listening, are you?"
"My mind drifted for a moment," Élodie admitted, "but only because the evening is so peaceful and the waves so calming." This wasn't entirely true. Though Élodie had been staring down the beach at the shoreline, it wasn't the beauty of nature that stole her thoughts from Lucie's monologue. It was thoughts of her own family, her own mother and four sisters waiting for the end of her father's month-long shifts at the lighthouse while, before the war, Lucie's father came home every week from the salt marshes to dine with his family.
Lucie squeezed between Élodie and the tree trunk and took her seat on the swing, her petticoats billowing as she accelerated, tendrils of her red hair coming loose from her cap and flickering like sparks against the twilight. "I wish Papa could have stayed here like yours," she repeated. "I envy your fortune."
Élodie did not like the way Lucie said, "fortune," as though somehow Élodie's family was not struggling in their own way. "I hardly see my papa," she said. "Even before the war, I hardly saw him. At least your family had meals together every night before yours left."
Lucie murmured something under her breath and Élodie was quite certain she understood the words. Still, as rage simmered in her throat, she hissed, "What did you say?"
"I said, at least my father isn't a coward!" Lucie cried. Then she leapt off the swing and landed flat on her feet in front of Élodie, and shoved her. Élodie fell on her back, hitting the beach with such force that sand splashed into her eyes. It stung almost as much as Lucie's words.
"My papa's not a coward. He's a hero!" Élodie screamed as she heard Lucie shuffle her way up the beach. "If not for men like my papa, your father's ship would crash on shore and he'd drown before setting foot in the colonies to fight!" Tears flushed the sand from her eyes, but by the time her vision cleared, Lucie was nowhere in sight. Élodie swallowed the rest of her sobs and wiped her face with her apron. She liked it better alone anyway, she convinced herself. Now she could daydream without interruption.
With the tide rising, it was a short walk to the waves. She cupped her hands and dipped them in the chilly saltwater, scooping up as much as she could carry and dumping it on the dry sand beside her swing. She smoothed the damp area with her hands and used a thin stick of driftwood to carve lines into her makeshift canvas, hoping to produce something that resembled the mermaids from Papa's stories. Papa used to tell her tales of sea maidens with angelic voices and glittering scales. He said that once, while looking out from the lighthouse to the sea, he swore he saw one leap out of the water and flick her tail as she dove back down. Élodie's sketchbooks—previously filled with pictures of the island's many plants and seabirds—now consisted only of these creatures with long, flowing hair and sleek tails. Today, Élodie wanted nothing more than for the ocean to lull her to sleep with its gentle breaths and tuck her in beneath its watery sheets. She longed to wake amidst schools of fish with a dazzling tail of her own, and fins to propel her miles away.
The tide was swelling quickly toward her, and she inhaled the scent of salt and kelp and hollyhocks that rode the ocean breeze. The first hints of stars twitched faintly above the setting sun, and miles of whitecaps sizzled in the distance.
But there was another light, she realized…something golden and frothy like seafoam, and it glided, just over the horizon, with a warmth that she felt somewhere within her bones, as though part of that light was inside her and yearned to join its other half. The piece of driftwood slipped from her fingers as she rose and took a step toward the light. Soon, her boots were full of seawater and her petticoat and stockings hung wet and heavy against her calves. But even as the waves slapped against her thighs, hips, waist, elbows…nothing mattered but that sweet, beaconing light.