Monstrous Beauty by Elizabeth Fama Page B

rather than speak he shook his head and dragged the book toward him. He turned to the next page, where there was a portrait of her face. He handed the journal back to her. In the image her eyes were larger, her teeth were sharp, and her pupils were horizontal slits, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
    “I see. Perhaps we could tear this page out,” she suggested.
    “When I say it’s a matter of safety, I believe I am selfishly thinking only of you. But there is also cause to be concerned for the others of your kind, including your sister. I am confident that people would try to profit from them in some awful way that we cannot conceive. If you will not think of yourself, think of them.”
    She closed the journal and held it to her chest. “I understand.”
    He stood and kissed her cheek. “Put your astoundingly clever mind to work on how we might keep it without risk. I’ve tried, and I can’t see another way. If you agree it’s necessary to destroy it, we shall burn it in tonight’s fire.
    “I must be off to church, to show my face.” And then with a twinkle of amusement he added, “Although I’d gladly drown myself again if it meant I might stay here with you.”
    She straightened his collar and pulled him close to her. “Don’t even give life to such words. You are sometimes quite maddening, do you know that?”
    “Ah, but you love it,” he whispered into her lips before he left.
    *   *   *
    The hour and a half of Sunday services was the only time Ezra and Sarah spent apart. He did it solely to preempt any intrusion into their home life. She was a newcomer—a foreigner, according to local gossip—and the spiritual standards were lower for her, but Ezra’s family had a long pedigree in town, with certain expectations.
    Sarah used her time alone in the same way every week. Carrying a bag containing a towel and a petticoat, she walked to Leyden Street and down to the bay. The entire town was at church; the streets were silent and the shops she passed were closed. A dog wandered unattended, knocking over dustbins and scavenging for scraps. The boats in the bay were moored, waves lightly slapping their hulls in the gentle breeze.
    In a stand of trees, she took off her dress. She wore a bathing costume under it: an absurd outfit of a long blue serge blouse bound with white worsted braid, with cap sleeves and a sailor collar, plus three-quarter-length trousers. A person could hardly be expected to swim any distance at all wearing such a thing, but propriety demanded it and there was always the chance that someone might see her in the water.
    She looked about her, making sure she was alone, and stepped into the waves. She waded in until she was completely underwater and out of sight, with her hair blooming up and around her, and the salt water refreshing her hot, dry skin. She stayed completely submerged as she removed the leaden swimsuit and anchored the two pieces under a rock. And then she swam free. She was clumsier than she liked with her human legs, but efficient enough that swimming reminded her of how lithe she used to be.
    Before the hour was up, her sister Needa had joined her, with another called Weeku. They swam to the rocky outcropping together to catch lobsters and dig for clams, being careful to stay on the side away from the beach.
    “Let me open the shell, Syrenka.” Weeku took a clam from her. “You have such soft fingers now—I wonder how you can eat at all.”
    “Needa,” Sarah said in a hushed voice. “Is there any news of the child?”
    “No, dearest. I am sorry. We’ve traveled far, but we still find no trace of her. I heard your hands drum the water that night,” Needa assured her. “I heard the baby cry. When I arrived, she was gone. You know we would have taken her—all of us—and cared for her as our own.”
    Syrenka touched her sister’s shoulder. “It is my fault. When I think that I exposed her, that I assumed she would be safe, without thinking through the