Amelia wasn’t a strong reader—Jack could read a little, and had taught her what he knew—but there hadn’t been much call for it at home. Here there seemed to be words everywhere—on the corner signs and in huge letters on the buildings and lining the pages of newspapers hawked by small boys in the street.
The words only added to the cacophony—everywhere there was color and noise and people, oh so many people. They brushed up against Amelia when she walked or tried to lure her into their shops with their wares or cut abruptly in front of her, making her stagger to a halt and cause a pileup of irritated folk behind her.
They talked fast and moved fast and part of her thrilled at the newness of it all, while the other part of her wished for the solace of her cliff—the rocks and the wind and the unchanging ocean. It was, she reflected, not too late to turn back.
He’s never coming home, she reminded herself. You can stand there forever waiting for a ghost or you can see the world. That was why you followed the ship in the first place, so long ago.
And the world was not in her cottage. She had to go out and find it. And she had.
Some of the buildings seemed as tall as the cliff she stood upon day after day, and they were all pressed up against one another with hardly any space between. Even in the village at home, where the buildings were clustered more closely together, there was breathing room. In New York, it looked like breathing room hadn’t been a consideration.
After Levi Lyman left, she carefully chose a few articles of clothing—the best she had, which wasn’t saying much—and cleaned the cottage. She took the bedding from the mattress and placed it inside her trunk with some cedar blocks. She didn’t think about what she was doing or why, but soon it was done.
She rigged an oilskin pouch to be carried on her back and placed all the things that might be necessary to her inside it. It was as watertight as she could make it once she sewed the edges together. There would be no need for human things until she came ashore in a human place. Humans, she had noticed, did not appreciate the naked form. Even showing one’s ankles was frowned upon.
Though she pared down to just exactly what she would need—clothing and money—the bag was still a little bulky because of the necessity of including shoes. Amelia hated shoes and never wore them unless she had to, but she didn’t think she would be able to get away without them in a city.
There was no need to pack human food. Amelia had never done this in front of Jack, but she was perfectly content eating raw fish from the ocean. Her mermaid teeth were made for this, after all.
Once everything in the cottage was prepared, Amelia went down the stairs to the cove, shed what she wore and left it on the beach, hooked the oilskin pouch over her shoulders, and dove into the water.
She thought that the people of the village might believe she’d returned to the ocean forever, as a mermaid should. She hoped this would comfort them when they found the cottage empty and her clothes on the sand.
The pouch was awkward and it dragged against the water, but there was nothing for it. She couldn’t arrive in New York without the expected human things. She must try, at least for a while, to blend in with the real humans.
The journey took longer than she expected, for the pouch slowed her down and she was not accustomed to swimming such long distances any more.
This weakness frustrated her. Once she had swum the length of the ocean and down into its farthest depths. Now she was soft from life on land. Her nightly swims were not nearly enough preparation for such a long trip.
Jack had maps in the cottage of all the Eastern Seaboard, and Amelia knew how to follow the curves of the land and how to listen to the sailors’ talk when she came upon a ship, and in this way she was able to find her way to New York and not foolishly come ashore in Boston.
But her life in Maine had not been any kind of preparation for the city in which she now stood, staring up at the band that played from a balcony over the entrance to the museum. It was by far the worst group of musicians she had ever heard.
Admittedly her experience of music was limited to the occasional Independence Day parade (Jack liked these), but she was certain every member of this band would be better off in a different profession. One almost wanted to flee inside the museum just to escape the din.
The building itself was enormous, taking up all the space in view so you couldn’t see anything but it unless you turned around. The upper floors were decorated with large, brightly colored paintings of animals—animals more exotic to Amelia than any creature in the ocean. She wondered if there were live animals inside. Flags of all sorts fluttered in a long line that wrapped around the building.
Amelia watched the people going inside the museum, noting that they paid a fee. Her money was hidden inside a pocket in her dress that she’d sewn for just that purpose—she didn’t like having a string pouch hanging from her wrist as many ladies did.
The oilskin bag had been abandoned once she came ashore. Amelia had waited until the cover of night and found a secluded spot (which took some doing—every port was bustling, even at night) to dry her hair and clothing. At dawn she’d dressed and ventured into the maze of New York City, her heart beating faster than she thought it ever could. She was finally seeing something of the world, and it seemed a large part of the world was crammed onto this tiny island.
Amelia shivered a little as she stood there. She hadn’t thought to pack a cloak, and anyway there wouldn’t have been space in the bag with the shoes. The breeze was cold, though not as biting as it was at home.
She was aware of the faint smell of the sea clinging to her and thought this must be why so many of the passing ladies looked at her askance. The streets reeked of horse manure and rooting pigs, so Amelia was surprised any ocean scent could cut through the stink. Still, it wasn’t as if she could do anything about it. Her fellow museumgoers would have to accustom themselves or move away—it was all the same to her.
Amelia moved forward then, following the continuous stream of people into the massive building. As she paid her twenty-five cents, she noticed the ticket agent’s eyes rake over her hair and hands.
Ah, that’s the mystery solved. Now she knew why so many people had given her funny looks out in the street. She had no bonnet or gloves, and her hair was pulled into a single plait down her back instead of the customary (and unattractive, she thought) bun at the base of the neck.
Humans cared about such foolish things. What would happen if everyone saw her uncovered hands and hair? Would the stars fall from the sky? Would the earth crack in two? She hadn’t space in her oilskin bag for silly things like bonnets (even if she owned one, which she didn’t), nor the jewelry, parasols, or fans that adorned other women.
This attitude contributed to the general opinion of her as a witch, Jack had told her once. Women who did what they liked instead of what other people wished were often accused of witchcraft, because only a witch would be so defiant, or so it was thought.
“Let them think of me as a witch if it makes them happy,” Amelia said. “I won’t wear a bonnet just to please them.”
“And a very bewitching witch you are,” Jack said, and his eyes sparked as he reached for her.
She realized then that she stood in the gaslit hall of the museum, perfectly still. Her throat was stuffed full of unshed tears. She swallowed them down and shook her head to clear it, for folk were passing her with curious glances. Amelia didn’t want to attract so much attention.