The Souls of Drowned People

Chapter Twenty Three

The cake turned out rather lopsided. “Too many cooks spoil it,” Rachael muttered, setting it carefully on the counter. Apparently Cillian and Bridget had both been trying to help, and something went wrong with both of them thinking that the other hadn’t put the flour in yet. Cillian tried to decorate the white frosting with a tube of blue food coloring, drawing a giant eighteen across the cake, but his hand was still shaking from the incident with Ronan on the beach, and it dripped down the edges and onto the table.

            “Cillian screwed up your cake.” Bridget was quick to point fingers.

            I looked at the sloppy cake, and then up at the people who had made it for me. “It’s the best cake I’ve ever seen.”

            Cillian’s smile was a fragile as the cake. He looked like he wanted to be angry with me for going off with Ronan, but we both knew that we couldn’t fight with each in any situation, much less on my last possible day as a human being.

            “I’m sorry,” I said, just in case. “I love you.”

            “I love you more,” he said, and rubbed some frosting on my nose.

            “I thought that since we were both eighteen, that meant we had to be mature now.” I rubbed it off, and flicked it back on his shirt.

            “No.” He cut two gigantic pieces of cake. “Happy birthday, Moira.”

            Bridget came skipping back into the kitchen, my new white dress draped over her arm. “You still need to try this on!”

            I wiped the frosting off my hands before taking the dress from her. “I will,” I said, and headed to the bathroom.

            “She’s beautiful,” I heard Bridget telling Cillian as I closed the door. “She’s beautiful and you have frosting on your shirt. I don’t get what she sees in you.”

            I didn’t get what he saw in me. Even when I twirled around the bathroom in my new dress, letting it dance gracefully around me, I still didn’t see it. I didn’t look like the kind of girl someone like Cillian should be in love with. I looked dead, so drained and pale that it was almost a wonder that the selkies could want me in exchange for Iona. Iona was likely still prettier than me, even in death.

            But the dress was pretty, and Bridget wanted to see me wearing it. I couldn’t let Bridget down.

            I stepped into the hall, putting my hands on my hips and striking a dramatic pose. My hair hit my face when I flipped it back, but I smiled and tried like it didn’t happen.

            “You’re beautiful!” Bridget squealed. “Isn’t she, Cillian? Cill?” She nudged his arm when he didn’t say anything. “He’s in shock because you’re so pretty, that’s all. Can I do your hair before dinner? I want to try French braiding it.”

            “Of course.” Bridget took my hand and led me down the hall to her room, leaving Cillian and his speechlessness in the kitchen.

            Bridget had taped a new poster of one of her boy bands over the window, their adorable faces protecting her from the darkness and the horrors outside. Still, it was the kind of picture where the eyes followed you whichever way you turned, and even the cuteness became terrifying.

            I sat cross-legged on Bridget’s bed, letting her start on the tangles that accumulated in my hair. One of her mythology books was lying on the pillow, and I ran my fingers across the golden lettering on the cover.