The initial meeting had gone well. True, it had been set up by their families, two of the most noble houses of their country, but despite that, they found, she and he, that they genuinely liked each other.

That first meeting was little more than dinner and a chaperoned walk through the perfumed gardens of her family’s estate. No, not a walk. A stroll. Of course, he’d been clad in formal attire, and her skirts had been ridiculously voluminous, especially in the August heat, but they’d shared a real moment of connection under the rose arbor.

A marriage to this man might not be horrible, after all, Elisabeth thought. He was funny, he was courteous, he was well-read, he was an excellent dancer, he didn’t mind that she was slightly mad, and while they didn’t speak all the same languages, they shared at least three common tongues. Communication would never be an issue.

Their second meeting, a trip to the opera, had also been pleasant enough. They’d both appreciated the talent of the singers while mocking the absurdity of the story. Their quiet laughter had become a trilled counterpoint that only those sharing their private box could discern.

On their third meeting, though, the moon had been high in the sky after the official festivities of the ball had ended, and she’d been edgy and cross all evening, for no apparent reason. He’d tried to break through her prickly mood with romantic advances – advances she would have welcomed on any other night – but instead, she’d let her dark emotions dictate her response, rather than letting her level head or empathetic heart take control.

He’d known… he’d seen the stains on her hands when the gloves came off, and that had provided all the information he’d needed. She’d barely had time to kiss his screaming mouth into silence before the portal had been opened, and he’d been pushed inside.

Of course, no one blamed her. It was an accident, they said. She couldn’t be expected to control her power. No one in her country had used that sort of magic for years – centuries even.

“Put your gloves back on, dearest,” her mother chided. “He won’t be missed for hours, and by then, we’ll have brought him back.” Unspoken were the next two words: we hope.

She turned her eyes to her mother’s face and nodded, silent tears wetting her cheeks.

The power to rip a hole in the universe had been dormant in her family for generations, until, with her birth, it woke. The consequences – the bloodstained hands, the screams of the universe echoing constantly inside her head – had been mitigated with extensive therapy: hypnosis, meditation, an herbal remedy from time to time.

But sometimes, when the moon was full, and her emotions were riding high – even if they were positive emotions – she slipped.

Well, witty and wise as he’d seemed Henri would not be so difficult to replace. There was always another suitor looking for a rich wife. And as her mother had said, they’d likely be able to fish him out – whatever was left of him – before too long.

Elisabeth smoothed her black satin gloves over her hands and up her arms. No more stains were visible. Her dainty fingers were once again hidden from view.

She wondered, though, if they could see – her parents, her friends, the endless line of Henri’s and Jean-Michel’s and Edouard’s – the stains on her heart and mind. The way every glance in the mirror reflected back a fractured soul.

She adjusted her hat and flashed a brittle smile at her shattered reflection in the window glass, and decided that if she had to be mad, at least she could be mad with style.

“I’m bored,” Anisa whined to her grandmother, whose arms were elbow deep in soapy water.

“Bored?” The old woman scoffed. “How could anyone with a brain like yours ever be bored? Go outside! Use your imagination!”

But before Anisa could follow through on that suggestion the sky darkened and thunder began to grumble at them.

Grandma finished washing the last dish, and rinsed and dried her hands. “Bad timing,” she told Anisa with a hint of a rueful apology in her tone. “I have an idea.”

The old woman sliced an orange into thin circles and retrieved an empty paper towel roll from the recycling bin.

Anisa was confused. She liked oranges, but she’d only ever seen them cut in circles when they were to be floated in punch bowls. “Grandma? What’s your idea?”

“You’ll see. Get the honey and come to the table.”

Anisa did as she was asked.

Taking her seat, she watched as grandma did the same. She kept watching as the old woman used the squeeze-bottle of honey to draw a line around the inside of one of the orange slices, along the white pith beneath the rind. Then she pushed the cardboard tube from the paper towels into the honey.

“I don’t get it,” Anisa said.

“Here.” Grandma handed her the orange and cardboard contraption. “Look through the open end.”

Anisa peered through the cardboard tube expecting to see just the flesh of the orange, but her grandmother stroked her hair and reminded her, “Use your imagination!”

And so she did!

“I see a fireball turning cartwheels across the sky,” she announced. “I see the sun rising on a field of clover. The bees are so happy! I see butterfly wings, and the round part of the big window at church.”

Anisa paused. A lifetime of being taught to share her toys was prickling her conscience. “Grandma,” she asked. “Would you like to look.”

“Thank you,” the old woman said. “I’d love to.” The little girl handed over the make-shift toy and the old woman turned the tube this way and that, as if she were changing the focus. “Hmm,” she said. “Just as I thought!”

“What? What do you see?”

“I see joy and creativity and a little girl who isn’t bored anymore.”

Anisa giggled. Grandma had a point. “Now what?” she asked.

“Now? Now, we eat the rest of these orange slices, and we figure out what story the thunder is trying to tell.”

And they did.

She wakes up, looks at the time. 12:46 AM. It’s been twenty minutes since the last time she went through this step.

She stretches her arm toward the opposite side of the bed.

Her hand meets emptiness. Emptiness and cool sheets.

She closes her eyes and sends a silent prayer to the universe.

She had always known, of course, that being married to someone in the Space Fleet would be challenging: long hours, dog watches on the bridge of the spaceship where they live, missions to unknown planets…

For the actual officers, for the crew, these things are, at best, par for the course. For people like her -for the ordinary people who share their lives with the brave men and women in uniform – the reality is a vastly different one.

They carve out their lives in between the remote assignments. An hour here. An afternoon there. They hold off on plans to acquire pets, to have children, to plan for the future after the tour of duty is finished, until that magical retirement date is in sight.

Well, they try to.

But life isn’t so easily controlled.

So, while her partner is off the ship, she listens to the comm-box the captain – an older woman with short white hair – provides to all the officers’ significant others in such situations. She listens in on the chatter from within the space rover – the small crafts used for remote missions – and smiles at the easy banter between the crewmates.

And when the chatter goes silent, when the signal is too weak, too far away, or the remote team is dealing with situations too sensitive to be broadcast to unsecure receivers, she has nights like this, where sleep comes only in snatches and the face of the clock seems to mock her, melting into the darkness like wax from a flickering candle.

And of course, because it’s digital. Because everything is digital, she doesn’t even have the comforting tick-tock, tick-tock to lull her to sleep.

She opens her eyes.

She looks at the clock.

Sure, she could ask the ship’s AI to just tell her the time, but she’s half-convinced it’s becoming tired of answering her.

12:59 AM.

Her partner’s side of the bed remains empty.

She closes her eyes again.

“Where are we going?

My mother looks over at me from behind the steering wheel. It’s barely a glance, but I see the indecision in her face, even if I don’t know to call it that.

What I do know is that she woke me up in the still-dark of my room and had me put shoes and socks on with my pajamas and bathrobe. She packed my slippers and threw some of my clothes and underwear and my Winnie-the-Pooh into the big suitcase, already half-full with the silkier fabric of her own stuff.

“We’re going to see Charlotte and Greg,” she tells me after a moment.
“Is Daddy coming?”

“No, he had to stay home.”

Daddy hadn’t come to the door to say goodbye, but it would be years until I put it all together. My parents screaming matches had been a near-constant part of my childhood, but that night – that night – I’d gone to bed with the covers all the way up to my ears and my big koala bear and bigger lion on either side of me.

I’d heard their normal yelling turn into something else. Something dark and scary with the sound of something cutting through the air, followed by breaking glass and slamming doors and then a weird *pop* before everything had gone still and quiet, like someone had siphoned all sound out of the world.

If I looked back at my mother, at her hands gripping the steering wheel, would I see the remnants of energy crackling around her fingers? Would I see her eyes glowing slightly green in the not-yet-morning light?

Daddy had called my mother a witch so many times. Not witch-with-a-b like other people said. Just the regular word. But when Daddy called Mommy that, it wasn’t just a mean word. It was Meant. He’d say things like he Should Have Known Better than to Marry a Witch. And he’d scream that Solving Problems with Magic Wasn’t Really Dealing. And he’d flinch sometimes when she tried to touch him.

It was the flinching that bothered me the most.

When I got older, if my eyes started glowing green when I was upset, or my fingers sparked when I was angry, would Daddy pull way from me too?

I had a feeling we would.

The car moves ever forward, toward Charlotte and Greg’s place. They live in a house in the woods, and whenever we visit they bundle me into a loft bed at the top of the house with tons of pillows and quilts and books, and Greg pulls flowers out of the air and gives me bags of chocolate drops if he thinks I’m sad.
“Mommy?” I break the silence that has settled. “I’m thirsty.”

“We’ll stop in a little while,” she says. “For a snack and a potty break.”

“But I’m thirsty now!”

“I forgot the bottled water,” my mother confesses. But she reaches behind my ear, and then opens her hand, where a wrapped candy rests. “Suck on this, for now.”

I take the candy and unwrap it, popping it into my mouth. My favorite kind: Butterscotch.

I look out the window, and I smile. Charlotte and Greg will keep us safe and maybe Daddy will learn that a little magic isn’t so bad after all.

You’ve been gone three years, and yet somehow, you’re still here.

The shape of your body lingers in corners, caught in glimpses out of the corner of my eye.

I see you kneeling for a goodnight kiss at our daughter’s bedside, catch your reflection in the mirror, the window, the glass of the microwave door.

At night, when I lie shivering in what was once our bed, but is now solely mine, is it your hands that pull the covers up, protecting me in a cocoon of cotton sheets and quilts as you once sheltered me in the curve of your body?

You seem so substantial in my dreams. We have conversations that never quite stick, though the feeling of having conversed often lingers for days.

Your touch is there, too. Your scent – cashews and spice. Surrounding me. Encompassing all that we were when you were here and alive.

“Find me,” you whisper in my ear after you kiss me. “Bring me home,” you urge.

I reach for you, wishing for the solid reassurance of your body.

And I wake. Alone. Bereft. Sad and angry and missing the reality we had, while your ghost slips through my fingers, like smoke.

Day 13

My fresh water is nearly gone, and I haven’t been able to catch a fish in two days. While the night brings welcome respite from the blazing sun, other, less welcome visitors arrive with it.

The sharks appear at dusk, ever circling, biding their time. I’ve bound the cut on my leg with one of my shirtsleeves, but I fear it’s beginning to fester. Can they scent my blood even though this dinghy is watertight, or are they tracking my fear?

Last night – this morning, really – just before dawn, I thought I saw the outline of a ship, an ancient three-masted vessel, the kind from centuries ago, before we sailed the solar winds as easily as we ride the white-credited waves.

She should have been a welcome sight, anachronistic as it was, but something about her threw me off: what I thought was sunrise filtered through her sails, which were billowing despite the lack of breeze (a puzzle in itself) seemed more like flame after several minutes of staring at her through the sonic spyglass.

And then there was the way her seemed to be leering at me, as if she was not a ship – or not only that – but a trapped soul yearning to be set free.

I chose not to hail her in the darkness, but hunkered down in the bottom of my boat, keeping my head below the gunwales, and I believe we passed alongside each other without her taking any notice, but I remember a strong odor, kelpy and dank and altogether disconcerting.

In the morning light, I was half-convinced I had dreamed the strange vessel, but for the lingering scent of wet wood and smoke.

Should I glimpse this ship again tonight I will have no choice but to hail her, and beg for assistance: water and food, at least, or perhaps passage to shore – any shore.

Day 14

She saw my hail and her ghostly form became one of solid strength. A rope ladder was dropped over the side and I hitched my meager belongings and climbed aboard.

I expected a crew. I hoped for humans, or at least humanoids, but there was no one.

Day 15

Alone on an empty ship that shows signs of a battle, fought long ago, and bitterly won, I begin to hear voices.

They are whispers, really, insinuating themselves into my consciousness by sliding between auditory perception and something almost psychic.

I should be wary, perhaps even terrified, but instead I feel welcome. I feel as though I belong here.

Day 21

This strange ship has been speaking to me. Flirting with me.

She says I am her other half, the sun to her moon, the wind to her sails. Each morning I wake to the scent of lingering fire, and I go on a search of the entire vessel. The captain’s chamber always has fresh food laid out.

In the stories, people who eat such food are chained to faerie-land or somehow altered, but except for feeling stronger and more confident behind the wheel of the Lucy – for that is her name – I am much as usual.

It is odd, though, that we have seen no other vessels, as our course is centered on the common shipping routes. Not even a freighter with a robotic crew has crossed our wake.

Day 25

Lucy has taken on the form of a woman, one who has been telling me stories about her life. Last night, she was as solid, as substantial, as any woman, and we danced on the deck as the moon shown down.

We shared a kiss. Her breath wasn’t the dank, rank swamp-gas we’re told such apparitions exude, but rather, was sweet, like jasmine mixed with evening primrose.

Arm-in-arm, we entered the captain’s chamber together, and our romantic interlude continued, but when I wanted it to go on all night, when I wanted to merge with her the way only two humans can, she demurred.

She was regretful but insisted she must leave.

I reached for her hand, but only caught her sleeve.

This morning, I woke in the grand salon with a piece of lace, yellow with age,  clutched in my hand.

Day 31

I am her, she is me. I long for shore, she resists. I know now that my thoughts control our destination, and whether we sight other ships.

Lucy whispers to me all the time, now fearsome, now flirtatious. We continue our dance each night. Both dances. I am quite certain that our joining is inevitable, but I do not know what it will mean. I fear I am losing my humanity.

I fear I will be one with Lucy forever.

I have experimented with directing our path toward civilization. It is nearly nightfall, and I can glimpse the flickering of Lady Liberty’s torch in the distance.

Tomorrow, I will attempt contact with the US Coastguard and ask for safe harbor.

Day 33

News Report:

The wreckage of the Lucretia Borgia, known to historians as Lucy have been found on the northern beach of Sandy Hook, the sandbar that is home to the country’s oldest continuously operating lighthouse.

The Hook, the sandbar that separates Raritan Bay from the Atlantic Ocean,, has been the location of several shipwrecks over the years. Two cement ships, part of the defense of New York Harbor during World War II, can still be glimpsed in crumbled glory during mud tides.

Researchers are puzzled by the skeletal remains found in the ship’s wheelhouse as they date from contemporary time, and appear to belong to horror novelist Alan Perkins, who went missing from his pleasure yacht late last month.

No explanation exists for the advanced state of decay of Perkins’ body. “It’s as if he stepped into the ship centuries ago,” said the team leader, Corrine Warriner of Woods Hole, MA. “We may never solve this mystery.”