At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen Page A

female figure was suddenly in the doorway with light pouring in around her.
    â€œMrs. Pennypacker? Is everything all right?” she asked.
    I blinked at her, wondering why she’d just addressed me by my mother’s name.
    â€œMy Lord!” She rushed over to help me up. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
    â€œYes, thank you,” I said. “I seem to have tripped over a shoe, of all things.”
    Now that the light was no longer behind her, I could see that she was about my age, with a sturdy frame, pleasant expression, and thick auburn hair swept into a snood. She had a smattering of freckles, and her face was browned by the sun.
    â€œShall I get your husband?” she asked, looking at me with concern.
    â€œNo, thank you,” I said. “I just need a minute to get oriented. When I woke up I wasn’t quite sure where I was, and then…” I waved a hand at the carpet, which was strewn with the things I’d taken out while searching for my nightgown and toothbrush. “Well,I was in a bit of a rush to get to bed last night, and this morning I couldn’t see where I was going.”
    â€œIt’s the Blackout curtains,” she said, nodding decisively and walking past to the window. “They’re that dark you can’t see a thing, although I suppose that’s the point.”
    She braced her fingertips on the inside edges of the window casing and coaxed out a solid square frame covered with black material. Light flooded the room.
    â€œThat’s better, isn’t it?” she said, setting the frame on the floor.
    Strips of tape crisscrossed the panes of glass. After a second’s confusion, I realized they were in case of a bomb blast.
    â€œYes, thank you,” I said, trying to suppress my alarm. “Is that a wooden frame? I’ve always thought Blackout curtains were actual curtains.”
    â€œAye. We use traditional curtains too, but then you have to pin the cloth all the way around so no light can get past. This contraption is much easier on the fingers. Angus made them after the last time we got fined—twelve shillings it was, all because Old Donnie had the temerity to push the curtain aside for a wee moment to see if it was still raining.
And
the warden is a Wee Free,
and
he’s not from the glen, so there was no getting around that, I can tell you. Twelve shillings! That’s more than a day’s wages for a shopkeeper!” she said indignantly, catching my eye to make sure I understood.
    I nodded emphatically.
    â€œNow these,” she continued, “you could put the sun itself right behind them and not one ray would get through. Angus stretched the material tight, and then painted the whole thing with black epoxy rubber.” She leaned over to tap its surface. “That’s like a drum, that is.”
    â€œIs Angus the one with the beard?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œAnd he’s the handyman?”
    She laughed. “I should think not. He runs the place!”
    A. W. Ross
.
    It made perfect sense but hadn’t even occurred to me, an assumption based entirely on appearance. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and felt ridiculous for judging. I looked like I’d been dragged backward through a hedge.
    The ceiling began spinning again, and I dropped onto the edge of the bed.
    â€œYou’ve gone pale as a potato crust,” said the girl, coming closer to inspect me. “Shall I bring up some tea?”
    â€œNo, I’ll be fine. I’m still a bit dizzy from the ship, strangely enough,” I said.
    â€œAye,” she said, nodding gravely. “I’ve heard of that. People getting stuck like that.”
    A jolt of fear ran through me, even as I arranged my face into a smile.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said. “My husband and I sail all the time. I probably just have a bit of a cold—you know, an ear thing. It will pass. Speaking of my husband, is he up