A Study in Drowning

by Ava Reid

What is a mermaid but a woman half-drowned, What a selkie but an unwilling wife, What a tale but a sea-net, snatching up both From the gentle tumult of dark waves?

Rhia chewed her lip, then managed one of her incandescently bright smiles as the train sang like a teakettle behind them. “Be safe. Be smart. Be sweet.” “All three? That’s a lot to ask.” “I’ll settle for just two, then. Your pick,” Rhia said. She reached around Effy to embrace her, and for a moment, with her eyes shut and her face pressed into Rhia’s fluffy brown hair, Effy felt calmer than the windless sea. “That’s far more reasonable,” Effy mumbled. They broke apart as a mother trailing two ornery-looking children shouldered past them. “Thank you.” Rhia frowned. “What for?” Effy didn’t reply. She didn’t really know. She was just grateful not to be standing on the platform alone.

Be safe. Be smart. Be sweet.

We must discuss, then, the relationship between women and water. When men fall into the sea, they drown. When women meet the water, they transform. It becomes vital to ask: is this a metamorphosis, or a homecoming?

What’s the point in studying literature if you don’t want to tell stories? She wanted to ask him, but she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she might actually cry.

Ianto led them down the hallway, naked glass bulbs flickering on the walls. The first door on the left was cracked open. “The library,” he said, turning to Effy. “I’m sure you’ll agree there’s the most work to be done in here.” Effy followed him into the room. A single greasy window poured light onto the overflowing bookshelves, the three-and-a-half-legged desk, the melted-down candles. A stained armchair peered out from behind one of the shelves like an old cat, ornery at being disturbed. The rotted wood floor creaked and moaned under their feet, heavy with so many stacks of books. They were overflowing the shelves and spilling onto the ground, spines ripped and pages torn out, sitting in puddles of their own bled ink. It was several moments before Effy was able to speak. The question that rose to her lips surprised her. “Was it like this all your life?” she managed. “Did your father keep it this way on purpose—” “Unfortunately,” Ianto said in a clipped tone. “My father was a genius in many respects, but it often meant he had little care for the mundane, unpleasant tasks of daily life.”