The Sky Beneath Her

Prologue

At two in the morning on September 21, 1941, Naida runs along the banks of the Danube River in Vienna, her body screaming for rest but her survival demanding more. This isn't the first time she's fled for her life, but she knows this escape is her last chance. The waters flow gently past, the skies are overcast, and the night feels peaceful—but there is no sign of the boat that was promised to carry her to safety. A dog barks. Soldiers shout in the distance. A gunshot rings out. Vienna has become a city of treachery, where neighbors betray neighbors for honor, prestige, or fear. Her face is red, her right eye swollen, and she clutches a bundle tighter as she runs, knowing she has only hours before her absence is noticed. She whispers, "Please be here," and reaches a bend in the river, her stomach cramping.

She stops to catch her breath and wonders if the woman who floated in and out of her life has deceived her—the one who promised a chance to escape. Has the boat come? The waters lap against the shore, splashing over pebbles, and her thoughts drift to her mother, Elke. Elke always said the Danube dreamed in currents and held mythical shape-shifting creatures. She swore she found Naida on these banks on a clear, cold spring day—a baby wrapped in green algae and river silt, wailing against the river gods. Elke scooped her up, wrapped her in a wool coat, and carried her back to the bookshop where she lived with her Uncle Eric.

Uncle Eric was shocked but agreed to keep the baby. He named her Naida, after Greek river gods. The three of them—along with Grim, the petulant cat who took to cuddling the infant—became an unconventional family. The neighbors didn't believe Elke's story; they suspected she had secretly married a young Roma man who left her to travel the river with his people, promising to return but never doing so. Naida was seven when her mother died, and from then on she worked alongside Uncle Eric in the corner bookshop. She grew up playing soccer until her dark Roma eyes and hair became troublesome for some, and she retreated to the bookstore, devouring classics and learning the literary tastes of the neighbors. When she turned seventeen, war blew through the city again—soldiers, strangers, desperate friends fleeing, and those who refused to leave simply vanishing.

A few years before that, a young woman entered the shop. Tall and lean, with ink-black hair and vivid blue eyes, she somehow knew that Uncle Eric bought the rare books escaping citizens were forced to sell. He grew anxious whenever she arrived and relieved whenever she left. Even Grim, ancient and half blind, hissed and hid when she entered. "Stay away from that one," Uncle Eric said. "She's a selkie. Trouble." Naida's mother had told her about selkies—creatures of the waterways, tricksters who shed their skins and walk among humans, bound to anyone who finds their casings. When Naida asked why Uncle Eric bought from her, he shrugged: "She knows sellers who need money. I know buyers. I help when I can." She warned him it was dangerous and illegal, that soldiers watched the store. He shrugged again. "So be it."

Now, as the Danube rolls past, Naida prays the selkie hasn't betrayed her.

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Chapter One: Tula

The computer cursor blinks on an empty screen, daring Tula Cassidy to type the legal brief she’s been trying to write all morning. Her research is done, but her notes turn liquid whenever she tries to start. Her stomach grumbles, her head aches, and she presses her fingers to her closed eyelids, hoping the words will finally come.

Sleep has been a stranger. Every night she tumbles into bed around midnight, only to have her eyes pop open at 3:00 a.m. She rolls over, punches her pillow, throws off blankets, then adds more when she gets cold. In those restless hours, the ghosts she’s kept at a distance step out to taunt her. Last night, her failed marriage drifted close. Her ex-husband Dave sent a notice through his lawyer ordering her to vacate the house they’d shared. He owns the property and wants her out in two weeks so he can sell it. The email ended with “Best.”

She’d risen at five, driven to the gym, and spent an hour swimming laps until she was breathless. Now Nan, her boss dressed in all black with her blond hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail, appears at her cubicle. The boss wants to see her. Mr. Brooks, one of the three named partners. Tula’s stomach drops. She’s getting fired. She’s dropped the ball too many times since her separation.

Nan’s eyes flicker with pity. Tula straightens, reaches for a chocolate bar in her purse, and takes a large bite. She adjusts the coin-crystal necklace into the hollow of her neck and rises.

The elevator opens to the top floor’s plush gray carpet and tinted windows overlooking the bay. A sleek gray-haired woman looks up. “Miss Cassidy?” Tula follows to a closed office door.

Mr. Brooks stands behind a large wooden desk carved with sea creatures and waves—a ship captain’s desk that must date back centuries. He wears black, his gray hair swept back, his face bronzed from years in the sun. He looks ordinary, and Tula suspects that ordinariness is his advantage.

He studies her. “Tula. Welcome.”

She sits, smoothing her skirt. He asks about her seven years with the firm, how she started in the mail room and worked up. He mentions her stellar reviews until the last one. She straightens. The work has been a struggle. Dave left. She might not have loved him, but when she met him, her life felt trapped in a hurricane. Dave was calm and steady, but his consistency tightened around her like a noose. After a horrific fight, he asked for a divorce. Now she has two weeks to find somewhere to live.

“It’s been a rough year,” she says. “But I’m back on track.”

Mr. Brooks leans back and asks if she’s familiar with the Outer Banks. She lived there for three months during her senior year of high school—the last stop she and her mother made together. They traveled from one scuba diving spot to the next. Her mother was a master diver. Then, right before Tula’s eighteenth birthday, they returned to the Outer Banks. Her mother enrolled her in high school and led expeditions into waters dubbed the Graveyard of the Atlantic. Two months later, she dove a local wreck called the Oceanus and vanished.

The memory floods back. The weather was clear when they set out. Tula followed her mother under the water. The water started churning. Her dive computer showed she was low on air. She signaled to return, and her mother nodded, held up five fingers, motioned for Tula to lead the way. As Tula ascended, she saw her mother gliding her hand along the large gash made by a German torpedo in 1942. She waved and gave a thumbs-up.

When Tula surfaced, the clouds had blackened. She hoisted herself onto the dive platform. Her mother didn’t surface. A wave knocked her backward. She scrambled to the radio, called in a Mayday. The coast guard helicopter arrived, a guardsman descending on a rope and ordering her into a harness. She tried to explain her mother was still in the water. He promised they would look. From above, she stared at the rolling, angry waves. Hours later they returned, but her mother was never found.

Back at the rental house, Tula held her mother’s T-shirt to her nose, inhaling coconut suntan lotion. In her mother’s suitcase, she found a two-hundred-year-old coin fashioned into a corded necklace that her mother always wore, with a note on a grocery receipt: “For Tula.” She slid the coin onto her sea-glass necklace chain. She lingered on the Outer Banks for months, hoping the ocean would give her mother back. But the ocean kept her.

“I’m not sure that has anything to do with my job performance,” Tula says.

Mr. Brooks ignores the question. He tells her about his great-uncle, who built a house in the Southern Shores area in the late 1940s. When his great-uncle died seven years ago, he held on to the house but never uses it. A few months ago, he found a partial manuscript in the home office. It’s about the Oceanus.

“I want to give you the pages,” he says. “I thought if there was anyone who might have an interest, it would be you.”

She’s ready to refuse when he raises his hand. He has a job for her. He needs someone who doesn’t gossip to close his great-uncle’s house—boxes of files to weed through and destroy, contents to sell or donate. She can stay at the house, receive her regular salary, benefits, and an allowance for food and gas. The job should be done by mid-September.

She thinks about the summer at the beach. He pushes the manila envelope toward her. That’s the first portion of the manuscript. The rest is in the house.

“I haven’t been back in seven years,” she says. “It’s not a good place for me.”

“Don’t prejudge. This might be the kind of project that launches you on a new start.”

She pulls the folder toward her. The coin feels warm against her chest. “Okay. I’ll do it. Thank you.”

He tells her to pick up the house key from his assistant. She asks if he knew her mother. Only by reputation, he says. They never met.

His assistant hands her an old metal key and a credit card for incidentals. Tula asks why her, and the woman smiles. “Mr. Brooks never says what he doesn’t mean.”

She leaves the building, slides into her hot car, and looks up at the glass building. She reaches for her phone. She knows only one person on the Outer Banks—Kaitlin Stewart, the friend who took her in after her mother vanished.

She texts. “Coming to OBX. Can I crash?”

Her phone rings. Kaitlin asks if the divorce is final. When she asks if Tula is crying, Tula sniffs and says she’s just not sleeping great. Then the new assignment gets mentioned, and Kaitlin offers to let her crash. She runs MERmaids, a home-cleaning service on the Outer Banks, and Tula worked with her and her mother that long summer seven years ago. Kaitlin tells her she can stay above the surf shop for free. Tula asks if Kaitlin has any help, and Kaitlin says she has a few kids joining her, but they won’t arrive for a couple of weeks. Tula agrees to help for a couple of weeks.

Kaitlin asks if she’s going to take up diving again. Tula pulls the manuscript pages out of the folder and says, “One step at a time.” Kaitlin tells her one step is better than no steps. They can get drinks. Tula finally says, “Okay.” Kaitlin asks what she means, and Tula confirms she’s on her way, first thing in the morning.

Tula ends the call, drops the phone into her lap, and starts the car. She looks at the yellowed, water-stained title page that reads only: The Oceanus. Her mother always said, A ship in port is safe, but if it remains too long, it will decay. Tula puts the car in drive. “Time to knock the barnacles off, Tula.”

Chapter Two: Chief Mate Kevin Riggs

Chapter Two: Chief Mate Kevin Riggs

The Oceanus glides through the calm waters of the Gulf of Paria and arrives in Port of Spain, Trinidad, at sunset the previous day—an uneventful passage with no U-boats, no mines, no trouble. Chief Mate Kevin Riggs finally falls into his bunk only when the ship reaches the dock, catching a few hours of sleep before waking at 5:00 a.m. to shave and dress in a freshly pressed uniform he reserves for the days when new passengers board. First impressions matter, and passengers need to feel that their captain's top enlisted man is up for the job.

Riggs was born in Currituck County, North Carolina, in 1920. His father, a coast guardsman and fisherman, often jokes that the boy's mother plucked him from the Atlantic when he was seconds old—covered in sand, seaweed, and brine, the infant clutching a conch shell and wailing so loud the wild horses of Currituck County came to investigate. Riggs himself often says he doesn't know where the Atlantic Ocean ends and he begins. The water has not only birthed him but nourished him.

His passengers maintain a different schedule. Most who boarded in Cape Town, South Africa, are either still sleeping, dressing, or making their way to the dining hall for a late breakfast. Because they are in harbor, Riggs has allowed his passengers to go ashore last night to visit the cafés and restaurants. At sea, they must maintain quiet, because sound attracts U-boats like blood draws sharks. Though tempted to stroll dry land, Riggs stays on the Oceanus—they are at war now.

For those who stayed on board last night, festivities in the dining room go late. A young opera singer traveling from Cape Town captivates the room with her soprano voice. Riggs wants to end the festivities, but the captain allows them to continue. Once the ship is out of port, evening activities will be reduced to cards, games, and political talk of the war.

Until this past winter, Port of Spain has been untouched by the war raging in Europe. Then, two months ago, a U-boat enters the harbor and sinks a half dozen ships. The midnight attack sends flames soaring into the night sky, illuminating the lighthouse and harbormaster's tower. The waterfront dances with demonic light as the U-boat evaporates back into the Caribbean.

As lovely as the singer's voice is, Riggs worries the sound could attract another U-boat. So he remains on deck, scanning for signs of ripple patterns in the water or U-boat periscopes. As the singer glides into the high notes of La traviata, he thinks of the vessels lost in the Atlantic in the last four weeks. The tanker Dixie Arrow has been sunk off the North Carolina coast by a German U-boat twenty-five days ago. Five days later, the same submarine sinks a tanker called the San Gerardo southeast of New York City. Riggs knows men who served on both ships—they crossed paths in ports, drank and laughed together. Nearly eighty vessels and twelve hundred souls have gone missing in the waters off the Outer Banks since January. And now he is about to sail into those same waters. The once-untouched US coastline of his boyhood is now littered with shattered lifeboats, spewed oil, and human remains.

Now berthed at Queen's Wharf, Riggs enjoys this tentative moment of safety as he stares out over Port of Spain's busy waterfront. Loud rattling cranes work methodically along the docks, loading supplies destined for Allied forces. Warehouses buzz with longshoremen moving crates of food, ammunition, and military equipment. Honking car horns blend with the metallic whir of an electric streetcar skimming along its tracks on Dock Road. Palm trees sway in a warm breeze, carrying the scent of diesel from the new fuel depots and rain leaking from plumping dark clouds hovering over the mountains ringing the harbor. The United States is arming the shipping convoys now vital to the survival of the Allies. US soldiers are encamped on the island's eastern shore in a newly constructed US naval base. No part of this earth is immune to the war.

Today, the Oceanus will return to the perilous sea, infested with German U-boat wolf packs prowling the waters. Most vessels now travel in convoys, hoping their numbers will save them. The Oceanus has been delayed from Cape Town due to a storm off Africa and missed the last convoy. But in Riggs's mind, these slow-moving maritime caravans are sitting ducks. The Oceanus will use her fast engines to outrun any trouble.

As chief mate, Riggs oversees all the daily duties required to keep the ship moving. The captain has given him a list of the twelve passengers who will be boarding soon. Like this city, they are a melting pot of nationalities—some European, two from the United States, and others from South America. They will pass through the customs warehouse before being allowed to board.

A flicker of sparking chrome catches his attention as a Ford Packard parks by the gangplank. The back door opens, and a man dressed in a white linen suit and fedora emerges. He is tall and well proportioned, with the look of a man accustomed to travel. He reaches into the back seat and takes a lady's gloved hand. Seconds later, a tall, slender woman appears, wearing a sapphire-blue dress that hugs full breasts and gently rounded hips. She rises out of the vehicle like a siren from the water. As she looks up toward the ship, Riggs catches the long line of a pale neck. She moves easily in black high-heeled shoes that elongate slim legs.

The man is Mr. William Weller, a US industrialist, rumored to have helped arm the Nazis during the 1930s. With the United States now in the war, Mr. Weller is wise to have left Europe. The woman, according to the manifest, is Sigrid Stein, an Austrian by birth, her profession listed as "actress." She wears diamond earrings that capture the sunlight. A half dozen ivory buttons trail up each cuff and along the front of her jacket. Weller keeps an attentive gaze as he takes Miss Stein's elbow, keeping her close at hand. A few passing US sailors pause to admire her beauty.

Weller escorts Miss Stein up the gangplank. Adjusting his uniform, Chief Mate Riggs moves to the entryway to greet them. "Welcome aboard the Oceanus. Mr. Weller and Miss Stein, I presume."

"That's correct," Mr. Weller says.

Miss Stein stays close to Weller, her shoulder touching his as if he were her anchor. This close, Riggs has to appreciate her beauty—jet-black hair, smooth pale skin, blue eyes, and cherry red lips are hard to ignore. Like the mythic sirens he fears bring bad luck.

"I'll have a seaman escort you to your cabin." The ship has second-class and third-class suites. Weller's cabin is one of the largest the ship offers—and one of the last available.

"Excellent. And my bags and crates are being loaded?" Mr. Weller asks.

"As we speak."

"Can I inspect them before we set sail?"

Riggs's weakness is impatience, but a stoic stare hides it. "It's not customary, but it can be arranged. Say in one hour?"

"That will suit," Mr. Weller says.

Miss Stein nods graciously to Riggs. The couple follows the apprentice seaman below deck.

The chief mate watches other passengers approaching the gangplank. Most are neatly, if not modestly, dressed, and all have tight expressions pinched with worry and fear. He guesses their need to reach the United States outweighs any concerns about the dangerous, dark waters ahead. Europe means certain death for many now. But there is a chance the U-boats patrolling the oceans will spare them all.

An older man dressed in a ship's officer's uniform approaches—Captain Joseph Stoddard. The captain served with the US Navy in the North Atlantic when he was younger and joined the shipping company a decade ago.

"Chief Mate Riggs," Stoddard says. "Lovely day."

"Captain." Riggs raises his face to the sun. "It's beautiful."

"How is Seaman Hanson? He still in clinic?"

"No, I sent him back to his room this morning with extra aspirin. I suspect the headaches were caused by rum rather than an ailment."

"No time for that when we cross the Atlantic. I need all my men in top form."

"Understood." Stoddard lets the matter drop.

"The radios are quiet today. No sightings outside the harbor," Riggs comments.

"Good." A frown deepens the lines of Stoddard's sun-etched face.

"It's the trouble I don't see that always worries me," Riggs replies. "We'll be riding low in the water, and we're the kind of vessel a sea wolf likes to devour."

The Oceanus is a 452-foot-long passenger freighter now laden with South African chrome ore destined for the manufacturing of stainless steel, as well as wood, hides, and asbestos. On board are forty-four civilians and eighty-eight crew members. Riggs knows as well as the captain does that the Germans aren't hunting ships as much as tonnage. Sinking this vessel would earn a submarine captain eight thousand pounds of spoils.

Chapter Three: Gertrude

Gertrude steps off the carriage onto the Port of Spain dock, the hot, humid air a stark contrast to Vienna's bitter winter. The moderate winds give her hope she will reach New York City and leave Vienna behind forever, but she keeps her guard up. No other Austrians are likely on the ship, but she can leave nothing to chance—the war has made the world smaller, and she doesn't dare trust luck.

She has reinvented herself several times since leaving Vienna in September. In Vienna, she was the wife of an Austrian military industrialist whose career rose when Germany annexed Austria. On the first leg of her journey, she was Ingrid Swenson, a woman of humble birth on her way to Bucharest. By November, she crossed into Spain and hid in Barcelona, crying so hard she made herself sick. When a local physician declared her with child, the news was deflating—the past would follow her forever. She changed her name to Johanna Benson, kept to herself in Lisbon, and bought passage on the Star to Port of Spain. Securing passage to the United States as Gertrude Werner was difficult—she purchased a Salvadoran visa at the Salvadoran embassy through generous bribes. Now her nausea has cleared, but her belly expands as the child grows, turning her slim figure pear-shaped. She must finish her journey to the United States before the weight of her impersonations crashes around her or the child is born.

The Oceanus looms before her, a large vessel with a black hull, white upper decks, two smokestacks, and rows of portholes. She hefts her bag and walks toward the gangplank, her wide-brimmed hat shadowing her face as the Caribbean sun turns her skin pink.

“May I be of assistance?” A man's voice comes from directly behind her, startlingly close.

She faces a midsize man in a linen suit with dark slicked-back hair, brown eyes, and a striking Roman nose. She guesses his age as early forties.

“Thank you," she says carefully. “I am fine.”

He insists on carrying her bag. “My name is Dr. Atticus Brooks. I am a book dealer. I am from the United States.”

Her true valuables and false papers are sewn into her dress, so she hands him the bag. “Very well. Thank you.”

“And may I ask your name?"

“Gertrude Werner.” The name rolls automatically off her tongue, practiced endlessly. There is no flicker of recognition when he hears it.

He asks about family in New York City, and she tells him about a cousin—the story she gave the Salvadoran embassy in Lisbon when she handed over two gemstones from her cache. When he asks where she is from, she says Innsbruck, lying.

Dr. Brooks asks if he hears hints of Vienna in her accent. “No, I have never had the pleasure,” she says, focusing on her words.

He tells her about a rare volume of Shakespeare's The Tempest from 1623, and she plays along, knowing how to make meaningless conversation. She scans the crowds for anyone staring at her.

They reach the gangplank, and she climbs the narrow metal trail slowly, Dr. Brooks walking patiently behind her. On deck, she pauses to catch her breath and glimpse Port of Spain's white buildings and green mountains against the vivid blue sky.

A crewman in a dark uniform approaches. She removes her ticket and visa from her purse and hands them over. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Werner. I am Chief Mate Riggs.”

Dr. Brooks presents his papers without hesitation, and the chief mate's eyes light with recognition. Dr. Brooks introduces her as Frau Gertrude Werner, explaining they met on the docks moments ago.

The swaying ship forces her to stagger, and Dr. Brooks steadies her.

“Your husband isn't on the manifest,” Chief Mate Riggs says.

“My husband died in Salzburg last year,” she says carefully—a plausible story not easily challenged.

He nods. “We have another Austrian on board. I'll tell the captain to introduce you two at dinner tonight.”

She is wary but thanks him.

Dr. Brooks insists on seeing her to her cabin. As she walks across the deck, the shifting water tosses her off balance, and he takes her elbow. They step through a portal into a narrow hallway, and the enclosed space sets her senses on edge—trapped in this vessel with nowhere to go if trouble comes.

Dr. Brooks comments on her upbringing, saying luxury is hard to disguise. She remains silent.

When they reach cabin 110, he twists the key in the lock and opens the door. He invites her to dinner. “I’m very tired. I’m not sure if I'll make it to dinner,” she says, hesitant to trust his kindness.

He carries her bag inside. The room is small with a tiny closet, a table, one chair, and an oval mirror over a washbasin. The heavy wet heat makes the air oppressive. He crosses to the porthole, opens it, and cooler humid air rushes in.

“Perhaps I'll see you during the journey,” he says.

“Yes," she lies.

“I find the ocean invigorating,” he says. “I hope you do too.”

“I'm looking forward to the voyage,” she lies.

He hands her the key and tells her his cabin is 120 at the far end of the same level. He points out the toilet at the end of the hallway.

“You're very kind, Dr. Brooks.”

“Not at all.”

When the door closes, she releases her held breath. She tugs off her gloves and hat, sits on the bunk, unlaces her shoes, and wiggles her swollen toes. The short walk has taken its toll on her aching lower back. She unrolls her socks and lays them on the chair. Sweat pools at the base of her back and under her full breasts.

Carefully, she lies back on the bunk and stares out the porthole. The baby kicks in her belly as the boat rocks gently. She breathes in and out, trying to calm the surging energy in her body. She is certain she will never fall asleep. But slowly her eyes drift closed.