The Lady in the Lake

By Abigail Falanga

It was so peaceful, there in the lake, that it was a long time before I noticed I was dead. The green water was cold with autumnal chill yet gentle like the sweetest embrace. I drifted in it among the tall water plants and funny little fishes, humming to myself and thinking of love and the future and especially Reginald.

Reginald, with his strong shoulders and teasing smile, his sparkling eyes and ready wit, his soft, passionate words. He loved me, and I loved him, and we would be together, forever.

I hummed to myself and floated back and forth in the gentle ripples of the lake.

It wasn’t until winter that I noticed I wasn’t alive. At first, it merely puzzled me that I couldn’t reach the surface. When I realized it was because of ice, I laughed and forgot again. But then the nagging question returned:

I was underwater.

I had been underwater for days—weeks. And I had no need to breathe.

I was dead.

Dead.

Dead…

Reginald would be displeased. Poor Reginald…

I drifted low, weeping, and didn’t look up from the murky depths until winter passed.

Reginald—poor Reginald. He wasn’t dead too, was he?

Panic sent me into a desperate search of the lake. But no. He wasn’t there—he wasn’t dead! He must miss me. But at least Reginald still lived somewhere up, up.

Relief buoyed me through sweet memories.

We’d met at Lady Westmacott’s garden party, played croquet together, and drank far too much punch. It made me bold enough to tease him about his mustache, and him bold enough to complain about my hat’s brim getting in the way of a kiss.

After that, we met often. It was on the first chilly day in late September that he swept me down to the lakeside and dropped to one knee almost before I’d caught my breath.

“Elaine,” he said, “you can’t keep me in suspense; you must know what I feel. Please—tell me at once if I am to be the happiest man in the world?”

I said yes, laughing through tears, and pledged my hand, for my heart was already his.

Summer warmed the lake and made me wonder if I might venture out of it, perhaps find Reginald, reassure and comfort him in his grief. But still I lingered near the surface, for the water was so very restful.

And I didn’t want to face the other question lurking in the deep.

It should have been simple.

Our love was real and full. I had money, inherited from my parents, and Reginald was respectable and well-liked. Anyone could see that we were meant for each other. A good match. We ought to have been married as soon as arrangements were made.

Yet my guardians objected.

“You’re still young, Elaine,” they said, with something like concern. “You have plenty of time. A long engagement will be good for both of you.”

And they would not be moved, no matter how much I pleaded and cajoled.

Reginald was impatient, and he blamed the delay on me, shouting and then sulking after he heard the news. I promised him the wedding would be soon.

Nearly a whole year wore away.

Late summer came again.

The sun drew me back to the surface, though I still only rose a little above the waves to look across the green lawns toward the house. People came down and I watched them, hoping for some sign of Reginald. They shuddered, though, and turned away as often as not. I couldn’t think why.

The lake was so nice. So safe and peaceful.

Except that one thing at the bottom I didn’t want to face. The thing that drew me downwards, down, down, drawn by troubled memories that grew stronger the deeper I drifted.

I worried about Reginald. He seemed to be pulling away from me, no matter how I teased and flirted and gave little gifts, no matter the promises whispered.

And then I saw him in London at the last September dance of the season, in a tete-a-tete with Bella Grant.

When we met at the house in the country that weekend, I confronted him.

“It’s nothing,” Reginald laughed. “Miss Grant and I are friends. Nothing more.”

I believed him. I had never doubted him, not really. We talked and planned during every spare moment of the next few days.

Sunday afternoon was hot, though autumn had touched the leaves with gold.

“Let’s go out on the lake where it’s cool,” Reginald suggested.

The lake.

It was hot again, just like that day.

People walked under golden trees along the path. I peeked above the surface and recognized Reginald among them. Somehow, the sight of him filled me with dread.

I recoiled at the sight of him and desperate to know the truth, I dove down.

His strong shoulders pulled the oars as he chatted and sang snatches of popular tunes.

“You took that money from the bank, didn’t you, Elaine?” he asked casually.

“The three thousand pounds for the wedding? Yes, it’s in my unmentionables drawer.”

Deeper in the lake, the autumn sunlight grew dim but still I went on, weaving through weeds.

He laughed and went back to rowing, until we were at the center of the lake. Then he rested, pointing out the fish beneath us. “That great silver one is near enough to touch.”

I reached out playfully, catching at the bright waves.

Down, down, I touched the bottom of the lake and found the question: How had I died?

I felt Reginald’s strong arms wrap around me, lift me from the boat, and tip me into the cold water. He knew I couldn’t swim. My long white dress tangled my legs and dragged me down.

I held the truth as if it were a glowing thing, letting it change me as the waters swirled around.

Then, I rose.

No more rest for me.

Or for Reginald.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail Falanga may be found in New Mexico creating magic in many ways—with fabric, food, paper, music, and especially with words! She’s loved fantasy ever since playing out epic adventures of swords, fairies, and monsters with her siblings, and loved sci-fi since her dad’s stories around the dinner table. Besides sharing mad little stories on Havok, she is busily trying to launch approximately five hundred novels into the world. Some of them are even finished!

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