Girl at Sea by Maureen Johnson

like your father. He used to say the same thing. Has Mr. Hill come yet?”
    “Not yet,” Marguerite said. “I’m sure he’s coming straight from the museum.”
    “Such a hardworking fellow. Oh, I do like him, Marguerite.
    And your father liked him.”
    “I know,” Marguerite said.
    “I think it is quite right of you to have him to dinner. I want to believe that this is a sign that you plan on going back out into the world. He’s shy but so fond of you. But then, who isn’t? And that dress! So few girls can wear black, but you can.”
    Marguerite automatically looked down at her dress, one of the many black dresses she had worn since her father’s death.
    The view when she looked down was always black. Her aunt was just trying to be encouraging; it wasn’t that nice.
    “It’s so very striking against your hair!” her aunt went on.
    “Although, my dear, I think it’s time you started going back to some regular colors. For someone your age, it’s not expected to wear mourning forever. It’s understood that you have to meet young men, that you need dresses for dancing. Maybe a blue? A lovely deep blue.”
    Marguerite had much bigger ideas than blue dresses that 94

    looked good against her hair, but her aunt would learn that soon enough.
    The bell sounded in the hall.
    “There he is,” her aunt said. “Let’s just fix you now, dear.
    You’re a little bit out of place.”
    Marguerite lifted her chin patiently as her aunt adjusted the lace around her neck and tucked a few stray pieces of her hair back into position.
    Jonathan appeared at the door. Tall. Too thin. Very bright and extremely shy around her. He had such a lovable way. It was a shame. He interested her. He was the only man who ever had.
    But she had to stay with her plan.
    “Cook says everything is ready,” her aunt said.
    But instead of walking toward the dining room, Marguerite stood and went over to a table by the window. There was a piece of red felt laid over it and a collection of stones and papyrus fragments on top.
    “Did my father ever show you these?” she asked Jonathan, spreading them out.
    “No,” he said, following her. “I don’t think so.”
    He picked one up and looked it at closely.
    “I’ve seen this script before,” he said. “We have a few examples of it at the museum. None on display, since we don’t know what it is. Where did he get these?”
    “He received artifacts with writing on them from time to time. Most he could identify. These baffled him. Complex.
    Highly organized. A very distinct grammar. And do you want to know the strangest part?”
    Jonathan nodded, his eyes fixed on hers.
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    “They are from everywhere,” Marguerite said. “These from South America. Some from India and Egypt. Two from Japan.
    How can this consistent writing be from so many places?”
    “I’m not sure,” he said.
    “Here is another strange fact. Almost all of these were found along coastlines or in the water itself. What would you make of that?”
    “There are a number of possibilities,” he said.
    “What about flooding?” she asked. “The water is hiding something from us, something we cannot access, and it occasionally throws clues our way simply to taunt us. What if the people who made this language were drowned?”
    “A flood would certainly have changed the landscape,”
    Jonathan said. “And a flood could have destroyed the people who made this language.”
    She opened a drawer in the front of the table and removed a letter, passing it to Jonathan.
    “On the morning of my father’s voyage out of Naples, he sent this to me. It arrived a week after I heard of his death. I’ve only recently been able to bring myself to open it. But when I did, I found something of extreme importance. I want you to read it.”
    Marguerite carefully set the paper in his hand. She watched Jonathan’s eyes run down the page and take in the contents.
    “I really think we should go to dinner,” her aunt said. She wasn’t