Spells for Forgetting(11)

He tossed the rag onto his shoulder and took the tea from my hands, giving the bag a sniff. “What the hell is it?”

I rolled my eyes, snatching it back from him. “Slippery elm and licorice root. And Leoda says you shouldn’t be out on the water when it’s that cold. At least not until you’re better.”

He went back to the glasses, shaking his head. “You can tell Leoda I don’t give a—”

“Fifteen minutes to steep, Noah Blackwood.” I cut him off, giving my best impression of Leoda. When he laughed, I shoved into his shoulder with mine and pushed through the swinging door into the narrow galley kitchen at the back of the pub. “Catch anything this morning?”

“In the icebox,” he called out.

I gave the loose handle a yank and the entire thing rocked as the door swung open. Inside, a silver pail was filled with three trout half-buried in melting ice. “Might have to take one of these home with me.”

“Help yourself.”

I closed the icebox and took a match from the bowl on the shelf before I struck it and turned the knob of the burner. It lit with a roar and I put the kettle on, watching the blue flame beneath it.

A photograph of my mother was pinned to the wall over the stove, its edges yellowed and rippling. She stood on the road in front of our house in a white cotton dress with tiny yellow flowers. There was a mirth in her eyes, as if she were thinking something she hadn’t said aloud. The tiny pieces of strawberry-blond hair that always escaped her braid blew across her forehead and I touched two fingers to my lips before I pressed them to her face.

I hadn’t just taken over the shop when she died, I’d taken over looking after Dad, too.

Four years felt like an eternity, and at the same time, only yesterday. But I liked remembering her like that, instead of the version of my mother that had existed at the end.

The sound of the door to the street scraping over the tiled floor made me blink and the vision of her vanished into thin air. I pulled a cup and saucer down from the shelf and set them on the counter as the kettle began to hum.

Deep voices crept through the crack in the kitchen’s swinging door as I scooped the herbs from inside the little brown bag. The dried leaves and shaved bark hissed as I covered them in nearly boiling water, and I set the saucer on top of the cup.

“August Salt.”

I froze, my gaze drifting back to the door.

I knew the name. I knew it in my bones. In my blood. And the last time I’d spoken it aloud, I’d been eighteen years old.

“You’re sure?” My father’s voice was low. Careful. But it held a gravity that made my stomach turn.

My hands trembled as I picked up the cup and took the three steps across the small kitchen. Through the round window, I could see my uncle Jake standing on the other side of the bar. His old ocher corduroy jacket was buttoned up to his chin.

He stiffened, standing up straighter as I came through the door, and it hit the heels of my boots as it swung closed behind me. I looked between him and my dad, the unspoken storm of words between them filling the air.

Jake cleared his throat. “Anyway, just thought I should let you know. We’re meeting at the chapel after the last ferry.” He avoided my gaze as he turned.

“Jake?” my dad said suddenly, still staring at the bar top, where the glasses were stacked in a row of jeweled towers.

Jake stopped, and for a moment, he seemed almost afraid.

“Thanks.”

Jake gave him a single nod before striding back across the pub and pushing outside.

I waited for my father to say something, still pressing the cup between my palms. My fingers burned, but I only clutched it tighter, holding my breath. “What is it?” I said.

His eyes trailed the room, looking everywhere except for the place I stood. He was rigid, fidgeting with the rag in his hands.

“Dad?” I managed to speak despite the pain strangling my throat. I was terrified of what he might say, and yet I already knew somehow.

He finally looked at me, letting out a heavy breath as he leaned into the bar with one hip. The feeling that spread through me was like ice. Brittle and sharp. His lips parted, then closed, as if he were trying to find the words. When he finally said them, the whispers that had been in the woods that morning found me again, curling tightly in my chest.

“He’s back, Emery.”





Six


    ELEVEN HOURS AFTER THE FIRE


   EMERY


“Emery, I asked when the last time you saw Lily was.”

I stared into the black window, where my reflection was illuminated in an orange glow. The fireplace blazed behind me, wood popping and sap hissing, but the house still felt cold.

“Em?” My uncle ducked low to meet my eyes. His cheeks were still streaked with soot, the outline of his flask visible in his shirt pocket beneath his jacket. He had a worried look as he studied my fingers twisted into the dirty blanket Nixie had wrapped around me.

My throat burned, my tongue still coated in smoke. The only thing reminding me to breathe was Nixie’s hand rubbing my back in small circles.

“Before the party. At the pub,” I rasped, not sounding like myself.

“What time?” He lifted his pen. It hovered over the notebook he’d pulled from his pocket.

Lily’s face flashed in my mind, her blond hair lit like gold in the glow coming through the window as she sat across the table from me.