Spells for Forgetting(62)

I stood waist-deep in the water, my bare feet almost numb on the rocky bottom. And I could see my hands holding her under. Her hair floated around her as she kicked, trying to get her footing, and when she broke the surface and her screams pierced the silence, I pushed her down again, harder. Bubbles raced over my fingers as they twisted tighter, the muscles in my arms straining, until she stopped.

It wasn’t until her hands were drifting lifelessly that I finally let her go, but when she floated to the surface and the moonlight hit her face, it wasn’t Lily.

It was me.

I reached for the lamp on the bedside table and the room filled with light, erasing the dream from where it hovered in the darkness. Leoda’s tincture sat beside it. But this wasn’t a sickness of the body that needed to be cured with herbs. This was something else.

Deep down, I’d known that August was hiding something. After my father was taken to the city and my uncle Jake came to the house to ask me questions, August was waiting at the harbor. Nixie and I were taking the first ferry out to be with my mom at the hospital, and he’d broken into tears when he saw me.

But he wouldn’t touch me as we stood on the dock. I remember wrapping my arms around him, but August just stood there frozen, every muscle beneath his skin like stone.

I had never believed it. Not when the first whispers about August not being at the party began. Not when everyone on Saoirse began to wonder. One by one, everyone we’d ever known became convinced, but I’d never believed that he killed Lily.

How could I? There was a blindness in me for August. A tether that bound me to him. I knew because I was the one who had put it there.

I’d first heard the tale about the blood moon from my grandmother. When I closed my eyes, I could see the page in her book of shadows, the delicate handwriting pulled across the thick paper in rows. But that night in the water, with August’s bare chest pressed to mine so that I could feel his heartbeat against me, I had wanted to bind myself to him. It was a desperate, heartsick plea, born out of the fear that I would lose him. And that one decision had cursed me for all of my days.

I should have done it years ago, but I had never had the guts. This pain inside me was like broken glass clutched in a fist. I knew it was drawing blood. Bleeding me out, all day, every day. But still, I couldn’t just open my fingers and let it go. Because this wasn’t that kind of love.

I climbed out of the bed and stalked through the house with heavy feet, finding my boots and my jacket. The keys dangled from my fingers as I walked to the truck and opened the door. The moon was bright, the sky clear for the first time in days.

That was good, I thought. We would need the moon.





Thirty-Seven


    ALBERTINE


By my count, the moon was nearly full. I could feel its tug on the island, in the soft rasp of dropping leaves and the sweet smell of withering blooms. It was even in the way the waves hit the shore. I’d never been able to see its light, but it was there all the same. And tonight, it sang in the darkness.

I’d woken to the owl.

My mind reluctantly stirred from the emptiness of sleep, and the thick scent of rain swirled in my head as I surfaced from a fragmented dream. I drew the air in as the sound drifted through the open window again. Three sharp calls from the highest branches of the white pine.

I sat up slowly, careful not to wake my aching bones too quickly. They were less and less forgiving these days, and as winter fell over the island, they would be more stubborn than usual. But there was no denying the island’s summoning.

Bit by bit, the room came alive around me with the sounds and vibrations that I knew. My toes moved along the floor until they found my slippers and I slid off the bed, pulling my robe around me. The house was silent, but I could hear it—the movement of the air down the hallway and its shift as the wind changed direction outside.

I let two fingertips drag along the smooth wall, leading myself to the living room. When I reached the fireplace, I sat, rooting around in the kindling bucket until I had what I’d need to get the fire started. Something told me it was going to be a long night.

I stacked a handful of pine needles and leaves carefully on the grate inside the fireplace and opened the soapstone box, finding a match. It struck with the sizzle of a little flame and its warmth kissed my cheek as I moved closer, letting it catch.

The crush of tires on the soft earth sounded before I’d even gotten the last log on. Emery’s truck.

I knew the sound of every set of tires, every engine on this island. But tonight, she pulled into the house too quickly, the brakes squealing as she came to a rushed stop. I could think of only a few reasons she’d be here at this hour, and none of them were good.

I turned myself toward the door with the fire at my back, waiting. The beat of her boots came up the steps, but then she hesitated. She always did that when something was wrong.

The ping of the handle was followed by the squeal of hinges on the screen door and I felt the night air come into the house. I could feel her, too. A heavy presence, like a stone thrown into the water, pulling down, down, down.

“You’re up.” Her voice was soft. Apprehensive.

I held my hands to the fire’s warmth, letting the blood come back into my fingers. “Of course I am.” I turned my ear up, listening to the pattern of her breath. The keys jingling as she fidgeted with them. Her shifting weight as she leaned into the door.