The Scent Keeper(15)

I leaned forward carefully, taking the bottles from one drawer after another and placing them in my bag, their red-wax seals disappearing in its depths. When the bag was full I tidied up, leaving the wall just the way I had found it. Then I descended the ladder, listening to the soft clink of glass against glass.

It would take many trips, and I would have to do it quickly, before my father realized what I was doing, but I was determined. I hoisted my bag and set off for the bluff, making my way along the trail, the bushes whispering caution against the legs of my pants. Stop stop stop stop. I didn’t listen.

When I reached the bluff, I set down the bag at my feet. Standing on the edge of the rock, I drew out a bottle, feeling the stiff wax seal around its top. I wondered for a moment what fragrance it had held, what miraculous memory it once contained. Then I shook my head, lifted the bottle high, and threw it as far as I could. There was a long silence, as if the air was holding its breath, and then a splash. For a moment my heart seized as an entire world vanished. I would never know why Jack had loved it so, or why my father would do anything to protect it.

But more than I wanted those worlds, I wanted ours. So I threw the bottles, again and again, until the bag was empty.



* * *



It took two days to make my way through the red-wax sealed bottles, and it was pure luck that my father did not open the drawers during that time. On the third day, I opened a drawer that had been hidden behind a string of herbs my father had hung, long ago, and never taken down. He used to joke that it was watching over us, just like we watched over the scent-papers.

I tried to be gentle as I removed the string from its hook, but the herbs were brittle and crumbled to the floor. I could smell dusty oregano and thyme, soft and a little sad. I leaned against the ladder and opened the drawer. I was about to slip the bottle in my bag when I paused. The wax seal was blue.

I stared for a moment. I had never seen a blue-wax seal before. I didn’t know why my father had never taken this bottle from the drawer, nor shown it to me. It had lain there, hidden, all this time. For an instant I thought of leaving him this one, but they all had to go, or there would be no point. So I put the bottle in my bag and headed out. I had to be strong for the both of us, I told myself.

It’s amazing how easily we can cast ourselves in the role of hero.



* * *



I stood on the edge of the bluff, looking out at all those islands, and once again I threw the bottles, one after another, until only the blue one was left. The water below me was littered with bobbing glass, bits of red like little fish floating in the sea, moving away with the tide. I wondered, as I had with my own bottles, who might find them, if there would be any smell remaining when they did. Would anyone think to burn them?

There was no point in thinking those things this time, however. These were not messages. I could have buried them, hidden them, but I knew the bottles needed to be irretrievable. Only then would my father be willing to get help.

I lifted the last bottle from the pack and touched the blue seal that ran around the stopper. The wax was old and starting to crack, but it had never been broken. The temptation to open the bottle and see if there was any scent still left inside made my hands shake. What are you? I wondered. What makes you special? I leaned in, listening, as if it might answer. I thought I almost caught a whisper.

It was then that I heard footsteps coming down the path.

My mind spun; I had only seconds before he would find me. I gripped the bottle in my hand. I had to be fast; I had to get rid of it or all of this was for nothing. My eye caught on the blue of the seal. I didn’t want to do it. I had to.

My father broke through the edge of the trees. I raised my arm.

I could feel him coming up behind me, uttering an anguished howl even as I flung the bottle. He threw himself past me, hands reaching. He never even looked for the edge of the bluff.

The bottle arced into the air, his body lifting after it, and in an instant they were both gone. I heard a splash far below in the black water.

“Papa!” I screamed as I leaned over the ledge, scanning for him amongst those stupid bobbing bottles. His head surfaced. His expression was agonized, but his eyes met mine for a long moment. Then he looked at the water and cliffs around him. I knew what he was doing. Assess the situation, Emmeline. Eliminate the variables. Determine the best course of action.

Or maybe he was looking for the blue bottle.

“Papa!”

He looked up again. His skin was already changing color with the cold. “Lagoon,” he shouted, pointing to the right, around the curve of the sheer wall of the island.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you,” he mouthed. Then he began to swim.

“I’ll meet you!” I yelled. Although I think even then we both knew.





AFTER


I waited at the lagoon all afternoon, my eyes fixed on the channel. The waves growled and churned, refusing to calm no matter how hard I set my thoughts on the roiling water, willing it to grow soft and welcoming. I knew in my brain that it didn’t matter. My father and I had talked many times about the temperature of that water. About how long someone could last in its embrace. If the first shock didn’t get you—didn’t make you open your mouth, gasping for air and letting in water instead—the cold would. Extended exposure was always fatal, my father had said, even in the summer. This was winter. And even if he could have made it all the way to the channel, those tides and rocks were never going to let him through in one piece. My father was a scientist; I knew these things.