The Scent Keeper(22)

Go forward, I told myself. Not back.

I kept walking.

Dodge and I followed the curving boardwalk around the cove to where it stopped near the entrance of the harbor. There were two large buildings there, one red, one blue. Henry must not have gotten to them yet, I figured, because their paint was faded almost to nonexistence. The red building was basic—long and two-storied. A couple of spiky plants I didn’t recognize grew wild in two wooden barrels that flanked the door. The blue-green scent tugged at my memory, but I couldn’t place it, so I kept going.

The blue building was plain as well, its windows bare. I looked through one of them, and in the darkness I saw something white, floating below a tall ceiling.

A ghost, I thought. I jumped back and looked for Dodge, wanting to see his reaction, but he was staring fixedly at the harbor entrance. I heard the sound of an approaching motor, and smelled the odor of gasoline—sharp and yellow. There was only one fisherman who used gas in his boat instead of diesel, the one Dodge never went to greet. Now the boat would pass right by us as it came into the harbor. Dodge growled softly, low in his chest.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I tugged on the handle and the door to the blue building opened with a screech.

“Come, Dodge,” I said. We slipped inside, and I shut the door safely behind us.



* * *



It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The bones appeared first, huge white curves hanging from the ceiling in graceful arcs. Nearby were smaller creatures, with tiny skulls and hands with long, long fingers, and a table spread with yet more skeletons, organized by shape and size.

I realized I’d been holding my breath. When I inhaled, I froze, stunned. I knew that smell.

It was the fragrance of the sea gone dry, all salt and no seaweed. Dust and old leather and older wood. An undercurrent of the blue-green smell from the plants in the barrels outside. Without warning, I was deep in memory, standing with my father as he pulled a scent-paper out of a red-wax bottle and we entered another world.

Once upon a time, Emmeline, Jack met a wizard who could turn the ocean into bones.

Now here was that scent again. Not from a bottle, but in this room. It lived here.

I had spent so many years wanting to be a scent hunter, wanting to meet the elusive Jack, and see the places where he had gone. And now for the first time, I had a location that matched a red-wax scent.

“Found you, Jack,” I said into the darkness of the room.

But then I remembered—Jack wasn’t the only person I knew who’d been at Secret Cove.

Who were you, Papa? I asked that empty room.



* * *



Dodge and I walked back along the boardwalk, my brain still spinning. I didn’t see the figures coming toward me at first, and when I did, it was too late to hide.

There were two of them, a man and a woman. The woman’s pants hugged her so tightly I thought at first she had blue legs; as she walked, her shoes made clattering sounds on the boards. The man next to her was tall. On his shoulder he held a strange black contraption with a single eye that gazed out at the world.

Cyclops, I thought.

The woman spotted me. “Hello!” she called out. “Do you live here?”

They came closer. The woman’s lips were so red I was afraid she was bleeding; her eyelashes were thick as sticks. A fragrance swelled around her, complicated and full of flowers that had never been alive. The smells climbed on each other, permeating the air until I wanted to bat them away with my hands. Beside me, Dodge had gone still.

“We’re doing a story on Secret Cove,” the woman said. The man raised the contraption on his shoulder, its eye scanning across the cove. I wondered if it could capture you, like my father’s machine. I stepped back.

Behind me, one of the cottage doors opened. I turned and saw Henry walking toward us, a hammer held loosely in his hand. “Who are you?” he asked the couple.

The woman stopped, her face turning pink; she touched the man’s shoulder and he lowered the machine. I moved quickly to the side of the boardwalk, watching.

“My apologies,” the woman said, extending a hand toward Henry. “I’m Terry Anderson from CTV. We do a show called Hidden Hideaways? Maybe you know it?”

Henry shook his head. The woman’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, but then she smiled.

“Anyway,” she said, “we drop in unannounced on places we think could be the next big thing. I saw a photo of your cove—in that Sun article about the bottles?—and as soon as I saw it I just knew we needed to do a story. It’s taken me a while to get it together—you sure are remote, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Henry said.

“You must be Henry, the owner?” When he nodded, she continued, “And this beautiful girl, is she your daughter?” I saw her glance between me and Henry, taking in his white hair, her expression skeptical.

“A relative,” he said.

“I’d love to include her.” Terry motioned to the cameraman, who started to swing the machine in my direction. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“She’s not much for pictures,” Henry said, stepping in front of me.

“Are you sure?” Terry said. “She’s just lovely.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well.” Terry shrugged her shoulders. “In that case, we’ll just have to take advantage of the light and get those darling cottages on film. You don’t mind, do you?” She smiled disarmingly. “Our viewers are going to eat this up, Henry. We’re going to change your life. Although you might have to fix up your road a bit first. Our car is half mud at this point.”