The Last of the Moon Girls(10)

She found the key right where Althea always kept it, in the drawer of her dressing table. There was a whiff of leather and old paper as she opened the door, and for a moment she caught herself holding her breath, like a child expecting to be caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Except there was no one left to scold her. She ran a finger down the row of ribbed spines, the leather cool against her fingertips, then dropped to her knees and slid the first book free.

The Book of Sabine. The woman who had started it all.

Lizzy turned the pages slowly. The ink had faded to a muted brown, the nib strokes spidery and fine, making them hard to decipher. The mix of English and French hardly helped. Not that she needed to read any of it. She knew it all by heart. Sabine’s betrayal by the man she loved, and her flight to avoid persecution. The struggle to survive in a strange land, with an infant daughter on her hip. Her edict that no Moon allow themselves to be enslaved by marriage, lest they be betrayed and the line ended. It was the stuff of family legend, told and retold down through the generations.

She slid the volume back onto the shelf, running an eye over the others. So many Moons, each with a story to tell. Patrice, the first Moon girl born on US soil. Renée, the only Moon to have ever produced a son. The poor thing had lived only a handful of hours, unlike his twin sister, Dorothée, who had managed to thrive. Whispers about the boy’s death had persisted throughout Renée’s life. Sylvie, who’d scandalized the town by living openly and unabashedly with a woman named Rachel Conklin. Aurore, who had shocked the neighbors with her daily walks in the woods, wearing nothing but her shoes. Honoré, who after four stillborn girls had finally given birth to Althea at age forty-four. And of course, the most recent addition, The Book of Althea.

They were all there—plus one more. Lizzy frowned at the final volume, not black like the others but a deep-wine calfskin, embossed with flowers and vines. She had never seen it before. Was it possible Rhanna had left a book behind after all? It would be just like her to break with tradition and use such a vividly colored book, one final gesture of defiance.

What kinds of things might her mother have recorded? An apology, perhaps, for her reckless behavior and poor choices over the years? Lizzy doubted it. Remorse had never been Rhanna’s strong suit. Still, she was curious.

She pulled the odd volume from the shelf and laid it in her lap. The book was thick and oddly lumpy, fastened with a small brass hasp. Lizzy flicked it open and folded back the cover, expecting to see her mother’s round, backward-slanting hand. Instead, she found a square of folded waxed paper tucked between the cover and first page. She teased open the folds, surprised to discover a carefully pressed sprig of rosemary. She blinked at it, then looked down at the open page and the tidy script running across the top—Althea’s script.





Rosemary . . . for remembrance.

My dearest girl,

You must forgive me, dear Lizzy, for the secret I have kept. I had my reasons for not wanting you to know I was ill. I didn’t want you to come back because of me, because you felt some sense of duty. I made so many mistakes with your mother when she was young. I was determined to make her honor my path instead of her own, when I of all people should have known better. I never wanted to put that kind of burden on you. I wanted you to be free to spread your wings—and fly home only if that’s where your heart led you. If you’re reading this, perhaps it has.

My Circle will close soon—as all Circles must—but there is time yet, and so I have picked up my pen. Because it is our way to teach, to reach back into history and pull out what should always be remembered. We must never forget who we are. How far we’ve come, and what we’ve had to endure at the hands of those who fear what they do not understand.

You know Sabine’s story, that she came from France, alone, with a child in her belly, fleeing the authorities. But it wasn’t for any crime that they wanted her. It was for what she believed and the Path she walked. It wasn’t long after the burning times, and there were some—many in fact—who held tight to their superstitions. They were useful, you see, trotted out now and then, against women who dared to speak up, and claim what was rightfully theirs.

This was how it was for Sabine. Her lover was engaged to marry another. When he learned about the child, he denounced her, accusing her of unspeakable things. A warrant was sworn. They would not have burned her. Such things had ended by then. But they would have made a case against her, for indecency or thievery, or some other thing. And they would have arrested her—or worse. And so she fled and began again. She learned to do for herself and her child. Without a man, and without a care for the opinion of others, depending on her farm and her gifts to make her way in the world. And she passed on those gifts—her knowledge of herbs and healing—and made her place in the world helping others.

That is who we are, Lizzy.

Fighters. Mothers. Healers.

There will always be those who are afraid, who will make up stories to cover their fear. They’ll point fingers and call names. And yes, they’ll lie. But we can’t let that change who we are, or dim the light that is in us.

You were such a clever child, so bright and observant. You never missed a thing. And that nose of yours. You were special, gifted in a way your mother never was—in ways I never was, come to that. I knew it early on, could see it shining out of you long before you knew yourself. And then, when you began to suspect, you fought it. You wanted a life that looked like everyone else’s. Pony rides and Christmas trees, sleepovers with girlfriends. I can hardly blame you for that. Salem Creek isn’t an easy place to be different. And there’s nothing on earth quite so cruel as a child who’s discovered someone is uncomfortable in her skin. I don’t imagine your mother’s escapades helped matters either, always kicking up some fuss or other in hopes of drawing attention to herself. She never cared that it drew attention to you too. Attention you never wanted.