The Last of the Moon Girls(112)

The key turned with a metallic snick, the brass hinges rasping dully as she pulled back the glass door. She slid the first book free—The Book of Sabine—and was briefly tempted to open it. Instead, she laid it in the bottom of the box, then removed the others, one at a time, and carefully packed them away. There were eight in all—not quite the full set. Althea’s book was still out in the shop. She would leave it with Rhanna for now, to use until she left the farm. But what about Rhanna? Would there ever be a book with her name on it? One filled with recipes and scraps of wisdom rather than macabre sketches?

And what of her own book?

She rose and retrieved her suitcase from the corner. The journal was still in the front compartment, untouched since her arrival. She pulled it out, thumbing briefly through the clean white pages—The Book of Elzibeth.

But was it really a book if its pages remained blank? The thought was strangely unsettling. Was that how her life would be remembered? As a blank? Come to that, would it be remembered at all? In the end, it really didn’t matter. There’d be no one to read it, no one to care what she’d done and not done. It was the necessary end to the bargain she’d made with herself, to leave behind a blank slate and end the Moon line once and for all.

She laid the empty journal in the box with the rest, then slid her gaze to The Book of Remembrances on the bedside table. What about it? Did it belong with the others, boxed up and forgotten at the back of some closet in her apartment? She knew the answer even as she asked the question—no. Althea might have shelved it beside the others, but it was different. It hadn’t been penned for future generations, but for her, and her alone.

And what about the rest of Althea’s things? The ebony trinket box on the dresser, the sterling silver hand mirror on the dressing table, the vintage Dresden plate patterned quilt at the foot of the bed, items lovingly collected over the course of her grandmother’s life. What was she supposed to do with all of it?

The plan had been to pack up the books and a few personal items, then contact an estate agent to handle the rest. Now she realized that was impossible. Because they weren’t just things. They were her grandmother’s most cherished possessions, many of them passed down to her from other Moons. From Aurore, Sylvie, Honoré, Dorothée. Perhaps further back than that.

Suddenly, she could feel them around her, like the portraits on the parlor wall, a collective presence reminding her that once upon a time they had lived here, and left their mark. They had defied convention, weathered the elements, wrested a living from a rocky patch of soil, created art, raised daughters, healed generations of Salem Creek’s sick, and no doubt endured all manner of whispers before finally giving their ashes to the ground.

The Moons stuck.

Until now.

She’d be the last of them, the end of her line. But that had always been the plan, hadn’t it? To end the line and slip into the life of anonymity she’d always craved. The last of the Moon girls.

How simple it sounded—and how hollow.

Overcome by a wave of claustrophobia, she pushed to her feet. There were too many people in the room with her suddenly, the shadows of all those other Moons, invisible, but there just the same, leaning against her heart.

But there was only one Moon she wanted at the moment.

Abandoning the half-packed carton, Lizzy crossed to the nightstand, tucked the Book of Remembrances under her arm, and headed downstairs. There was no sign of Evvie or Rhanna as she passed through the kitchen. She was grateful for that. She needed quiet and fresh air, a space free of guilty reminders.

She settled for the garden bench beneath Althea’s favorite willow tree and laid the book open on her knees, startled to realize that she’d reached the final entry. But perhaps that was as it should be.

The waxed-paper packet she had come to expect was there. Keenly aware that it would be the last, she teased it open, stared at what lay pressed within—a simple dandelion with its roots still intact.





Dandelion . . . for resilience.

Dearest Lizzy,

It seems we must part sooner than expected. You mustn’t be sad. We each have our little portion of time, and I have had mine. Harder than some perhaps, but sweeter too, in ways most forget to count. To say I have no regrets would be untrue. Choices have consequences, after all, and there are some I would make differently if I could have them back.

Still, there’s a kind of peace at the end of a life well lived, knowing that you’ve given what you had to give, loved where you were free to love, that you’ve left nothing unsaid or undone. And with this final entry, that part at least will be true.

But this isn’t meant to be about my story, Lizzy—it’s meant to be about yours. Each of us comes into the world with a story to tell, a book of blank pages we’re given to fill. How we choose to fill them is up to us, but fill them we must—with our truths or someone else’s.

History hasn’t been kind to women in general, but it has been especially hard on our kind. We’ve been both revered and reviled, sought for our wisdom, yet spurned for our otherness. We’ve been cast out, hunted, tortured, and killed, blamed for everything from dead cows and failed crops, to hailstorms and stillborn babes. We remember the burning times, and because we remember, we’ve learned to be careful, to keep our own company and trust no one.

But there can be a cost to keeping your own company, a cost I know all too well. Over the years I’ve seen that cost at work in you. You’ve been hiding for as long as I’ve known you, playing small as they say nowadays, afraid of making others uncomfortable. The world has always been afraid of a singular woman—as it is of most powerful things. It would much rather keep us in the shadows, where it needn’t acknowledge our gifts. But the world has no right to keep us in the shadows, Lizzy. Not without our permission. At some point, we must step into our stories, and claim them for our own.