“The library? Oh, I see. Real important business, that.”
“Yes,” I say. “Though not any real business of yours.”
He scuffs the toe of his boot on the pavement. “So what am I meant to do?” His voice sounds a little accusing.
“Explore, Mr. Flint,” I say, leaning into our island accent. “May you discover all the truths and treasures of Twillengyle.” I curtsy to him.
“Clear off,” he says. “And be quick about it.”
“A good day to you, also!” I call back, grinning, already heading into town.
I haven’t been to Lochlan since last summer, yet not much has changed since. Twillengyle Council sees the town as the island’s gateway to tourism, and it shows in the even cobblestones, the curbs swept clean of dead leaves and debris. The shops are neat as chocolate boxes, the public houses freshly painted. It’s a world away from Dunmore, made pretty for the sightseers, so they might overlook the unsightly.
Blood billowing up around the harbor isn’t illustrated in the brochures.
I make my way through the downtown to the library. It’s relatively new, this library—only fifty years old or so. It takes up the space of two terraced houses, the first floor for literature and nonfiction from the mainland, the second floor for old documents concerning the island.
I sign in at the front desk and head up the stairwell. Weak light filters past the cloud cover and through the windows, streaking across the steps. I’ve always thought it a sort of magic—dust suspended in the sunlight, the creak of floorboards, the smell of leather polish and yellowing book pages—and I guess it rather is.
In the archive, there are shelves upon shelves of historical documents: Council rulings, old diaries, lighthouse logbooks. The siren records crowd several bookcases, detailing when islanders and tourists alike strayed too close and were taken in by their song.
There are also records of the hunts. Conducted for sport or for vengeance, they cast a long and bloody mark upon our island. The hunting ban is what brought it to a stop. Sirens made their home here just as we did, and by killing them we were only killing a part of the island, a part of ourselves.
It was not a decision made without consequences.
The death records are categorized by year. Out of some perverse sense of curiosity—for I’ve never looked before—I pull free the book documenting victims from seven years ago. Flipping to the month of June, I stare down at the names printed there.
Llyr Osric, aged 38
Pearl Osric, aged 38
Emmeline Osric, aged 16
The three were taken from their boat off the coast of Dunmore. They are survived by twelve-year-old Jude Osric, who reported the incident.
I trace over the letters, a lump forming in my throat. Three islanders taken in one fell swoop is nigh on unheard of. We’re raised on cautionary tales, given cold iron to keep in our pockets. We take heed because we know the hazards. Plenty around Dunmore were aware of the work my father conducted, Llyr Osric alongside him. They supposed it was inevitable one of them should meet their fate in this manner.
My insides pinch. I set the book back on its shelf, reaching for the most current records. Last year two tourists were dragged from Lochlan Harbor, and Iona Knox, who I’d seen quite regularly at the dance hall, was lost to siren song while offshore, north of Dunmore. I call to mind Warren Knox as I saw him at the harbor. Iona had been his younger sister. She was taken in much the same manner as the Osrics, stolen away into the depths. None of the reports I come across mention anyone left on the shore with their throat cut like Connor Sheahan.
In the current book, his entry is only a handwritten slip of paper, attached to the page, waiting to be added to the list. I’ve half a mind to tear it out.
Few islanders have fallen prey to sirens in recent years. Yet Connor’s death was made to reflect their attacks—surely his killer must resent them for some past sorrow?
I close the book, abruptly unsettled. I’d yet to give much regard to the closeness of this murder. Whoever committed the act, that person is out there now, walking the very streets of Dunmore—a familiar face, someone I may well have spoken to.
A shiver creeps over my spine.
With great haste, I leave the library, seized by a desperate need to be back in Dunmore. I step out onto the rain-dappled street, not bothering to open my umbrella. A gaggle of tourists jostle me, and I bare my teeth in a snarl, my pulse tripping even as they flinch away. I find Flint conversing with a girl on the steps to the hotel. Whatever he sees on my face has him cutting the conversation short, and in the next breath he’s at my side.
“Time to leave,” I tell him.
Only once I reach the harbor and am clambering into his boat do I look back at Lochlan, allowing my mind to wonder just what I’ve gotten Jude and myself into.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE NEXT MORNING I walk across the moors to find Jude Osric standing near the cliff’s edge. His cloth cap casts a shadow over his eyes, his head bent as he stares down the crag as though contemplating the long drop into the sea. He clutches a little slip of paper, and as I watch him, his lips move, mouthing words I cannot hear.
In Twillengyle, they say the sea can grant wishes. If you want something desperately enough. If you turn out your secrets in a whisper.
Jude tosses the paper over the cliff, and I wonder what secrets he has to give.
My boots sink into the damp grass, and Jude turns, taking his cap in hand. All the things I thought to say in this moment vanish as we regard each other. The wind tangles his hair, tugs at his wool sweater, and I wish I could wipe clean the memory of that cold and darkened cell, of the bars that kept him from the world.
He says, “Hello, Moira.”
“You should’ve told me.” I swallow. “You should’ve knocked on my door as soon as you were out of there.”
His mouth curves in a half smile. “You’re glad to see me, then?”
“Very much so.”
He looks away, cheeks pink. Below us, the sea is restless and alive, churning against the weather-beaten rocks. I study the froth and spray of the waves, hesitant to speak of my visit to Lochlan. Now is the time to step back, to keep myself from Jude Osric as I’ve kept myself from the dance hall—lest I bring about more damage, lest guilt shred me to pieces.
I’ve already withheld plenty from him.
The wind pushes at my back, daring me forward.
I can’t do this alone.
“Jude,” I say, “I have something to tell you.”
* * *
Jude listens as I recount my afternoon in Lochlan Library. He leans back against the kitchen counter, rubbing a hand over the nape of his neck. “You’ve made a suspect list?”
I set my hand atop a chair back. Looking down, I grimace upon noticing an ink spot on the cuff of my printed dress. “One name is not a list,” I say, raising my eyes to Jude’s.
“Warren Knox.” His brow creases as he shifts his gaze. “I’ve gutted fish next to him. I can’t imagine he’d kill anyone, much less Connor.”
“Well,” I reply, a little snappish, “my apologies, if it’s not to your liking—”
A sudden ringing pierces the air, and the two of us freeze. We both recognize the sound. The alarm bells go off only when sirens are spotted near the harbor. I dash over to the window, but at ground level, the cliff is too sheer to see what’s going on. When I turn around, Jude is right behind me, biting his lip as he tries to peer down to the docks.