He stands up. “It’s late,” he says. “We’d best be on our way.”
We take our leave, and Jude is a paragon of politeness, straight-backed and smiling. Setting ourselves on the path, I let my thoughts turn over recent events. Not too far from the house, we come across Brendan Sheahan. Jude spies him first, saying, “Brendan,” which makes me look up as well.
He raises a hand to touch the brim of his cap. “Hallo, Wick. You doing all right? I heard what happened down the docks. Some fellows said you were sick over it.”
Jude flushes. “I’m well, thank you.”
“Now you’ve come to convey your condolences, eh?” Brendan looks over at the house. “You and the rest of the island.”
“We came to talk about Connor, yes,” I say, stepping forward. I study him, wondering if he knows anything more than his father. “Russell Hendry killed those sirens on his behalf.”
“I know.” He makes a start for the house, but he half turns, letting me see the edge of his smile. “I only wish I were there to thank him.” He touches his cap again, about to move on, when I grab hold of his sleeve.
“Can you meet me tomorrow morning?” I ask.
“What if I’ve got things to do?”
“You don’t.”
A grin cuts across his expression. “All right, Moira. Where?”
I tell him to meet me at the old church in Dunmore, and he promises to be there. Jude watches this exchange in silence, biting his lip. I think he’ll question me about it, but once Brendan leaves, Jude doesn’t say a word.
My hand catches at leafless branches as we continue on the trail. I smell wood smoke in the air, wet leaves, pine needles. It all seems magnified by the night, the wind whistling through the trees, the snapping of twigs underfoot. Neither one of us has a lantern, but it’s odd when Jude ventures onto the wrong path. From here, the lighthouse is still visible, the white tower standing stark over the moors.
“Jude.” I raise a brow, gesturing in the direction of the cliffs. “Your lighthouse is this way.”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “Just as well I’m not headed to the lighthouse.”
“Where are you going?”
He hesitates, gaze lowered as he scuffs at the dirt. “The Four Fathoms,” he says.
I frown. “Why?”
“Because”—he digs the toe of his boot deeper into the soil—“I need a drink. Not a crime, is it?”
I blink at him. “No, but you don’t—” I stop, uncertainty knotting my stomach. It’s as though I’ve lost my footing, my entire perception of Jude Osric pulled out from under me. “You don’t drink, Jude.”
Voice bitter, he says, “How would you know?”
Something’s wrong. I can see it in his hunched shoulders, his shuttered expression. I shake my head and say, “Because I know you, Jude Osric.”
“No.” He steps back. “No, you truly don’t.”
“You’re being absurd,” I snap. “Why you’re doing this I’ve no idea, but if—”
He turns away from me. I close my hands into fists as he walks off, a tall lonely figure on the path toward Dunmore. Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes, and when I look again, I stand alone in the disquieting silence.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I CLENCH MY JAW until it hurts, granting myself time to fume as I walk. Jude was clearly upset, whatever he said. Upset enough to wander into Dunmore and into the smoky corners of the Four Fathoms. I hope he knows I won’t be the one to fetch him once he’s drunk himself under the table. Perhaps he’ll see just how unpleasant it is as soon as he steps over the threshold and come running back. I pause, glancing behind me, imagining his silhouette amid the fog and shadowed trees. But the path is empty.
Ahead of me lies a stretch of grass that runs toward the inky blackness of the sea. A slice of moonlight peeks out from beneath cloud cover, bathing the landscape in silver. The lighthouse stands as the last pillar before the cliff’s edge, the first warning to sailors of the rocks below. I head for home and make it halfway there before I pause. A strong wind rattles the closed window shutters of nearby houses; tree branches scrape against one another, leaves rustling in the breeze. After a moment of indecision, I turn sharply on my heel and start for Dunmore.
* * *
The Four Fathoms is one of the oldest buildings on the island. It’s a black-fronted tavern with fogged glass windows and heavy oak doors, light spilling over the threshold and onto the street. In bygone days, it was a renowned hideout for criminals—cutthroats and smugglers, pirates trading in contraband—but now it fills every evening with fishermen and dock workers up from the harbor. I pull open the door, letting myself in alongside the cold.
The low-beamed ceiling and flagstone floor give the place a closed-in quality. The bar is dark, polished wood, and ship masts are built into the structure, said to be taken from the first ships that came ashore. A fire burns in the cobbled fireplace, casting the room in a warm glow.
Next to the bar, Warren Knox puts out the remains of his cigarette in an ashtray. The shadows accentuate the deep lines at the corners of his eyes; he’s a few years over thirty, but he looks older. The sea and the sirens both have aged him. He glances my way and seems taken aback by the sight of me here in this place.
I can only hope my own expression doesn’t show my discomfort so readily.
“Mr. Knox,” I say, calm and steady. “I’m looking for our Wick.”
“Ah. He’s here.”
Warren tips his chin to indicate somewhere farther into the pub, and I nod my thanks, eager to be away. I realize I’d expected to find Jude Osric alone at a barstool, drinking away his sorrows, only when I happen across the opposite. He sits at a crowded table, his face rosy in the firelight. Several empty glasses take up space in front of him, and he smiles in a loose, faraway manner, making it clear he’s already plastered. He laughs, leaning forward, and a vicious pang of something like envy strikes me near the heart.
However reserved he is, however shy, Jude has never set himself apart. He likes belonging—and he knows how to in a way I can’t seem to match. I recognize the others at the table, of course. Gabriel Flint and Peter Atherton, Killian Riley and Hamish Tully. As I get closer, it’s Peter who’s first to notice. He nudges Jude with an elbow, murmuring in his ear.
Jude looks around. Catching sight of me, he says, “Oh.” Then he grins, hooking an arm over the back of his chair. “Hallo, Moira.”
Everyone else at the table appears to find this hilarious. They snicker into the backs of their hands, into their glasses, and I deliver them all a dirty look in return.
Putting a hand on the table, I say, “Get up, Jude.”
Peter gestures as if to wave my words from the air. His dark eyes are glassy from drink, but I can tell he’s still sharp enough to have his wits about him. “Just leave him. He’s fine.”
Jude pushes up from the table. He braces himself with one hand on the chair back, looking like he might keel over without it. I glare at Peter. “Fine? Fine, is he? Tell me, how was he supposed to get home like this?”