And there is a part of me that wishes to hear it, to feel it in my heart and in my veins, a cacophony of salt water and blood.
But I think back on Jude Osric.
Jude, who is a steady hand in the dark, a compass, surefire and true. He has stood by me, lent patience when I had none. I cannot, will not, abandon him now.
I take a step out of the crevice, just as one of the sirens turns.
And everything in me freezes.
We stare at each other, unblinking, both uncertain of the other. Behind her the second siren carries on down the beach. I hardly dare breathe as my thoughts become a whirlwind. I try to remember how fast sirens are—fast, but slower on land, surely? Can I make a dash for the path before she starts to sing? Unlikely. It’s several feet away. I’ll be caught between the cliff wall and open sand.
If she takes a moment to call for the other siren, I might have a chance. A slim chance. Will they follow me up the cliff path? How far inland will a siren follow her prey?
But I pause, hesitant, when I notice the siren hasn’t even opened her mouth. I take another, careful step out from the narrow crevice. The siren tips her head to one side, watching me, her eyes wide-open and dark.
But she does not sing.
My hands ball into fists. “Go on,” I whisper, knowing her sharp ears will hear perfectly. “What are you waiting for?”
She takes a step toward me, and my breath quickens. It’s as if I’m enchanted already; I can’t move. Caught in siren eyes, they say, like a rabbit frozen in the arc of a lantern’s light.
A breeze off the sea sweeps back her dark tangle of hair. Her face is pale and colorless, except for the red flush across her cheekbones and at her lips. She’s beautiful like only a siren is, beautiful like dangerous things so often are.
And she just looks at me.
“Why did you sing to him?” I ask. At a whisper my voice still cracks. “You spare me and not him? He’s dying—” I swallow against the lump in my throat, tears pricking my eyes. “You took his entire family and he never raised a hand to you.”
The siren tilts her head once more, her eyes flitting over my face. Then her gaze drops. She turns away, and her bare feet scarcely leave a print on the shifting sand.
I let out a shaky sigh. It takes a minute before my fists slacken, before I let my eyes look from the beach to the cliff path. With numb and unsteady footsteps, I make my way back up to the moors.
* * *
They say the sea can grant wishes. For the price of a secret.
I stand on the cliff’s edge, under the night sky, and glance in the direction of the lighthouse. The beacon light is still burning. It turns in a slow circle over the hillsides, out to the black horizon, the darkness of the deep.
They say the sea can grant wishes, and I’m in desperate need of one.
My fingers hold tight to the piece of paper folded in my hand. Closing my eyes, I whisper, “May Jude get well,” and let the paper flutter from my grasp. I watch as it drifts downward—until it’s a speck that vanishes against the white-capped waves. In tidy cursive letters, I’ve printed out the secret of my heart. A secret I now murmur, quiet and breathless, to the clouded moonlight and distant stars.
Because I love him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I WAKE, HEART POUNDING, to a knocking at the door. Pale morning light marks the floorboards, and I realize I’ve fallen asleep on a chair at Jude’s bedside.
I stretch, stiff neck cursing me. Last night’s dream returns in jerky flashes: thunder and lightning over a dark sea, Jude holding fast to my hand before the waves tear us apart, watching him drown…
I look over to where he lies in bed. His face is shiny with sweat, his chest rising and falling beneath the quilt.
During the night, he cried out in his sleep, restless and feverish. He said my name, an anxious edge to his voice, as if he were looking for me. Yet when I placed my hand over his, when I told him, I’m here, Jude, I’m here—he only pulled away, turning his head against the pillow.
It was worse when he called out for the dead. He shouted for his sister, and I can’t remember a time he’s said her name since the funeral. I set a damp cloth across his forehead, hoping to bring his temperature down, but it did nothing to ease his flushed cheeks. His body burned with the song’s magic; I’d kept watch in fear he’d leave this life before the sun rose.
The knocking starts up again. I hesitate, eyes on Jude, before getting up and hurrying downstairs. Unlatching the door, I step back.
“Mother?”
Her dark eyes meet mine. “Mr. Flint let me know you were staying here.” She adjusts the basket she carries in one hand. “He told me what happened—to Jude.”
The way she says his first name, like he’s a child again, twists my insides. I think of how many people will know what transpired at the harbor yesterday, how swiftly words travel on Twillengyle. My jaw tightens. “I’m looking after him.”
“How is he?”
I pause, considering. “I—I don’t quite know,” I say honestly. “He’s asleep.”
Something like pity crosses my mother’s face. I thought, at first, she’d come here to lecture me again, but I see now that’s not the case. I open the door wider, and she steps over the threshold. She sets down her basket, hanging her coat in the entryway. We head up to Jude’s room, and I watch her take a seat at the edge of his bed, put a hand against his forehead. His restlessness from last night has drained away; now he lies unmoving, his breathing slow and too quiet in the surrounding silence.
I swallow hard, clasping my hands together.
When my father nursed survivors, he made them drink tonics, encircled their wrists with charms, pressed bars of iron against their skin. It worked; it always worked. Yet here I am—tossing fool wishes into the sea instead.
My mother says, “I’m going to fetch Dr. Grant,” in a way that leaves no room for argument. She stands, turning to me. “Moira—”
“He’ll be all right.”
I mean to say more, but my throat closes, cutting off the rest of my words.
I’m scared he won’t wake up.
I’m scared of what will happen when he does.
Touching my shoulder, she says, “I suppose I can’t convince you to come home?”
I shake my head. “I want to stay here until he’s better.”
And it isn’t like Jude has anyone else to care for him. He hates his uncle, wouldn’t feel comfortable stuck in the hospital. Most of his life has been a lesson in self-sufficiency.
My mother nods, conceding. I walk with her back down to the entrance. Donning her coat once more, she says, “If you’re staying, expect Mr. Irving’s arrival later. He’ll be keeping the light in the meanwhile.”
“Mr. Irving?” I pause. “Not Mr. Osric?”
“That’s what I heard.”
I gather her basket, hand it to her, and unlatch the front door. “Will you be returning with Dr. Grant?”
She smiles back at me. “Of course.”
A pang of guilt pulls at my heartstrings. I remember running out on her, telling her to let me alone, please. Now she’s allowing me to care for Jude, island gossip notwithstanding. Standing on the doorstep, she places a hand on my arm. “You do well by your father, Moira.”