I don’t know what to say to that, so I just smile, wondering if I really have. Not yet, I think. The Council is planning to undo the hunting ban—something my father worked so hard to establish—and I can’t allow his efforts to amount to nothing.
Perhaps once I solve this murder, and convince the Council, and heal Jude Osric. Perhaps, then, this hollowness in my heart will ease.
After my mother sets off, I go into the kitchen. Sunlight shines through the lace-curtained window, making the cottage seem an equable space. Not at all like its keeper is dying in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I bite my bottom lip, cutting that thought off quick.
Without knowing what else to do, I make a cup of tea.
Steam rises toward the ceiling, disappearing in the light. My father’s books are still piled on the table, one of them still open to the petition. I trace over the faded print. I haven’t had a chance to study the names, but Jude might have done so. He must’ve had a reason to head down to the beach.
I drag my fingers through my hair before wrapping them around my teacup. I start up the stairs to check back on him. Walking into the room, I’m met with the unexpected.
Jude Osric is awake.
He’s sitting up in bed, leaning against the wall, his temple pressed to the cracked plaster. He doesn’t look at me as I enter; aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest, he’s completely still. Instead, he gazes out the window, his hand on the glass.
My father used to say that siren victims are predictable in one way: Once taken from the shore, they will do anything to get back to the sea.
I set my teacup on Jude’s nightstand.
This feels like precarious ground.
Softly, I say, “You’re awake.”
At the sound of my voice, his eyes slide toward me. They look bleary in the morning light, not quite focused. “Moira?”
“Yes.” I sit on the bed in the hopes of drawing his attention away from the window.
“How long have I been asleep?”
I smooth a hand over the blue-and-white quilt. “Since yesterday afternoon.” Recalling the struggle of keeping him from the siren’s grasp, I worry how I’ll manage on my own. “How are you feeling?”
He smiles, his eyes at half-mast. “You’ve been staying here,” he says.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“So kind.” He takes his hand off the window to cup my cheek. His skin feels damp from condensation, hot from fever. “I’m quite all right.”
“You don’t look it, Jude.”
His smile widens. I put my hand over his, bringing it to rest on the quilt instead. Our fingers lace together. Jude closes his eyes, leaning his head against the wall. “I shall miss you,” he says, “when I go.”
My heart lurches. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He raises his free hand, tapping his temple, wincing as he pulls at his stitches. “I can still hear them, you know. Singing. They want me back—I need to go back.”
“If you do,” I say, “the sirens will kill you. Is that what you want?” It’s foolish, really, to think I can reason with him. Their enchantment is coursing through his veins, and he’s the same as any other siren victim. A familiar boy made unfamiliar by siren song.
When he doesn’t reply, I think he may have fallen back asleep. I shake him a little. “Jude—Jude, what were you doing on the beach?”
He opens one eye. “That’s where Nell died.”
“Yes—but what were you doing there?”
He blinks at me, sluggish. “I wanted… I just wanted to see…” He pauses, scratching his head. “I was looking for evidence.”
“Evidence? Of what?”
His eyes slip shut again. “I need to go,” he says quietly. “They’re waiting for me.”
With gentle hands, I urge him back under the quilt. It’s no good questioning him like this. I shouldn’t be questioning him at all, the state he’s in. I run my fingers through his curls and tell him, “Just try to sleep for now.” I wait until his breathing slows, then take up the teacup on his nightstand. I have to grip it tight to keep my hands from trembling.
Outside, clouds gather on the horizon, and I wonder if it will rain. I suppose it’d be pleasing for the weather to suit my mood. Not much else I can be pleased about—what with Jude being delirious, the forthcoming Council meeting, our investigation left on the fringes.
Most of Dunmore has probably heard of Jude’s condition by now, if not all of Twillengyle. I sense their eyes like a presence I can’t shake off.
It means the murderer will know also.
“What are we going to do?” I mutter, looking back at Jude. He sleeps soundlessly, nothing to indicate whether or not he’ll sink into nightmares. I exhale slowly, trying to calm my nerves. “When did you become rash and I cautious?” My voice wavers, chaotic and uneven. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
That’s the question I really want answered.
He must’ve known how dangerous it was, and he wouldn’t do something so impulsive without cause. But if he went off in search of evidence…
A knock at the door announces my mother’s return with the doctor. Grant looks decidedly grim, his face weathered like the crag. He doffs his hat, but he doesn’t bother to remove his coat before we start upstairs. He holds a black leather bag in one knobby hand, setting it down on Jude’s bed as he leans over to examine him.
“He was awake and talking not a half hour ago,” I say, glancing in my mother’s direction. “After you left, Mother.”
Grant raises an eyebrow as though he’s not sure whether to believe me. He unwraps the bandages from Jude’s arm, checking over my stitch work.
“His wounds don’t appear infected,” he says gruffly.
I sit on the chair at the bedside. “He was quite feverish in the night.”
“Hmm.” Grant lifts one of Jude’s eyelids, frowning. “I’d be surprised if he wasn’t, Miss Alexander. Siren song is quite like an infection itself. Fever will set in with the delirium—his body is trying to burn the magic out.” He covers Jude’s stitches with a salve from his medical bag, wrapping them in fresh bandages. “It will take time.”
“He’ll get better, then?” I ask before I can stop myself. Leaning forward, I shift my gaze from Jude to Grant. “That is, he’ll recover?”
Grant straightens up. “That depends entirely on him, Miss Alexander. Recovering from a siren’s enchantment is no small feat, but neither is it impossible.”
I nod, mouth tight, and look back at Jude. The color is still high in his cheeks, his fingers curling against the blankets.
I see Grant and my mother out and trail my hand along the cracked and peeling plaster in the hallway. Each crack said to hold a secret.
In my mind’s eye I watch my slip of paper flutter into the sea.
And with all my heart, I want Jude to be well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IT’S LATE IN THE AFTERNOON when Malcolm Irving reaches the lighthouse. I open the door to find him standing on the front step, hatless, his black hair tousled from the ferry crossing. He wears overalls beneath his threadbare wool coat, and though he’s not yet thirty, deep creases mark the skin around his eyes when he smiles.