“When you told me”—Jude hesitates, squeezing his eyes shut—“when you said Connor knew something, I thought of the siren my uncle caught. I thought he found out somehow, and that’s why he wanted to talk with me. Perhaps he wanted to report it.”
I frown at the unlikeliness of this. “Jude, how could he? You told me he hadn’t been to the lighthouse, right?”
“Not recently.” He sets his teacup down and scrapes a hand over his face. “Last month Mr. Sheahan brought him up after he got a fishhook stuck in his thumb. I treated it. He might’ve heard something or… I don’t know. I’m certain that door was locked.”
If Connor truly knew of the siren, I find it hard to reconcile the fact that he hadn’t confided in me before going to the police. I was his tutor. He never made mention of any such thing during our lessons.
Jude looks out the window with a sigh. His profile is sunlit and familiar, and every time I consider how I almost lost him my heart breaks anew. He mumbles, “I shouldn’t have gone to the beach without you.”
A lump rises in my throat. “No,” I say thickly. “You shouldn’t have.”
He glances back at me, and I put my arms around him, drawing him close. I rest my cheek against his uninjured shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his dressing gown. “I was so afraid,” I whisper, “when Terry told me. I saw you there on the dock and I was terrified, Jude.” My voice catches, but still the words tumble out. “Because if you… If they had taken you, Jude Osric—” I can’t finish the sentence. My throat feels pinhole thin, and I concentrate instead on the sound of his quiet breaths, each one promising that he is alive and safe and here.
Softly, he asks, “Did you manage to retrieve your violin?”
“Yes.” A smile tugs at the edge of my mouth. “I have it here.”
“In my dreams I heard you playing. I knew it was you even without seeing you. It was your music that led me out of the dark.”
I pull back so I can see his expression. He raises a tentative hand to the side of my neck, to the small bruise left by my violin. Meeting my gaze, he bites his lip. “Moira,” he says, “I’ve been wondering… That is, I’ve been meaning to ask…”
I bring my hand to his cheek. He leans in to the touch, closing his eyes.
And I kiss him.
I feel Jude go still, but then he presses close, his hand moving to circle the back of my neck. It isn’t how I ever imagined we might kiss: Jude’s blood staining the sheets, his arm lacerated by a siren’s claws. He tastes like tea and sugar. He smells like the lighthouse and the sea. He says my name again, whispers it, and slides his hand into my hair. I draw away, looking at him. His cheeks are pink, his brown eyes warm as honey.
He smiles. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for quite some time, Moira Alexander.”
I laugh, a little breathless. I should’ve kissed him ages ago.
And I want to fold this moment up for safekeeping. A single point when Jude is happy, when the sirens are protected, when an unknowing islander is not left to bleed out on the sands below.
I place a hand on his chest, just over his heart. I lean in to kiss him again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
WE SHARE A FEW MORE kisses before making our way downstairs. Irving is still in the kitchen, tidying up, but upon hearing our footsteps, he turns to study Jude.
“On the mend, are you?” He puts the tea towel he holds on the counter, motioning Jude forward. “Let me have a look at you.”
I slip past to stand at the kitchen table as Irving sets his hands on Jude’s shoulders. Jude is an inch or so taller; Irving peers up into his face, eyes narrowed. Then, taking Jude by the collar, he shakes him none too gently. “Being out there without iron. What were you thinking? You had me scared half to death—and worrying Miss Alexander, too.”
Jude ducks his head. “I did not think.” He looks over at me. “I’m sorry.”
When Irving speaks again, his voice comes out raw and uneven sounding. “Dear God,” he says, and pulls Jude to him, embracing him tightly. “You must grow up to be an old man, Jude Osric. Promise me.”
At this Jude glances my way over Irving’s shoulder. His expression is amused. “I’ll do my best,” he replies.
Irving claps him on the shoulder before stepping back. “Well, I ought to head off. Your uncle is coming by later, and Drummond will be needing me at the offshore light.”
Like a slate wiped clean, Jude’s countenance goes blank. “Dylan is coming here?”
“He is,” says Irving, not without sympathy. “I reckon others will too, once I tell folk at the harbor how you’re doing.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Miss Alexander, you’ve been fine company these past few days. Thank you.”
As it turns out, a great deal of people end up visiting. All through the rest of the morning and afternoon, fishermen and dockers come knocking at the door. Jude answers it each time, smiling, reassuring them of his well-being, but as the day wears on, I can tell it tires him. He is not yet fully recovered. He presses a hand to the wall, as if needing the support, and his face pales, his mouth tightening when he thinks no one is looking.
The last pair of visitors take their leave, and Jude sits down, gazing bleary-eyed at the creels of fish and tins of biscuits left on the kitchen table. His dressing gown hangs off the shoulder of his injured arm, the bandages crisp and white alongside the green wool. He folds his right arm on the table and rests his head against it.
“Perhaps you should go upstairs,” I say. I open one of the creels, inspecting the herrings inside. “I can wake you when your uncle arrives.”
“I’m fine,” says Jude, looking up. “Shall I start dinner?”
“I’ll make it.”
I bring the creel over to the counter before Jude can get up. He leans back in his chair, passing a hand over his eyes. “What am I going to say to him, Moira?”
I curl my fingers around the counter’s edge. Any answer I might give seems to lodge in my throat. I look to the window, to the stretch of moors beyond the glass.
Jude continues. “What if he did catch that siren with somebody else? He’s going to… He’s going to notice she’s gone.”
“There’s a meeting tomorrow,” I say quietly. “Your uncle likely wants to be here for it. The Council is thinking about changing the restrictions of the hunting ban.”
“And they’re holding it in Dunmore? I would think Lochlan…”
I turn back to him. “Perhaps the police want to have their say.”
He places his hands flat on the table. “I’m coming.”
“Jude, you’re not well enough.”
He meets my gaze, jaw set. “Do you imagine I’ll go dashing off to the sirens as soon as you open the door?”
“I’m more concerned you’ll collapse after taking a step out of it.”
He swallows, looking elsewhere. “Very well, then,” he says after a pause. “I’ll stay.”
Before I can reply, there’s a knock on the door. The two of us stare at each other, unmoving.
I clear my throat. “Should I…?”