See her there, my dear. She has come.
Her face is white as chalk, sharp as a knife. Her eyes are deep blue like the sky in the final hour of evening. She moves as though she’s still under the waves, a smooth dance over rocks and sand. She is stark and dangerous—and she is absolutely lovely.
Pacing along the beach’s edge, she keeps her feet in shallow tide. I do not dare blink while I watch her. We wait in the shadows, hidden, long after she passes over the mouth of the crevice.
Beside me, my father lets out a quiet sigh. I turn to see his smile outlined by the fading sun. His eyes glitter and I feel the grin that spreads across my face. Adrenaline hums through my veins, blood singing in my ears, as the last streaks of sunlight disappear into the sea.
* * *
I wake gasping, jolted by the sudden scrape of branches outside my window. I stare into the darkness of my bedroom, breathing hard, waiting for my heart rate to slow. Just a dream. A memory—woven into the fabric of nightscape, timeworn and dusty.
I lie back on thin sheets that feel cold against my skin. As my eyes close, the tears come, unrelenting.
I do not try to stop them.
CHAPTER NINE
I STAND ON THE DOORSTEP to the keeper’s cottage, my knuckles touching the wood without knocking. From below, I make out the low rush of the sea, waves surging and breaking against the shore. I close my eyes.
Just leave. Go on. He doesn’t want you here.
I won’t ask his forgiveness, but I must do my best to apologize. Jude is owed that. If he wishes to rake me over the coals, to never have me set foot here again, I’ve brought it upon myself.
I breathe in, breathe out, attuning my heart to the ebb and flow of the tide. I pull my hand back to knock, but the door swings open the next instant.
Jude stands before me, dressed in his wool coat and cap. His eyes alight on mine, and he removes his cap, holding it to his chest. I suspect he does so unthinking—I don’t imagine Jude feels obligated to extend me any sort of courtesy.
“Moira.” He says it similar to how he did that storm-dark afternoon. Startled, a little breathless, as though I’m one of the apparitions thought to haunt the moors. He squints. “How long have you been out here?”
“It’s no matter. I see I’ve caught you on your way out.” I back up, stepping down onto the path. “I’ll come back later. Or not at all, if you prefer.”
For a moment he looks pained. Moving aside, he opens the door wider. “Please, come in.” As I step over the threshold, he sets his cap on an empty hook. He holds out a hand, and when I simply stare at it, he murmurs, “I’ll take your coat, Moira.”
“I don’t mean to keep you.”
His dark eyes shine. He doesn’t draw his hand back, so I surrender my coat to him. I watch as he places it on the hook next to his cap, something raw and tender about his expression.
“Jude,” I begin, “I’m here to say how truly sorry I am for the other day. I regret it more than anything.”
He ducks his head. “There’s no need…”
“I never believed it was you. I let logic sway me when I oughtn’t have. You’re not a killer—and I had no reason to accuse you of something so foul.”
Jude leans back against the wall opposite me. Narrow as the hall is, we remain close. Light from the doorway threads gold into his hair, catching in his brown eyes. His mouth curves. “Thank you,” he says, sounding somewhat wry.
I swallow. “What I did was unforgivable. I’ll understand if you don’t…”
“I forgive you, Moira. Gladly I do.” He passes a hand through his curls. “I shouldn’t have acted the way I did.”
“You had every right.”
He straightens up. “Well, we’ll agree to disagree on that.”
I falter, muddled by uncertainty despite his words. I stare down at my boots, black and scuffed around the edges, and say, “I’d still like your help.”
Jude takes off his coat and hangs it up, whatever errand he meant to run forgotten. He wears his brown waistcoat, a white collared shirt, and a tie, so likely he’d planned to visit Mr. Daugherty. “I thought you might.” He gives me an easy smile. “Have you already spoken to the police?”
“Yes.” I scowl, recalling my exchange with Thackery. “They were quite useless.”
We head into the kitchen. Jude prepares the stove for tea, putting fresh kindling into the firebox. He lights a match, nearly dropping it, as someone hammers at his front door.
Frowning, he shakes out the tiny flame.
I look to the hall. “Do you know who that is?”
He fidgets with his shirt cuff, rubbing the fabric between forefinger and thumb. “Someone from the harbor, probably.”
I take a seat at the table as he disappears down the hall. Skimming over the knots in the wood, I listen as he lifts the latch, opens the door. I expect him to greet whoever’s out there, but what I hear next is dead silence.
A voice—distinctly male but not Jude’s—says something too muffled for me to interpret. Though I hear Jude quite clearly when he says, “You have what?”
I’m out of my chair in a flash.
At the entrance, Jude stands with one hand clutching the frame, like he’ll fall without the support. I peer around him, and my heart begins to race rabbit-fast.
Two young officers stand beneath the overhang.
“What’s all this?” I come up beside Jude, narrowing my eyes.
The officers seem unsettled by my appearance. It’s obvious they thought Jude was here alone. They doff their hats upon seeing me, and one of them folds a piece of paper, tucking it away in his coat. He says, “We have an arrest warrant for him, miss.”
I turn to Jude. He continues to lean against the doorframe, his face sheet white, his eyes staring out at nothing. I’ve no doubt what the warrant is for, but I ask anyway.
The officer scratches the back of his neck. “He’s a suspect in the death of Connor Sheahan.”
At this Jude squeezes his eyes shut. Facing the officers, I say, “Your lot already deemed sirens responsible.”
“There’s been a recent development,” replies the other officer. “They’re reopening the case, having another look at things.”
“And what part of that warrant says you can take Jude Osric in without proof?”
“We have probable cause, miss. You’ll have to speak to our superiors.”
Rage coats my throat like bile. “I was just there yesterday,” I snarl, “and I’ll tell you what you’re doing is ridiculous.”
Eyes still shut, Jude whispers, “I can’t leave.” It comes out low enough he might very well be talking to himself. “I can’t.”
The first officer clucks his tongue. “Come now, Wick.”
Jude looks up, eyes hazy. He stares off into the middle distance as though seeing something different than the rest of us. He says, “Who will keep the light?”
“We’ve sent word to your uncle. He ought to be here before dark.”
Jude presses the back of one hand to his mouth. He exhales shakily.
“Jude,” I say. “Jude, don’t you dare go with them. This isn’t right.”