That seems to wake him up. “You’re leaving already?”
“I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough.”
“Not at all.” He leans forward, holding my gaze. “Really, Moira, having you—having someone here—it’s a welcome change of pace.” His eyes look honest as he says it. “At least stay for breakfast.”
My guilt, deep-rooted as it is, branches in two directions. On one dark bough, I curse my efforts to drain our friendship bloodless, when neither of us desired the ax. On the other, I find myself reluctant to take advantage of Jude’s hospitality, fully aware he wouldn’t want me at his table if he knew what truths I’ve buried.
“All right,” I say. “Tea would be lovely.”
God, I am such a wretched creature.
Jude’s smile lights up his whole face. He wipes his palms on his trouser knees and gets to his feet, running a hand through his hair. It hurts to think of him spending night after night in this tower without another soul, taking meals and working the light with only himself to talk to.
What befell the Osrics is common knowledge on the island. It’s a history most prefer to forget, violent and horrifying in its suddenness. Seven summers ago, Llyr Osric went out on his boat, accompanied by Jude’s mother and older sister. Jude was left behind to watch the lighthouse—but ended up watching sirens drag his family into the sea.
Pieces of the boat washed ashore the following day, cracked and splintered, the bodies found later, just as broken. Jude’s uncle manned the lighthouse for a time, but Jude now manages on his own.
I watch him prepare breakfast in the sunlit kitchen. He has changed and washed up for the day, his shirtsleeves pushed to his elbows as he digs out bread from a yellow bread bin and sets the kettle to boil. I breathe in the smell of wood smoke from the stove, the warm, floral fragrance of dry tea leaves. It’s worlds away from the wickedness of last night, yet I can’t help but notice the repetition. My thoughts wheel back to the whispers I heard in the dark, and I ask him, “Who were you talking to last night? Did the police come back?”
Jude turns to meet my scrutiny. “I wasn’t talking to anyone.”
“I heard something—like voices. It was coming from that storeroom.”
Uncertainty sparks deep in his bright eyes. He laughs, high and light, so unlike his normal laugh it gives me pause. “I think you might’ve been dreaming, Moira.” The kettle sings for his attention, and he makes a fuss over taking it off the burner.
He carries the teapot to the table, sitting in the chair across from me. I stare at the coils of heat, thinking. It sounds like I’m not the only one with secrets, but as I’m in no mood to turn out my own, it’s only fair to let Jude fold his away.
His eyes shift to where my violin case rests near my elbow. “Will you be playing out on the cliff again?”
“Why? Do you wish to come along?”
I want to bite back the words the moment they pass my lips.
Jude looks taken aback by the question. He drops his eyes to the table and presses his knuckles to his mouth. I imagine his thoughts, like mine, have circled back around to Connor Sheahan.
The rest of the Sheahan family must know by now. They’ll be grieving, cursing the sirens for their loss, cursing the entire island perhaps. In the wake of Connor’s death, people might well be arguing for revocation of the hunting ban before the month is out.
Jude says, “I’d love to, Moira.”
His sincerity is almost too much to bear. He takes up the teapot, pouring tea into my cup, and I do my best to ignore the lump at the back of my throat.
When we journey out onto the moors, we head for the cliff’s edge. A quick glimpse over the crag confirms a beach empty of sirens—leaving Jude as my sole audience. He follows my gaze and turns back, offering up a smile. “None of the sirens.”
Well, I can’t blame him for being happy because of it. Especially after last night. Sirens are the cause of many wounds in Twillengyle, and few of them are deeper than Jude Osric’s. “The storm,” I mutter, certain he can draw his own conclusions.
“Where are we going?”
A good question. It doesn’t make much difference, really, without the sirens as my compass. Moor grass borders the entire island, a vast sweep of red and green falling away to dark rock and sand.
On impulse, I stop. “Here.”
He watches as I kneel, releasing the clasps on my case. I hold the violin gently in my lap, checking its strings before loosening the bow.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back to playing at the dances?”
“Heartsick without my music, are you?”
I glance up at him, and he doesn’t look away. Slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, he says, “I’ve missed it quite a lot, yes,” and I have the distinct feeling we are no longer talking about music.
Still, there is no part of me that yearns to return to the dance hall. After last time, I swore I wouldn’t. Let Peter and Flint manage the sets; let them deal with the swarms of tourists—I won’t lift a finger to help.
Standing up, I tuck the violin under my chin. I touch bow to strings in the opening chords of “Over the Moor and Heather,” closing my eyes in concentration, my fingers firm against the strings.
The song shifts, growing and changing out of the chorus, until it’s no longer “Over the Moor,” but the murmur of waves against the shore, cold wind at my fingertips, cliff grass beneath my feet. The music is in my breath and sings through my blood. I near the end and everything in me is still as I slide my bow across the strings in one long note. I exhale, open my eyes, and bring the violin to rest at my side.
I look up to find Jude standing as he was, albeit a little slack-jawed. It seems to take him a moment to realize I’ve stopped playing. “Moira,” he says, and his voice does not sound like his own.
I grin at him. “Liked it, did you?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “It was lovely.”
The words make me feel warm and agreeable. I’m reminded once more of when we were children, when I played music on the moors with the wind and the sea and Jude Osric for company. These past few years have put a distance between us that was never there before. We used to explore the tide pools together, run around barefoot, take up sticks in imaginary sword fights. Jude was loud and lively and quick to grab my hand. Come, Moira, I need to show you something…
Now he considers the horizon, solemn. “I ought to get going,” he says in a mournful tone.
“Yes.” I shift my grip on the neck of my violin. The cold has turned my fingers stiff. “If the police do come back…”
Jude smiles. “I’ll let you know.”
He starts back toward the lighthouse, and I look along the beach to the patch of sand where Connor was found. Nothing remains of the incident, the shore washed clean.
I still think it’s peculiar that sirens left him there. Closing my eyes, I call up the memory of Connor as I last saw him. The slice across his neck was knife-sharp, and it’s quite possible sirens were not the ones to take his life. After all, there are plenty of other ways to die.
It’s quite possible he was murdered.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT TURNS OUT I DO not need Jude Osric as my informant in police matters. I find what I’m looking for in the next morning’s Gazette, typed neatly into a narrow column.