A SAD TALE.—Connor Sheahan, aged twelve, was attacked and killed by sirens the day before last, on Dunmore Beach, as confirmed by police. Funeral services will be performed by Father Teague at St. Cecilia’s churchyard this evening at five o’clock.
Scowling, I toss the paper back onto our kitchen table. The more I thought about this yesterday, the more convinced I became that sirens weren’t responsible. Surely it can’t be that difficult to ascertain the true cause of death. The police ought to be looking for evidence of Connor’s killer this very instant.
Murder. It has to be.
My mother—sitting across from me—looks up to study my face. “Don’t let it wind you up, Moira.”
The words irritate me to an extent. I don’t like the idea of my expressions being so easily read. “I’m not wound up.”
“Yes, you are,” she replies. “And perhaps you wouldn’t be if you weren’t looking at the sirens through rose-colored glasses all the time.”
I press my lips together, staring down into my teacup. Whatever fondness I have for the sirens has nothing to do with this. This is ignorance in its highest form.
I look back at the Twillengyle Gazette, taking the page and folding it up into smaller and smaller sections. The words “killed by sirens” fill my mind, black as the printer’s ink. Connor Sheahan’s death had been printed like a well-worn formality, fit into a corner of the page. A local boy—the son of a fisherman no less—would know better than to wander so close to the shore without iron. Connor knew the hazards. The storm alone should’ve kept him away from the beach.
Clenching my jaw, I slip the article into my dress pocket. Perhaps they’re trying to keep murder out of the papers—wouldn’t want to scare off the tourists. The danger of sirens is one thing, but the idea of human violence? Best swept under the carpet with no one the wiser. Perhaps Twillengyle Council hopes ignorance will lead to bliss.
My silent rage is jarred as my mother scrapes back her chair. She crosses over to the counter, gathering two wicker baskets in her arms. They’re filled with the cakes she baked earlier, each wrapped tidily in cloth, ready to be sold at the market in Dunmore. When she drops one of the baskets in front of me, I give her a dark look.
“Take it, Moira,” she says. “I won’t have you sitting around here being morbid. You can help me at the stall today.”
“I’d rather not.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, dear.” She touches her fingertips to the closed basket. “You spent all night at that lighthouse the other day. It’s time you did a few errands.”
“Jude needed me there,” I press. “The police…”
She doesn’t wait for the rest of the excuse but goes to stand in the entryway. I grit my teeth, snatch up the basket, and follow.
With her hand on the doorknob, she says, “It was good of you to visit Mr. Osric. It’s a terrible affair, Moira, but you should know better than to go off in a storm like that. What was I supposed to think happened to you?”
“I can take care of myself.”
My mother’s expression is pinched—because she knows it’s true. Pity the same couldn’t be said for Connor Sheahan. Terrible affair indeed.
She opens the door, and I duck my head as I step out onto the walkway. My thoughts are crowded with awful things, my fingers curled around a wicker handle rather than the worn leather of my violin case. Connor’s curt obituary burns in my pocket. It’s a counterfeit tale, the easiest to tell because everyone already believes it.
I will prove them all wrong.
* * *
Dunmore is one of two towns on the island, on the east side, with the other, Lochlan, located to the southwest. They are small, concentrated places from which the houses of Twillengyle circle around and scatter out toward the coast. Lochlan is the busier of the two, with a harbor that parallels the mainland. Dunmore is nearer to the coast and its cluttered appearance is something tourists would call quaint and the townsfolk would call shameful. In the summer, its streets are crowded with tourists having travel-worn clothes repaired at the tailor’s and gathering outside the dance hall in the evenings. It feels exhausting just to look at them.
With autumn leaves littering the cobbles, Dunmore is empty of everyone but the locals I know by face, if not all by name. I walk alongside my mother through the winding streets, stopping every so often to chat with this person or that.
Old women with pearl earrings pat my cheek, tell me how they’ve missed hearing my violin; won’t I come play at the hall this weekend? I smile, close-lipped, and bear it, making hollow promises through gritted teeth.
Soon enough a pupil of mine will play finely at the hall. I clutch my basket tighter, remembering how I’d once thought Connor might fill my place, and my stomach pinches at the realization that I’ll have to find someone to fill his spot instead. Without him I’m down to but a handful of students.
We’re next snagged by my mother’s friends. They call out to her—how are you, Lenore? I see you’ve Moira lending a hand today—and become benevolent shadows as they follow us to the market that curves along the main road. The air here is filled with the smell of fresh fish and salted butter. Stalls line both sides of the street, selling everything from trinkets and fishing tackle to baked goods and protection charms. Our own stall is slight and exposed, a plain cloth arranged over the counter. I smooth down the fabric and set my basket atop it.
I’ve already heard half a dozen whispers of Connor’s name. Rumors and curiosities alike.
What was he even doing down there?
A good family, but they’ve always been soft on those boys, you see.
Without any iron, it’s bound to happen.
I feel nauseous as I handle coins and pass over cakes. Any mention of the Sheahans cuts into me like wire, while every muttered oath for the sirens turns my stomach. Tourist deaths are to be expected, their blood darkening Twillengyle waters almost every summer. The death of an islander is different. When the sirens take one of our own, it leaves people shaky and nervous, spitting curses as we are reminded once more how closely we flirt with mortality.
There must be some way to set the police straight. If I can lay out enough evidence, they’ll have to admit sirens didn’t play a factor in Connor’s death. I straighten the assortment of cakes in front of me, biting my lip. The cool air nips at my fingers, but it helps numb my anger as well. I wonder if Jude has seen this morning’s article, what he thinks of the shoddy police work.
When I look up from the stall, I see the boy in question crossing the street toward me. He looks very fine in his town clothes: his wool sack coat buttoned at the top, his matching brown waistcoat, and dark trousers. He smiles, doffing his cap. “Good morning, Moira. I didn’t think you’d be at market today.”
“Nor did I.” I glance over at my mother—occupied with a customer—before returning my attention to Jude. “What are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to say hello.” He kneads his cap, a flush rising in his cheeks. “I’ve some things to get at the hardware shop.”
“Have you read the paper yet?”
A crease appears between his brows. “I have,” he says. “What of it?”