Jude laughs, none the worse for wear. “Saw her just past the breakers. She’s watching us.”
I look up. The siren remains, only a few boat lengths away. Her dark hair is slicked back from her salt-white face, her mouth a thin slash of red. She did not touch Jude. Indeed, she makes no move toward us. I’m fixed in place, breathless at the sight of her. My grasp on the iron tightens until it cuts into my palm.
When she disappears beneath the waves, I feel pinned to the moment. I replay it like a song, over and over, until it’s familiar as a heartbeat.
In the dusty hardware shop, there is little of Jude that reminds me of the boy who went overboard that day. He is silent and still, his head bowed in consternation. “I understand,” he says, but I wonder if he truly does.
We find Mr. Bradshaw toward the back of the shop. He wears a heavy knit sweater, his brown hands folded atop the shop counter. He and Jude talk about how dreadful the weather’s been lately and that dear poor boy on the beach; his father’s a fisherman and works hard, don’t know what that family’s going through now, and are you all right up at that lighthouse? Yes, sir. Fine, sir.
Mr. Bradshaw looks satisfied with this. He calls Jude “Wick”—an old nickname for lighthouse keepers—and Jude smiles as he passes over a few coins, pleased to go by the same name as his father.
Back outside, Jude pulls his cap on, shadowing his eyes. “How are we to go about this, then?” he asks.
I set my gaze on the street ahead of us. Faded shop awnings cast long shadows across the cobbles, making the way appear more dark and narrow than it really is. Chairs sit next to doors with peeling paint, dried leaves tossed up against the thresholds.
“I’d like to speak with the police first,” I say.
Jude nods. “You think they’ll listen?”
“It’s worth a try.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and scuffs his heel against the sidewalk. “Mr. Daugherty always looks like he’s got murder in his eyes whenever I’m late with the monthly report. If we’re to make a suspect list, I’d jot him down.”
I grin despite myself. “You’re not the murder victim.”
“No, but see here… If I ever am, you know just where to start.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sunlight peeks between the row of shops and marks the street in a patchwork pattern of light and shadow. We head for the market, walking beside each other, and I feel glad in a way I haven’t for a long time. I keep the feeling close to my heart, safe and hidden from the world. Like a secret.
CHAPTER SIX
THE EVENING OF CONNOR’S FUNERAL is chilly and damp, everything gray with fog. Grave markers form dark outlines, the taller stone crosses looming out of the mist. Though the churchyard is small, dozens of people have congregated for the service.
I make my way past the gates, into the little field. Beside me on the path is my mother, and together we are cloaked in black. I wear a necklace of jet beads, the same I wore at my father’s funeral. He is buried in this churchyard too, and as we pass his grave, I let my gloved fingertips rest on the stone. “Hello, Da.”
There are those who believe the nature of this island is so awful, so wicked, sometimes it must steal away the best of us to keep its equilibrium. If it didn’t, squalor and malice would overwhelm it, and the ocean would rise up, drowning us, in order to cleanse our sins. I think I believe it too. It explains why I am still here and Connor is not. Why my father is not.
I have countless memories intertwined with this churchyard, and none of them are good. They are thick with sadness, muddled in grief. I catch the familiar scent of salt water and brine, but I’ve never felt farther from the cliffs, from the sirens who glide through our waters, taking shelter between jagged rocks.
As we reach the gathering of mourners, I search the dark suits and bowed heads for Jude Osric, but I can’t find him. Instead, I see the remaining members of the Sheahan family, standing at the mouth of Connor’s open grave. His coffin has already been lowered, out of view, tucked into the earth, closer now with his ancestors than any of us. It makes my heart ache, being here, where I am forced to remember all my past sorrows. Knowing this will not be the last funeral I attend.
You had so many songs yet to play, Connor.
I would have taught you all of them.
My mother tries to place a hand on my shoulder, to whisper in my ear, but I shrug her off. I want silence, for the ground to swallow me. I study the faces of those gathered, wondering if the murderer has come to see the consequences of their handiwork. To my left, a young girl with dark ribbons in her hair, hands clasped, whispers to herself. Whether it’s a prayer or a blessing, I can’t tell.
By the grave, the Sheahans take turns kneeling, tossing handfuls of salt down onto Connor’s coffin. Another image pulls at my mind—of a younger Moira, dropping salt into her father’s grave. I can almost feel the grit on my palm.
Father Teague brings the service to an end, and the tide of funeral-goers begins to shift. Most depart once he’s finished, resuming their lives, the death of Connor Sheahan a cautionary tale to tell their own children. Some stay, offering condolences, asking if there’s anything they can do.
I edge closer, catching the eye of Mrs. Sheahan. She tugs me into a fierce embrace, and I try to return it the best I can. “Oh, Moira,” she says.
With her arms still wrapped around me, I say, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sheahan.” My voice comes out soft, surprisingly hoarse. I step back and clear my throat. “He was a good student.”
She wipes at the tear stains on her cheeks, but her eyes have dried. I recognize the look of someone who’s already cried to the point of exhaustion—it’s an activity I’m well versed in. “Thank you, dear.”
My mother joins us, saying, “It was a lovely service,” and I watch the two of them embrace as well. They murmur to each other, quiet and sad; a mother who’s lost a son, a wife who’s lost a husband. Both circumstances far from unique on Twillengyle.
I look back in the direction of my father’s grave. I miss you, Da. God, I miss you, I miss—
“Moira.”
I turn at the sound of my mother’s voice. She holds out her hand, beckoning me.
I am wound tight enough to shatter.
“Come along,” she says.
We walk away from the churchyard, soon on the trail back home. Houses grow from the moor grass in uneven rows, made up of brightly colored siding. Laundry hangs from several clotheslines: white sheets, frayed work trousers, floral-printed dresses. A trio of little girls plays in a wilted garden. One of them stands in the center—singing a melancholy tune and biting back a smile—while the other two inch toward her, closer, closer, until the girl stops singing. They scatter with gleeful screeches as the singer springs into action, trying to catch them.
I know it, the siren game. Jude and I used to play it out on the cliffs. We worked valiantly to convince his older sister to be the siren.
Emmeline Osric was a lovely singer.
“I didn’t notice Mr. Osric at the funeral,” says my mother.
I drop my gaze to the path. “He wouldn’t miss it.”
She says, “Your father and Llyr Osric were always close,” as if I weren’t already aware of the fact.