We walk up the path to the high center of the island, through the old orchard, where rows of Braeburn apple and spindly Anjou pear trees grow in wild, unruly directions. People used to say that fruit trees couldn’t grow in the sea air, but they’ve always thrived on Lumiere Island. An anomaly.
“What about the orchard?” Bo asks, pausing at the end of a row.
“What about it?”
“These trees haven’t been trimmed in years.” I squint at him and he reaches up to touch one of the bony, leafless branches, as if he can sense the tree’s history just by touching it. “They need to be limbed and the dead ones cut down.”
“How do you know?” I ask, shoving my hands into the pockets of my raincoat. They’ve started to go numb.
“I grew up on a farm,” he answers vaguely.
“My mom doesn’t really care about the trees,” I say.
“Someone cared about them once.” He releases the spindly branch from his fingers and it springs back into place. He’s right; someone did care about this orchard once. And there used to be more rows and a variety of hardy apples and pears. But not anymore. The trees are overgrown and windswept, only producing small, often bitter fruit. “They could live another hundred years if someone maintains them,” he says.
“You could really bring them back to life?”
“Sure, it will just take some work.”
I smile a little, scanning the rows of trees. I’ve always loved the orchard, but it’s been years since it’s seen a real bloom. Just like the rest of the island, it’s fallen into decay. But if the trees could be saved, maybe the whole island could too. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
He smiles faintly, and our eyes meet for an instant.
I show Bo the other buildings on the island, and we circle around the perimeter. He’s careful not to walk too close to me, keeping his arm from brushing mine when we walk side by side, his steps deliberate and measured over the stony landscape. But his eyes flick over to me when he thinks I’m not looking. I swallow. I tighten my jaw. I look away.
When we reach the cliffs facing west, the ocean slamming against the shoreline in violent waves that spray water and foam against the rocks, he stops.
This close to the sea, the song of the sisters feels like a whisper in our ears. As if they were standing beside us, breath against our necks.
“How many people have died?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“During the months when the Swan sisters return?”
I cross my arms, the wind brushing the hair over my eyes. “They each drown one boy... usually.”
“Usually?”
“More or less. It depends.”
“On?”
I shrug, thinking about the summers when five or six boys were found tumbling with the waves against the shore. Sand in their hair. Salt water in their lungs. “How vengeful they’re feeling... I suppose.”
“How do they choose?”
“Choose what?”
“Who they’re going to kill?”
A breath sticks in my throat, trapped like a hook in a fish’s mouth. “Probably the same way they chose lovers when they were alive.”
“So they love the boys they drown?” I think maybe he’s being sarcastic, but when I tilt my gaze to look at him, his dark eyes and punctuated full lips have stiffened.
“No. I don’t know. I doubt it. It’s not about love.”
“Revenge, then?” he asks, echoing my words from last night.
