Page 72 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I blink at him in surprise. “You know why.”

“Humor me. Spell it out. Even if you’re saying things you think I already know.”

I open my mouth to protest again, but I halt, midstream, arrested by the plea in his eyes.

We’re talking about our home, I want to say. The sanctuary I needed when I was growing up and that I needed again when I lost my way in Chicago. The one he needed after his marriage ended and he was struggling to build forward momentum. The place that brought us together, as though my grandmother was guiding us toward each other. The place where we listened to “Iris” all night and frantically shared our bodies in the foyer and brought an imaginary island to life.

The house is our home. It’s our haven. It’s our history.

But as these arguments press at my lips, I realize why he’s asking the question.

The tears come fast and hard, with no warning at all. My shoulders shake, and my chest convulses. I struggle for breath, each inhale a halting stutter. Dylan draws me into a strong embrace, holding me tight while I cry and cry and cry until I’m finally able to answer him.

“I can’t sell the house . . . because I’m not ready to let her go.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The next few days are hard, colored by a new awareness of how sharp my grief is, even after all these years. I haven’t felt close to a lot of people in my life. Maybe my mom’s right, and I’m not the easiest person to get along with. Maybe I don’t put enough effort into being likable or social. The why doesn’t really matter. The result is the same. When I do connect with someone—really connect—I forge my bonds tight. Letting go isn’t a release. It’s a violent rending, leaving me fractured and fragmented while the world asks me to carry on as if I was whole.

Dylan doesn’t ask me to pretend anything at all. He lets me sit quietly with my tea and my thoughts on the back porch every sunrise, even if I stay there for hours after, and he hands me tissues when I tear up without warning over my grandmother’s silly breadbox or the rapiers that still hang over her headboard, the ones we used to take down and block sword fights with. He listens to me talk about the costume parties and elaborate themed dinners and, of course, the sailing. I can still picture her so clearly, when she deftly secured a taut sheet as the sails caught a new burst of wind, the crew leaped into action, and I shouted orders from the bridge.

I let myself think the words now that she’s gone until I can say them.

Then I say them until they stop feeling like a shard of glass in my heart.

We agree to keep conversations about my academic job search and the future of the house to a minimum for a few weeks. I apply for the grant-writing job and a few others I find on my own. While I’m waiting to hear back, Dylan and I resume work on A Siren Calls, galvanized by the renewed possibility of eventual publication. It feels good, diving back into Grams’s notes and her imaginary world, holding on to parts of her that aren’t gone and giving them new life.

Day one is sluggish, but on day two, we reach a major plot point where Zane finds out Amorosa has ulterior motives for luring him onto her island. One of his crew members—a young woman named Maud who stowed away on the Zephyr’s Revenge as a means of escaping her abusive father—snaps him out of his spell, and together, they renew the search for the key that will eventually unlock the cave on the Island of Diamonds and Desire.

Zane awoke to a tap on his shoulder. In an instant, the sword he kept close was in his hand, the point denting the tender flesh of a slender, lightly freckled neck.

Maud shot him a murderous glare, pinching the blade and drawing it away as though it was a pesky insect, nothing more. She had a habit of doing that, of treating the things he valued as though they were inconveniences. She had a habit of glaring, too.

“It’s time,” she whispered. “Mulligan and Malarky are keeping Amorosa busy over near the camp we set up earlier tonight, but you know Mulligan.”

“I know Malarky, too.” Zane leaped to his feet, sheathing his sword as a wad of fabric hit his face. He caught it as it dropped, looking down to find his rumpled trousers.

“I know we’re in a hurry”—Maud’s gaze dipped momentarily, her expression aggressively unimpressed—“but we’ll be more efficient if you sheathe that, too.”

He might’ve argued the point, but every second counted, so he quickly donned his trousers and joined Maud in the hushed but frantic hunt, careful to restore every rug, pot, painting, stool, book, and candlestick. With only two days left before Amorosa’s island vanished for another hundred years, he couldn’t risk her mistrust. Or her wrath.

As he crouched and searched for loose floorboards, Maud dug through a glittering jewelry box, drawing out a long, heavy strand of pearls.

“Is all of this from her previous victims?” she asked.

“Her victims or her lovers.”

Maud scoffed. “Same difference.”

Zane raised a brow, not entirely comfortable with this classification, though he didn’t have time to offer a counterpoint because the door handle rattled and turned.

After a brief exchange of panicked glances, Maud tucked herself behind a curtain while Zane scrambled to his feet and grabbed a nearby ewer of ale. In the next second, Amorosa flung open the door, her eyes bright, her long dark hair whipped by the wind.

“You’re not sleeping,” she said, her voice pure velvet as she prowled toward him.

His eyes darted to the sword that lay sheathed on the bed. He might’ve reached for it, but he’d seen her wounds seal themselves, leaving no scars behind.

“I woke up thirsty.” He gulped back a thick swig of ale. “And I missed you.”