Page 11 of The Temptation of Roan Island

My eyes slide to her pulse point, and I swallow, watching it thrum. Looking back to study my cards, I pull a water card.

“When were you diagnosed? How did you end up at The Sanatorium?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

Her bright and intelligent eyes jump up to meet mine, her mouth a thin line communicating her discomfort at my inquiry. She plays a low iron card, allowing me the trick before answering. “I was diagnosed when I was pregnant with Tobias and immediately admitted.”

I stay silent, hoping she might offer more. I’m suddenly as famished for information about her as I am for blood. Every detail of this woman’s story fascinates me. Her love for her son. Her clear grief at their separation. The strength she shows in the face of a challenging diagnosis.

“Why isn’t Tobias with his father?” There’s a strange stirring of anger in my gut as I think of the man who left her to face all that alone. I’ve asked her about him before, only to be met with vague answers. I don’t understand how a man could so thoroughly neglect his own child and the woman who bore that child.

“He doesn’t know anything about my illness.” She lifts her chin. “And I have no intention of telling him. Our parting… wasn’t amicable.” She presses her lips together, making it clear she doesn’t want to discuss this anymore. Some part of me wants to push, to pry, to crack her open so I can understand every bit of her. But it’s not my place.

I play my next card—a low wind card.

She looks at it and grins. “Are you trying to lose?”

“Nonsense,” I say, but I smile as she takes the trick.

Her focus returns along with the silence as she considers her next card. It’s clear she’s still immersed in unpleasant memories, and I find myself wanting to make her smile again.

“So, what did you think of the god of night?” I nod to the book she was reading.

Her eyes lighten as she begins to tell me her favorite parts of the story. Though I win the game, the real prize is the smile on her face.

“Again?” she challenges.

“Again.” Always again.

6

SHEMAIAH

Curiosity is a deep well. Lean too close, and you’ll fall in and drown. Dip a bucket gradually, and you’ll quench your thirst. I’ve always been thirsty. Never able to stay away when something captures my attention. Like right now.

Drawn by the notes of piano keys, I detour from my path to the library. The music is haunting, ringing down the hall like a ghost from happier times, when the Roan Estate was still a home, before the island was a place of death and excess. My mother was the last person to play that piano, the one who taught me.

The music room door is open for the first time in years, and rather than enter, I stop a few steps away to listen. Without knowing who’s playing, it’s like I’ve stepped back into the past. My eyes drift closed. I see my mother sitting next to me at the instrument. Her smile is as gentle as her voice. “That’s it, Shemaiah.” The soft light of the sun cuts through the room, lighting up our fingers, dust motes dancing in the rays like little fairies.

My hearts threatening to clog my throat, I open my eyes and focus on the present. The player isn’t skilled. The notes are uneven, the pianist sometimes missing a beat to begin the line again. The keys are slightly out of tune from disuse, though not as much so as I would have guessed.

The song crescendos as the player finds the rhythm of the piece passion pouring into the music. Every cell in my body vibrates as the last note echoes around me.

Unsure who I’ll find, I enter the room.

Pippa sits at the pianoforte with her back to me, flipping through the music book to find another song. She’s wearing one of the three dresses she brought with her: one blue, one yellow, and one green. In a steely act of self-reliance, she refuses to wear any of the gowns we’ve provided and continues to wear her own. There’s something both ridiculous and admirable about that.

There’s a system to her attire that I also find fascinating, since none of the dresses vary much. The blue and green dresses are for everyday use, and the yellow dress is her dressing-up attire. She reminds me of a summer day when she wears the yellow one, with a scent to match, aside from the underlying bitterness of her illness.

The blue dress she’s wearing today is a serviceable fabric dotted with white flowers. It’s worn, though less so than the green one she’s patched. Most surprising is her hair. It’s down, as if she couldn’t be bothered to put it up. In the colonies, a woman with unkempt hair would cause a scandal, but it’s been a long time since anything has been scandalous at Roan Island. And scandalous is far from how I’d describe Pippa’s golden locks. She’s the sun in the middle of a rainbow cast by the stained glass window.

My breath catches. Silent as the piano once was, I walk toward her as the music starts up again. The tips of her curls brush the floor behind the bench, swaying as she moves. Having only seen it up, I didn’t know her hair would be so long, though I shouldn’t be surprised since long hair is in style in the colonies right now.

My fingers twitch, wanting to see if it’s as soft as it looks. She bends her head over the piano, and some of the shorter tresses at the front fall into her face. She rolls her shoulder to push the hair back without stopping the song.

“Allow me,” I say, bending forward.

She jumps, the notes faltering, a discordant combination clanging out. “Oh. You startled me.”

“Don’t stop.” I brush her hair back from her shoulder.