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“Words hold memory,” Rhiannon said. “Tonight they may lead her home.”
Kelsey finished setting a ring of votives on glass saucers. “This isn’t going to turn into a movie scene, right? Chanting, tables flying?”
Rhiannon’s smile flickered. “If anything flies, I’m leaving. We’re here to guide, not to summon.”
“And if they don’t want to be guided?” Sully asked from the window. He had joined them in this séance. He wouldn’t say it to anyone other than Amy, but the widow’s walk incident had spooked him. He was here for Amy’s safety. His reflection wavered in the glass, the sea behind him black and sharp. The wind tugged at the casements like fingers.
Rhiannon faced him. “Skepticism keeps you safe, Mr. Sullivan. But sometimes the heart recognizes what logic refuses.”
He gave a brief shrug and folded his arms, but he moved to the table all the same—close enough that his shoulder brushed Amy’s.
They took their places: Rhiannon at the head, Amy beside her, Sully on Amy’s right, and across from them were Kaitlin and Kelsey. In the circle’s center lay Verity’s journal and a shallow bowl of seawater reflecting candlelight in broken shards.
Rhiannon drew a measured breath. “We are witnesses,” she said. “We call no spirits. We open a door only if they knock first.”
Thunder rolled low; the house pulsed around them.
“Amy,” Rhiannon murmured, “read her words. Let her remember herself through you.”
Amy’s hands shook as she opened to the last entry. Her voice began as a whisper:
“My darling, it has been a year since you left us…” The words gathered in the corners of the room like smoke. The air thickened; candle flames lowered but did not go out. Even the storm outside listened. “… each day I bear the weight of that night…”
By the time Amy reached the last lines—I pray you will forgive me, and that when my time comes we shall meet again and remember only the happiness we once shared—the silence that followed was alive.
Rhiannon closed her eyes. “She’s here,” she breathed. “Verity hears you.”
Amy felt warmth rise through her heartbeat, a tenderness like hands resting on her shoulders. She drew a shaking breath.
Sully touched her wrist. “You okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes brimmed.
Kelsey’s voice was soft. “What now?”
“Now,” said Rhiannon, “we comfort her. Kelsey—call to her as one mother to another.”
Kelsey hesitated, then leaned forward, voice plain and kind:
“Verity, you did what anyone would have done when they were scared and alone. You protected your child. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
A faint movement swept through the candles, each flame bowing toward Kelsey as if in acknowledgment. The temperature lifted by a degree, the air easing. She could feel something loosen.
Then Sully glanced toward the dark window. “What about him?” he asked quietly. “The captain?”
Rhiannon’s lashes fluttered. “He waits outside,” she said. “Still bound in anger. He doesn’t understand.” She looked at Sully. “He recognizes you. You need to speak to him.”
He stared. “Me?”
“You are of his blood. Perhaps he will listen to you.”
Sully scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Great. Family reunion with a ghost.”But he straightened, eyes on the shadows beyond the window.
“Captain Jeremiah Blackwell,” he said. “If you can hear me… you were a sailor. You trusted the sea, and it betrayed you. It turned you into something else. But that’s over now. Verity loved you. You left her with your child—your line lived on. I’m the proof. It’s time to forgive and finally rest.”
His words hung in air too thick to move.
Then, from the other room, a door creaked open. Amy was sure it was the new French doors to the patio. Wind rushed through the room, carrying the sharp smell of brine. Every candle bent low toward Sully; glass rattled in the frames. He shivered violently.
