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It was nothing. Just a trick of the moonlight, my nightmare still lingering.

Shaking my head, I pad back to bed. As I try to fall back asleep though, uneasiness lingers in my chest, making me toss and turn. The lavender-scented air feels thick, nearly suffocating, like the home itself is watching, breathing its history down my neck.

Three

Magdalena

Tolba, Dalmatia

14 June 1895

Dear Majko,

I am a dead woman.

I should’ve known better—there is plenty of lavender on the south shore, enough for my uses. Lie low. Don’t stir trouble, you always told me. And here I went, thieving from Lavender House, from the most powerful family on the island. But before you are disappointed, dear Majko, know that things have changed ever since I lost you.

In the past three years, the people have grown meaner, crueler, all thanks to Marko Klarin and his nasty rumors disguised as piety. And yet they still come slithering to my door in the cover of night, like frightened snakes, seeking my help. The hypocrisy is maddening. Forgive me if I seize a little retribution where I can. It is not the first time I have taken from his field. He has so much lavender to spare, after all. But I fear my recklessness has ruined me. Any minute now, he will barge through the door—

I suppose you want to know what happened. Here is how this dreadful night began:

I was preparing herb sachets for the morning market when a knock came at the door. I knew at once it wasn’t Branko—I’ve come to recognize his urgent bang, usually fueled by one too many glasses of rakija. No, this knock was light and furtive, like it didn’t want to be heard. A customer.

The thought lifted my spirits immediately. It had been weeks since my last one, and my cupboards were growing sparse. When I answered, there was Stipanka Mirkov. Despite her full frame, she somehow managed to shrink herself on the doorstep, casting her head over her shoulder this way and that. God forbid the people see her at my door. I may as well grow a horn on my forehead like Baba Roga, the way people seem to fear me.

I pushed down my annoyance and welcomed her inside. Resentment won’t fill my pockets, as you know. When I asked what ailed her, she said it was her son, Ivo. He had a fever for three days now and the doctor’s remedy wasn’t working. I remembered the boy, his bony knees and rosy cheeks. “I’m desperate,” she said. “I didn’t know where else to go.” As if this was the first time she’d passed through our door.

The nerve of that woman. It took all my willpower not to bash her over the head with the cooking pot. Did she think I’d forgotten how she used to visit you years ago, seeking your help sowing her insides, making it a fertile place to grow the very same boy she wanted me to now help? The people here must think me dim or an old crone with a faulty memory, instead of the twenty-seven-year-old woman that I am. Or else they all suffer from a case of forgetfulness every time they cross over the threshold.

It is always the first time. It is always desperation. Because who in their right mind would seek the help of Magdalena Derokov? The witch-daughter, they say, who dares meddle in matters reserved for God? I know what Marko Klarin mutters when he thinks I can’t hear, the way they stare at my back in church, waiting for me to ignite in flames. But you were never a witch. Witches are cruel and devious. And you were the kindest of them all.

They may choose to forget, but I remember. It is why I keep this diary. Why I keep account.

But don’t worry, Majko, I remembered my manners. I said nothing unkind as I prepared her a poultice of chamomile, yarrow, and lavender. I even smiled when I wished her farewell, though I didn’t receive so much as a grateful glance in return.

I added Stipanka’s name to my ledger, but as I was putting away my supplies, I realized I was running low on lavender. I recalled then that the Klarins’ field had recently bloomed, how it made the air all around smell so sweet. It had put me in a melancholy mood lately, to be honest. Whenever I inhale its aroma, I think of the oil you used to put on my pillow when I couldn’t sleep.

So, I gathered my bag and set off. I’ve been going to Lavender House for the past three summers to feed off their blooms without any incident. I had no reason to believe tonight would be any different.

How wrong I was.

It was properly dark when I left, the stars hidden by clouds that threatened rain. The sea was toiling thanks to a humid draft blowing in from the south—jugo. I thought it odd at this time of year, but I wasn’t complaining. You know how the people claim it brings all sorts of travesties and ailments. More business, I thought with glee. I needed to hurry though if I wanted to beat the rain. I brought your shawl—the red one, my favorite—just in case.

It was easy enough to scale the Klarins’ drystone fence. I picked the lavender quickly, for an eerie sensation overcame me as I worked. Do you remember how you once told me that all homes carry a bit of the spirit of the person who built it, sometimes so strongly you can feel it? Well, whenever I am near that house, I can sense Marko’s spirit in the stones, judging me. Its many windows glowed like a horde of owls in the dark. Glaring, as if it knew I shouldn’t be there.

Thief, I could almost hear it whisper in Marko’s gruff voice. Sinner. Witch-daughter.

I ignored this though. I may miss church now and then, lie with Branko and sailors in Zara, where no one knows my reputation, but I like to think the healing work I do balances it all out. If God saw all, He could see I meant well. Besides, shouldn’t Marko Klarin pay for his unkind gossip in some way?

I cut and I cut, but once my bag was nearly full, I heard a loud bark. I ducked down, my heart pounding. It was then I realized my mistake—the Klarins had recently adopted a dog, a large Dalmatian with spots like black soot covering its white fur. I’d seen it down by the harbor when I was selling my wares, nipping at the legs of Marko’s son, Nikola, as he carried crates of lavender oil to the ships. It’d almost bitten my finger clean off when I’d tried to pet it, the wretch.

The barking grew louder—it was coming for me. There was another sound too, a man’s shout. Marko’s perhaps, but I didn’t turn to check. I immediately ran for the fence, as fast as my legs could carry me. The dog’s paws pounded just behind, its ragged pants huffing louder and louder, hot on my heels. I was convinced in that moment it was a dog from Hell, and it wanted another chance at my flesh. As I leapt over the fence, it grabbed hold of my skirt, but with a sharp tug, I managed to get over. To make matters worse, it began to rain. I sprinted all the way home, not looking back.

By the time I arrived, I was drenched and wheezing like an old man. I could hardly stand. I kept frantic watch out the window to see if I’d been followed, but about twenty minutes passed and no one came.

Needless to say, the lavender didn’t make it. Only a few sprigs clung to the bottom of my bag, the lone survivors of my harried flight. I was too grateful I hadn’t been caught to care. In fact, I felt elated. A joyous laugh—no, a cackle—burst from my lips. I had escaped that wretched dog. As for the man who shouted, I was hopeful it was too dark for him to see who I was. I looked to the statue of the Virgin Marija on the shelf, prayed I was only a mysterious shadow in the night.

A cool breeze blew in through the window then, and I reached for your shawl, where I always kept it draped over the chair. Only, it wasn’t there. I realized then my second dreadful mistake: I had brought it with me to Lavender House. When the dog nipped at my skirt, and I thought I’d tugged free, it must have latched on to the shawl. Tore it from my body.