Page 91

For one, the bed I’m lying in now. It’s a twin—small and a bit stiff, but comfortable enough. Karmela and I have been staying in a guesthouse owned by Luka’s uncle until we figure out our next steps.

Then there’s my fluency. I can still understand Croatian fairly well, but my speaking skills have diminished, a stark contrast to the ease I once felt. I keep coming back to something the house said: I helped you in more ways than you know.

And then there’s my job—or rather, my lack of one. A few days after the fire, I sat down to email my boss, planning to ask for an extension on my trip. But when I opened my laptop, I couldn’t bring myself to type the words. I realized I didn’t want to go back—not to my empty childhood home, not to the life I left behind. I never cared much for marketing anyway, except for the photography. So instead of asking for more time, I resigned.

When I roll over and check my phone, my boss’s reply is waiting in my inbox. It’s brief and to the point. Thanks for letting me know, Petra. I wish you the best.

Suddenly, I feel lighter, like a weight has lifted from my chest, though there’s a flutter of fear too—uncertainty about what I’ll do next.

But that’s a worry for another time. Pomalo, I tell myself. One thing at a time.

Breathing in, I note the rich scent of coffee. Karmela must be awake. Instantly, my mood dips. She’s hardly spoken since the fire. I can understand. She lost her home and reputation all in one night, thanks to me.

At least I’ve been sleeping better, without Magdalena haunting my dreams.

After checking that her diary is still on my nightstand, I take a quick shower and head to the small kitchen. Through the window, I spot Karmela sitting at a table in the yard, wearing a simple blue dress we bought in Zadar the other day. I’m in a new outfit too, a lacy tunic and shorts. A few feet away, Rex lounges in a patch of sunlight. He’s been skittish this past week, but not aggressive. I can’t help but wonder if the house had been affecting his behavior before.

I make myself a cup of Turkish coffee, then join Karmela in the yard. “Good morning,” I say tentatively.

She only nods in response. A note rests on the table between us, Luka’s neat handwriting scrawled across it: Jakov Antić. 10 a.m. A small sprout of hope blooms.

Since the fire, Luka has been searching for housing options for Karmela. She made it clear she has no interest in rebuilding. I suspect she believes nothing could ever compare to what was lost, and Luka admitted that rebuilding would take a long time. So he began asking around, seeing if anyone had a home for sale.

Despite Magdalena’s disappearance, the islanders remain wary. More than once, Luka told us he was certain someone had a house on the market, only for them to suddenly change their mind about selling once they learned who was interested.

But last night, an elderly man named Jakov visited the guesthouse where we’re staying, asking to see Magdalena’s diary. One of the names I read aloud at the gala from the ledger of people she had healed belonged to his family. When I showed him the book, he stared at the name for a long time before revealing that he took care of a home that used to belong to his brother, who now lived in the US. He’d been meaning to sell it but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. He just needed to talk to his wife first.

The note must be a good sign. I check my phone for the time—ten o’clock is only thirty minutes away.

“How are you doing?” I ask Karmela, sipping my coffee. Sunlight spills over her face, casting shadows that deepen the lines of her wrinkles.

She gives me a wan smile that quickly shifts into a grimace. “Fine.” Her eyes flit over the fence, in the direction of where Lavender House once stood. The faint smell of smoke still lingers in the air. My throat tightens, as it has all week whenever I’ve tried to summon the courage to apologize. But something always stopped me—fear of amplifying her sadness, bad timing, or the gnawing dread that she won’t forgive me, never will.

But now, with my job taken care of, I feel a little braver. I can’t put it off any longer. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I’m sorry, about everything that happened.”

She gazes into her coffee, saying nothing. A knot of shame forms in my belly at her lack of response. Just as I’m about to return inside, she replies, “I read the diary.”

I grip my mug, unsure if I heard correctly. “You did?”

She nods. “Last night. After you went to bed.”

A solemn expression sweeps over her face as she goes on. “I should have listened to you about Magdalena and Nikola. To be honest . . . I always suspected there was something dark in our family’s past. I heard the screams whenever I went near the workshop, as did Marija. And when I was a young girl, I often had bad dreams, felt a pressure on my chest.” She places a hand over her heart, as if recalling the feeling. “But I was taught not to ask questions, to believe that all we needed was to have faith in God, and He would protect us. Marija always struggled with this and often questioned me, but I told her not to worry. Then after Jadran died, she . . . broke down. She didn’t know who to listen to—the villagers who called us cursed, or me, who said we weren’t.” Karmela bows her head. “When she couldn’t take it anymore, she left.”

I sit up straighter, taking this all in. My mom’s silence about the past and her lie about Karmela’s death must’ve been her protecting me—she didn’t want me to get too curious about this place and come. The last of the anger and bitterness I carried here fades, replaced by a quiet melancholy. Finally, I understand her, better than I ever have.

“With Marija gone,” Karmela continues, “my life was gray. Who could love me when my own daughter abandoned me? I had no purpose, no real life. I was just . . . waiting for death. But when I met you, everything changed.” Her eyes gleam as they meet mine. “You gave me hope again, a chance for family, for love. I didn’t want to lose you. I was afraid that if I admitted we might truly be cursed, it would scare you off.

“But I see now that I was wrong,” she goes on. “By hiding my own suspicions, not listening to you, I only repeated the mistakes of my past. I hurt you just like I hurt Marija. If I had listened and spoken more honestly, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way.” She pauses, her gaze dropping to the table. “I understand if you’re angry and want to leave like your mother did. You don’t need to stay for me. I will endure this pain, as I did before.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy with sadness as her features harden into a mask of strength. Gone is the grandmother I’d come to love, replaced by the widowed stranger from my first day.

“Nana.” I grasp her hand. “I’m not leaving.”

She watches me warily, not letting her guard down. “What about your job? In California?”

“I quit.”

Her brows shoot up in surprise. “What will you do?”