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“I would, but I didn’t sleep well last night and have a headache I haven’t been able to shake all day. I think I’m going to go to bed early and try to sleep it off.” Even though both things are true, the words still turn my stomach sour. I’m not helping Ivy because I’m planning to search for answers in a place she would never approve of. And I can’t tell her that.
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” she says, stopping at her front steps. “Let me know how you feel in the morning, and if your headache is still around, I’ll make you a pain reliever.”
“You’re too good to me,” I say, and she wraps her arm around my shoulders.
“I think I’m just good enough.” She gives me a quick hug, then heads up her steps. “See you tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder.
I’m thankful for the walk home, for a few minutes to myself before I sit through another meal with my parents. The truth can’t possibly be as bad as the not knowing, and once the question is answered, I can move on. Maybe that’s what I’ve needed this whole time—the closure Ivy was so sure I was seeking. Maybe this has nothing to do with Wolfe and everything to do with a toxic flower that didn’t hurt to touch.
Mom grabs sandwiches from the deli on the way home, and we have an easy dinner that is free of any tension or concern from my parents.
“Good news,” Mom says, looking up from her meal. “We’ll be getting our final shipment of lumber from the mainland this week. By this time next month, any trace of the dock fire will be gone.”
“That is good news,” I say, but replacing the scorched lumber isn’t enough to make any of us forget what it was like to see our docks go up in flames—the fear that followed, the absolute terror that time was shifting backward. No one was killed, which was the only good thing about that day.
“Do you think maybe we should keep a single burned plank as a way to remember?” I ask.
My parents look at me. “That’s an interesting idea. What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure. I just think that maybe the reminder is good that we have to look out for ourselves instead of relying entirely on the mainland. Erasing it feels like resignation, like we’re okay with the fact that this happened. Just because we practice weaker magic doesn’t mean we must be weak.”
“We could keep the burned wood in a discreet place, too, so it wouldn’t draw the eyes of tourists. But I like your idea, Tana—I’ll run it by the council,” Mom says.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. There’s something to it.”
I smile and finish my meal as my parents chat about other things.
Once we’re done eating, I clear the dishes and go to my room. I sit on my window seat, looking out at the Passage, rolling Landon’s sea glass around in my hand, my fingers used to its sharp edges by now.
I listen as my parents make their way up the steps and into their room, and slowly, the house begins to settle. I throw a thick sweater over my day dress, and when I’m sure my parents are sleeping, I sneak out of the house.
I wish I were harvesting with Ivy right now, seeing all the plants and flowers in the moonlight, a wholly different experience from harvesting under the sun. But I know I will never get the closure I need unless my questions about the moonflower are answered, and so I walk through the darkness to the western shore and call for Wolfe one last time.
twenty-one
Wolfe walks out of the water and slowly makes his way up the shore to where I’m standing. It is almost a full moon again, and I can’t believe the ways in which my life has changed since the last one. So many things I didn’t know then, so many questions I didn’t have.
“Do you always travel by water?” I ask.
“Yes. We can’t use the streets.” He mutters the worddryunder his breath, and his soaking-wet clothing dries instantly. He’s wearing trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt that hugs his body, and I try not to notice the way the fabric pulls across his chest as he moves.
“Two nights in a row,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I asked my mother about the moonflower,” I say. A mild breeze rolls in from the sea, and I wrap my arms around my chest.
“And?”
“She told me the same thing I’ve been taught my whole life:that if I were to touch one, I would experience pain like nothing else, and then I’d die.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Here I am,” I say. “She doesn’t know the truth, and I don’t want to keep wondering about it. That’s why I’m here.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Believe what?”
