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I had absolutely no idea how to respond. I’d never heard an adult speak about another adult in such a condescending manner, as though she was a mere child. Bernadette may have been Ostara’s niece, but she was a full-grown woman, probably around my mother’s age. I ignored Ostara’s comment and smiled at Bernadette again, trying to tell her without words that I didn’t mind that she hadn’t shaken my hand. Ostara, meanwhile, went on.
“Our sincerest condolences on the loss of your grandmother,” she said. “I’ve known Asteria all my life. We grew up together as girls. Sedgwick Cove will not be the same without her.”
“Thank you,” I replied, my cheeks flaming. I had never felt so awkward in my life. It felt like I should be apologizing to Ostara for her loss, not the other way around. After all, she had clearly known Asteria much better than I did.
Ostara gave me one last piercing look, and then returned her attention to Bernadette, who was still gawking unabashedly at me. “Well, Bernadette, go on then. Give her the painting.”
Bernadette looked down at the brown paper-wrapped package tucked under her arm as though she had quite forgotten it was there. “I… I’m not sure if I…”
“Bernadette, for heaven’s sake, we did not bring it all the way down here for you to change your mind now,” Ostara snapped.
Bernadette was still looking at me as she pulled the painting carefully from under her arm and took it into both hands, which were now shaking. Phoebe was looking uncomfortable now.
“Bernadette, if you’re uncomfortable, the exhibition has plenty of pieces. We don’t have to—”
“Yes, we do,” Ostara said sharply. “We do have to. This is an exhibition of the art of Sedgwick Cove. Bernadette is a prominent artist from a founding family, and this show would be incomplete without her work. Bernadette, give her the painting. Now.”
Ostara’s tone was so commanding that Bernadette had no choice. Still looking at me with unmistakable fear in her eyes, she reached past me and handed the painting to Phoebe, who took it rather reluctantly, laid it on the work table, and began to carefully unwrap it. I couldn’t help but lean forward as the paper was pulled away, and the painting revealed.
Like many of the other paintings, it was a rendering of the beach with the lighthouse in the distance, a storm gathering on the horizon beyond frothing waters. I stepped closer to it, transfixed, the hairs on my arms standing up.
A little girl in a white summer dress stood in the surf up to her knees, hair whipping around her face, which was hidden as it gazed out over the water. One tiny hand was held out to the side, as though reaching for someone else’s hand.
“Well, what do you think?” Ostara said, her sudden question startling me so that I jumped. “Isn’t my niece a talented artist?”
“I… she… yes, she is,” I stammered. It was true. The entire painting seemed tobreathe, the waves a second away from crashing, the clouds from rumbling with thunder. But it wasn’t Bernadette’s obvious skill that had my heart leaping against my rib cage and my palms sweating. It was the fact that she had seemingly reached into my head and plucked my childhood nightmare from my subconscious.
The dream of the Gray Man.
And yet the place where the Gray Man ought to have stood was empty—the little girl reached out for a hand that was not there. I stared at it, as though expecting him to materialize beside her on the canvas, but of course that was absurd. Shaken, I tore my eyes from the image to look at Bernadette again. She was still staring at me with an almost fearful expression.
She knows,a voice in my head whispered.She knows about the dream. About the Gray Man.
“It is stunning,” Phoebe’s voice broke in, popping the moment like a soap bubble and startling me back to the present, where Ostara was nodding her approval.
“Yes, she truly does excellent work. All of her mentors have said so. And so, you see, this exhibit would be incomplete without her contribution. The ClairesareSedgwick Cove.”
Her eyes flicked to me at these last words, almost defiantly, like she thought I might contradict her. When I didn’t, she nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Very well, then. We’ll let you get back to work. Thank you again for your patience, Phoebe. It was a pleasure to meet you, Wren,” Ostara said, though her slightly cool tone suggested that the word “pleasure” might be a bit of an exaggeration.
“You, too,” I managed before she turned and swept from the gallery. Bernadette hesitated only a moment before tearing her eyes from me and scurrying out after her aunt.
Phoebe was clucking her tongue in disapproval. “I wish she’d handle that girl with a bit more care. She’s been through a lot, Bernadette has,” she said as she carried the painting to its prepared place on the wall. She hung it carefully and stepped back to admire it with an almost misty expression.
Suddenly, I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as that painting a second longer. I said a hasty thank you to Phoebe in what I hoped was a cheerful voice, but it wasn’t until I stepped back outside into the sunshine that I felt like I could take a proper breath again.
Calm down. That painting could be of anyone. It’s not you. It’s some girl on a beach. Get a grip, Wren,I thought to myself, repeating it over and over again, each repetition expelling a bit more of the strange, almost sick feeling the painting had given me, until at last I was free of it.You’re tired, and the last twenty-four hours have been an emotional roller coaster. That’s the only reason you’re reacting like this. People can’t just paint other people’s dreams. It’s a coincidence; stop being paranoid.I took one last deep breath, shook my head to clear it, and then started off again down the sidewalk. I needed a distraction.
I wandered into an antique shop next. There were two women behind the counter drinking tea and chatting. I nodded in silent greeting to them as I passed, and one of them raised a hand in acknowledgment. I noticed a black ribbon tied around her wrist, just as Phoebe and Ostara had worn. A quick glance at her companion’s wrist confirmed that she was wearing one as well.
It happened again and again, shop after shop: black ribbons tied around the wrists of the people behind the counters or manning the registers. I even spotted them on people in the street, including a woman who passed by walking her dog. I’d heard of people tying black bands around their arms as a sign of mourning; was it possible half this town was wearing these ribbons out of respect for Asteria? And not only that, but it seemed that many of these people recognized me somehow. Total strangers were waving solemnly at me. An elderly lady on a mobility scooter shouted, “Welcome home!” at me as she puttered past. I felt like I was living in an episode of Black Mirror and was just starting to think about heading back to Lightkeep Cottage when I looked up and saw a sign over a bright red door painted with colorful flowers. It read, “Xiomara’s Cuban Cafe.”
I blinked, remembering suddenly Aunt Rhi’s package sitting in my bag, and realizing that this was the place I was meant to drop it off. Also, the smells coming from inside instantly made my mouth water, and I realized I was famished. I pushed the door open and walked inside.
The cafe was tiny. Wooden benches were built along two sides with small tables pushed up to them and a long counter across the back separating the kitchen from the dining area. I didn’t imagine more than a dozen people could eat inside at once. The decor was a combination of sprawling potted plants, brightly framed prints of beautiful island beaches, and shelves crowded with candles in tall glass jars painted with brightly colored images of saints. Three kids about my age were hanging out at the counter, one leaning on it, one sitting on it, and one standing behind it, at the register. They all looked up and stared at me as I walked in. I noted with a sense of relief that none of them were wearing the black ribbons. The girl behind the counter shooed the other two away as I approached.
“Get off there, or my abuela will kill you,” she muttered, shoving at the boy.
