by Kelly Powell
Above the harbor, the smart cobbled streets of Lochlan stretch out before us. Shoving both hands in his pockets, Flint asks, “Where to?”
“Well, I’m off to the library,” I tell him. “You’re free to do what you like.”
“The library? Oh, I see. Real important business, that.”
“Yes,” I say. “Though not any real business of yours.”
He scuffs the toe of his boot on the pavement. “So what am I meant to do?” His voice sounds a little accusing.
“Explore, Mr. Flint,” I say, leaning into our island accent. “May you discover all the truths and treasures of Twillengyle.” I curtsy to him.
“Clear off,” he says. “And be quick about it.”
“A good day to you, also!” I call back, grinning, already heading into town.
I haven’t been to Lochlan since last summer, yet not much has changed since. Twillengyle Council sees the town as the island’s gateway to tourism, and it shows in the even cobblestones, the curbs swept clean of dead leaves and debris. The shops are neat as chocolate boxes, the public houses freshly painted. It’s a world away from Dunmore, made pretty for the sightseers, so they might overlook the unsightly.
Blood billowing up around the harbor isn’t illustrated in the brochures.
I make my way through the downtown to the library. It’s relatively new, this library—only fifty years old or so. It takes up the space of two terraced houses, the first floor for literature and nonfiction from the mainland, the second floor for old documents concerning the island.
I sign in at the front desk and head up the stairwell. Weak light filters past the cloud cover and through the windows, streaking across the steps. I’ve always thought it a sort of magic—dust suspended in the sunlight, the creak of floorboards, the smell of leather polish and yellowing book pages—and I guess it rather is.
In the archive, there are shelves upon shelves of historical documents: Council rulings, old diaries, lighthouse logbooks. The siren records crowd several bookcases, detailing when islanders and tourists alike strayed too close and were taken in by their song.
There are also records of the hunts. Conducted for sport or for vengeance, they cast a long and bloody mark upon our island. The hunting ban is what brought it to a stop. Sirens made their home here just as we did, and by killing them we were only killing a part of the island, a part of ourselves.
It was not a decision made without consequences.
The death records are categorized by year. Out of some perverse sense of curiosity—for I’ve never looked before—I pull free the book documenting victims from seven years ago. Flipping to the month of June, I stare down at the names printed there.
Llyr Osric, aged 38
Pearl Osric, aged 38
Emmeline Osric, aged 16
The three were taken from their boat off the coast of Dunmore. They are survived by twelve-year-old Jude Osric, who reported the incident.
I trace over the letters, a lump forming in my throat. Three islanders taken in one fell swoop is nigh on unheard of. We’re raised on cautionary tales, given cold iron to keep in our pockets. We take heed because we know the hazards. Plenty around Dunmore were aware of the work my father conducted, Llyr Osric alongside him. They supposed it was inevitable one of them should meet their fate in this manner.
My insides pinch. I set the book back on its shelf, reaching for the most current records. Last year two tourists were dragged from Lochlan Harbor, and Iona Knox, who I’d seen quite regularly at the dance hall, was lost to siren song while offshore, north of Dunmore. I call to mind Warren Knox as I saw him at the harbor. Iona had been his younger sister. She was taken in much the same manner as the Osrics, stolen away into the depths. None of the reports I come across mention anyone left on the shore with their throat cut like Connor Sheahan.
In the current book, his entry is only a handwritten slip of paper, attached to the page, waiting to be added to the list. I’ve half a mind to tear it out.
Few islanders have fallen prey to sirens in recent years. Yet Connor’s death was made to reflect their attacks—surely his killer must resent them for some past sorrow?
I close the book, abruptly unsettled. I’d yet to give much regard to the closeness of this murder. Whoever committed the act, that person is out there now, walking the very streets of Dunmore—a familiar face, someone I may well have spoken to.
A shiver creeps over my spine.
With great haste, I leave the library, seized by a desperate need to be back in Dunmore. I step out onto the rain-dappled street, not bothering to open my umbrella. A gaggle of tourists jostle me, and I bare my teeth in a snarl, my pulse tripping even as they flinch away. I find Flint conversing with a girl on the steps to the hotel. Whatever he sees on my face has him cutting the conversation short, and in the next breath he’s at my side.
“Time to leave,” I tell him.
Only once I reach the harbor and am clambering into his boat do I look back at Lochlan, allowing my mind to wonder just what I’ve gotten Jude and myself into.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE NEXT MORNING I walk across the moors to find Jude Osric standing near the cliff’s edge. His cloth cap casts a shadow over his eyes, his head bent as he stares down the crag as though contemplating the long drop into the sea. He clutches a little slip of paper, and as I watch him, his lips move, mouthing words I cannot hear.
In Twillengyle, they say the sea can grant wishes. If you want something desperately enough. If you turn out your secrets in a whisper.
Jude tosses the paper over the cliff, and I wonder what secrets he has to give.
My boots sink into the damp grass, and Jude turns, taking his cap in hand. All the things I thought to say in this moment vanish as we regard each other. The wind tangles his hair, tugs at his wool sweater, and I wish I could wipe clean the memory of that cold and darkened cell, of the bars that kept him from the world.
He says, “Hello, Moira.”
“You should’ve told me.” I swallow. “You should’ve knocked on my door as soon as you were out of there.”
His mouth curves in a half smile. “You’re glad to see me, then?”
“Very much so.”
He looks away, cheeks pink. Below us, the sea is restless and alive, churning against the weather-beaten rocks. I study the froth and spray of the waves, hesitant to speak of my visit to Lochlan. Now is the time to step back, to keep myself from Jude Osric as I’ve kept myself from the dance hall—lest I bring about more damage, lest guilt shred me to pieces.
I’ve already withheld plenty from him.
The wind pushes at my back, daring me forward.
I can’t do this alone.
“Jude,” I say, “I have something to tell you.”
* * *
Jude listens as I recount my afternoon in Lochlan Library. He leans back against the kitchen counter, rubbing a hand over the nape of his neck. “You’ve made a suspect list?”
I set my hand atop a chair back. Looking down, I grimace upon noticing an ink spot on the cuff of my printed dress. “One name is not a list,” I say, raising my eyes to Jude’s.
“Warren Knox.” His brow creases as he shifts his gaze. “I’ve gutted fish next to him. I can’t imagine he’d kill anyone, much less Connor.”
“Well,” I reply, a little snappish, “my apologies, if it’s not to your liking—”
A sudden ringing pierces the air, and the two of us freeze. We both recognize the sound. The alarm bells go off only when sirens are spotted near the harbor. I dash over to the window, but at ground level, the cliff is too sheer to see what’s going on. When I turn around, Jude is right behind me, biting his lip as he tries to peer down to the docks.
The ringing continues, over and over, terrifically loud. I meet Jude’s eye. “I need to see what’s happening.”
He doesn’t argue. Perhaps he realizes it would be pointless.
We hurry outside, and beyond the walls of the keeper’s cottage, t
he alarm sounds a clear warning. Keep away. Leave the area. Danger. I carry on despite it, approaching the cliff’s edge. By the beach, the harbor front is a blur of movement, but when I scour the water, there’s no flash of silvery-white skin, no shadows circling beneath the waves. I make a start for the pathway.
“Moira,” Jude says, “don’t. They know what they’re doing. The sirens…”
“They’ve gone,” I say shortly.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
He’s silent at that. Like so many islanders, Jude thinks all he need ever know is to keep charms of protection on his person and a safe distance if he could help it.
The alarm cuts off as suddenly as it began. I give Jude a wry grin. “Come on.”
We head down the crag’s winding path toward the harbor. It’s silent apart from the soft hush of waves, my breath fogging the air, Jude’s footsteps behind me. There’s a group of men huddled together, their expressions sharp and furious, but their voices are too low for me to catch any of the conversation. I frown at the sight of several rusted cans along one pier.
Grabbing one of the nearest dock workers, I ask, “What’s happened? Was someone attacked?”
The boy grins. He’s young, fifteen or sixteen, his waistcoat unbuttoned and frayed over a rumpled shirt. “Shouldn’t be down here, miss. Didn’t you hear the alarms?”
I glance again at the huddled crowd, before leveling the boy with my best glare. “Answer me.”
He leans over and spits onto the dock. “Nah, no attacks,” he says. “They didn’t get a chance, you see. With the stuff Russell poured into the water—I think he killed a couple.”
My fingers slacken on his shirt collar. “What?”
“Someone gave him cans of the old poison. When the sirens showed up, he tipped it right over the pier. Look…” He points to the group, and this time, when I really look at them, I see they’re not gathered together, but gathered around something. I let my hand fall from the boy’s collar, and Jude catches hold of my wrist.
“Moira.” His voice is tentative, almost a whisper. He doesn’t know which is the better option—to pull me back or to let me step into the dark. I wrench away from him.
My legs feel unsteady, pins-and-needles numb, and the crash of my heartbeat is louder than any alarm as I push through the mass of people. It’s a lie, I think wildly, because killing sirens is forbidden; there’s a ban in place. They’re meant to be protected.
I find them laid out on the dock.
Two of them, still and white, their limbs splayed over the wood. A greasy sheen stains the water lapping at the edge of the pier. All the pieces are there, but my mind can’t make sense of it. I’m shaking so badly; I wrap my arms around my waist, hoping to keep myself together. This isn’t right. This isn’t supposed to happen.
“Where’s Russell?” I ask. Then again, “Where’s Russell?”
He’s easy to spot in the end, because he’s the one being scolded. One of the older fishermen has a firm grip on his arm, but that doesn’t stop me from going over and slapping him.
“What have you done?” I snarl.
He bares his teeth. He isn’t much older than me—but he looks it now. There’s a red mark forming on his cheek where I hit him, and veins trace the whites of his eyes. Prison will age him further.
“You care about a couple of monsters, Miss Alexander?”
“You’ve just made yourself a criminal.” Rage burns in my chest, enough to make me want to smack him a second time. “Seems to me you’re the only monster here.”
“They killed Connor Sheahan,” says Russell. He shrugs one shoulder, careless, like this is a victory. “Would’ve taken one of us here probably. I was getting back our own.”
“Where did you get the cans?”
Siren poison is tricky to come by these days. Most of the cans were disposed of after the hunting ban was enacted, the remainder kept in police possession. Yet some, I know, are still tucked away in households. Just in case, they say. Just a precaution.
Russell’s smile is despicable. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Thoughts of Connor’s murderer bleed into the moment. If they wish to blame the sirens, this is just the way to do it. Even when the police took it upon themselves to reopen the case, to arrest Jude Osric—no one at the harbor believes Connor was killed by human hands.
My pulse jumps, and I ask, “Who gave them to you, Russell?”
Still smiling, he shakes his head. “None of your business.”
I’m cut off from questioning him further by the arrival of Detective Thackery and two officers. The officers handle Russell roughly, handcuffing him, while Thackery surveys the docks as if he’s taking a count of everyone present. His eyes meet mine, and I try to make my gaze as fierce as possible. The police should’ve been able to stop this. This is their job. Enforce the ban, protect the sirens—that’s what they’re meant to do.
Thackery and his men lead Russell from the harbor, and the fishermen begin discussing how they’ll clean the polluted water. I turn to see where Jude has disappeared to. He’s still standing by the dead sirens, his skin nearly as pale as theirs. As I head toward him, he stumbles a little, catching his heel on an upturned slant of wood. Then he kneels and retches over the side of the pier. Warren Knox leans down, asking if he’s all right.
A part of me wonders at it, the intensity of this reaction—the same part that knows of Jude’s dislike for the sirens. Russell is not the only person who considers them monsters. I wouldn’t have guessed Jude Osric would be sick upon seeing their corpses. Perhaps it’s more the violence of the situation that churns his stomach.
He rests his forehead on his knees. “I’m fine,” he says quietly.
Warren shakes his head. “It’s a terrible bit of business.” His voice is rough, his eyes fixed on the harbor steps where the police and Russell are making their way up. When he catches sight of me, he touches his cap, before starting back toward the other fishermen.
I feel numb even as cold wind blows in off the sea. I can’t think of anything other than Russell tipping poison into the water, alarm bells ringing, sirens choking, dying, their bodies dragged up from the waves. Jude straightens and lays a hand flat over his sweater.
“We need to visit the Sheahans,” I tell him.
If Russell killed those sirens on Connor’s behalf, it’s high time we pay them a visit.
So close to the beach, everything looks colorless and damp. The cliff rises above us, a wall of jutting rock and mossy outcrops. There are crevices as well, good for hiding, for watching the sirens unseen. Russell’s impetuosity reminds me how humans can be just as dangerous.
Sometimes I imagine Twillengyle as the ebb and flow of the sea. Kept in a pattern of bloodshed and carrying on despite it, cleaning its wounds with each coming tide. Not all the wounds are neatly mended, or ever heal completely, but the traditions carry on and the islanders carry on and Twillengyle survives.
Jude says, “Right now?”
I stare out at the sea, a gray expanse stretching toward the horizon. “Get yourself cleaned up,” I tell him. “Then we’re going.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE SHEAHANS ARE one of the families who live on the far side of Dunmore, a ways from the harbor and the cliffs, so it’s a bit of a walk to get there. We’re silent for most of the way, the both of us still fixated on the events of this morning. I can see it in Jude’s expression, ragged and gaunt, and I find it strangely reassuring. I don’t think I could bear it if Jude approved of Russell’s actions. He concentrates on the trail, humming an old island tune. The rhythm of it sticks in my head, until he steps into a puddle and the hum breaks off. He says, “I don’t recall their house being this far off.”
“It’s just up here.”
“And what are we to say to them, Moira? You want to tell them about Russell?”
“They’re bound to hear it from someone, if not us.”
Jude frowns, casting his eyes do
wn. “I can’t believe he did it,” he whispers.
In my mind I see Russell’s vicious grin once more.
I can’t remember the last time someone violated the ban. It’s a guaranteed prison sentence; as long as there are witnesses, the guilty party is nearly always convicted. Killing two sirens—alongside his possession of siren poison—will put Russell behind bars for quite some time.
You care about a couple of monsters, Miss Alexander?
The important question is: How long will the Council care? If a dock worker with no close ties to the Sheahans felt the need to attack the sirens, what’s the rest of the island thinking? I used to have such faith in the ban. It was my father’s endeavor, and once in place, I thought it unshakable.
Now I fear even those hard-won promises might fall to ruin.
I say, “What if whoever killed Connor gave Russell those cans?”
Jude scratches an eyebrow, looking puzzled. “Why would they do that? Russell could’ve gotten that stuff anywhere.”
“Not anywhere.” I bite my bottom lip. “That poison should be locked away in police stations, town hall, buried under floorboards. There’s no reason for people to have it with the ban.”
“There’s cans in the lighthouse,” says Jude. When I look over, he hastens to add, “I haven’t had a chance to get rid of them. My uncle—”
I scowl. “Those sirens paid for a death they had no part in.”
“I know.” He sounds honest, but exhausted, and I recall the way he looked down at the dead sirens, shaky and pale-faced.
The dirt path curves ahead of us, flickers of sunlight catching on the fallen leaves at our feet. With a sigh, I say, “We’ll have to ask Mr. Sheahan about that day.”
“Moira.” Jude hesitates, before continuing. “Remember to be kind to them. They’re still under the impression Connor was lost to sirens.”
