by Kelly Powell
I make sure to study Nell as he speaks. She blinks back at me, brow furrowed.
Thackery narrows his eyes. “This is a serious matter, Mr. Osric. If you wish, I could have some officers investigate the incident further.”
“No.” Jude shakes his head. “Thank you for your concern, sir, but that won’t be necessary. I’d rather put the whole thing behind me, to be honest.”
“That’s one way of dealing, I suppose.” Thackery straightens his coat before glancing back at Nell. “Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Bracken.”
From the front step, I see the soft line of her smile. “It was no trouble, Detective.”
Thackery takes his leave, and Nell comes forward to usher us into the house, talking all the while. “What’s that about your lighthouse, Wick? You haven’t been getting into trouble, have you? Goodness, you haven’t visited us in such a long while. Would you like a cup of tea? Imogen! Put the kettle on!”
Nell walks us through the hall into the drawing room. I remember times when Jude and I had visited and been afraid of knocking something over. There are cabinets full of books and crockery, tables laden with knickknacks. I skirt around the maze of it to sit on the sofa near the bay windows, looking out at the open fields behind the house. Jude sits beside me, eyes searching the room. He puts his hands between his knees as if to keep from disturbing the surroundings.
When Nell joins us, it’s with a tea set and Imogen Bracken in tow. They take seats on the opposite sofa, and Nell spends a few moments fussing over tea. She seems pleased at the very sight of us, while Imogen looks sullen—like we are a bother to her, arriving unannounced. She is the elder sister, I know. The both of them are in their forties, and they’re graceful and tall, fair-skinned and dark-haired.
“Is there a reason for this visit?” Imogen asks.
Jude looks to me. Clutching my teacup, I say, “Jude’s front door was marred the other day. We were wondering if either of you saw anything.”
Nell tsks. “When was this? We were at work for most of the day.”
“Detective Thackery mentioned something of that nature,” says Imogen, nodding. “Probably just some little urchins having a go at you, Wick. I’d pay no mind to it.”
Jude nods. He stares down into his tea, expression pensive.
I drag my attention back to the sisters. I can’t tell whether or not they’re lying.
“We were both elsewhere at the time,” I say, careful with my words. “I thought it would be charitable to visit Russell Hendry. It’s a wonder, isn’t it, how he got ahold of that poison?”
“Hendry?” Imogen snorts. “What a disaster. Thinks himself a saint, I bet. He’ll change his tune once the trial’s over.”
“Unpleasant business,” Nell adds. Her fingers skim the edge of her teacup. With a shake of her head, she shifts topic. “Have you seen the garden? The lilies are still doing well.”
“Yes,” I say. “Lovely. Now, are you quite—”
“Already feels like October,” she continues. “End of the harvest. Will you be playing at the festival, Moira dear?”
Jude says, “She’ll be playing this weekend,” and it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile all morning.
Even Imogen’s interest seems piqued by this. Nell grins, delighted. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she says. “We’ll most definitely be there for that.”
Jude wasn’t wrong when he said people would come just to hear me play.
“Right,” says Imogen, setting down her teacup, “this has all been very nice, but my sister and I have to be getting to work.”
I clench my teeth. Not yet, not yet. We still have no answers, nothing to indicate the Brackens’ innocence or guilt. It could be them. It could be them…
Whereas Nell ushered us in, Imogen is the one to see us out. I’m rattled by the speed of it. We snatch our coats, then find ourselves back on the cottage’s front step.
Jude eyes the closed door. He says, “That didn’t go at all well.”
I grab him by the sleeve, pulling him away.
“It’s fine,” I say. “You can question them at the dance.”
He looks out across the hillsides to his lighthouse. A breeze cuts past us, sweeping over the moors. “Why has it got to be me?” he asks.
“You don’t expect me to interrogate people and play violin at the same time, do you?”
“I suppose not.”
We reach the keeper’s cottage, and the door is freshly painted, bright blue and marvelous. A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “You’ll be all right,” I say. “You’re Dunmore’s keeper. People trust you.”
Jude looks fairly amused by this assertion.
I think of him sitting down at my kitchen table, graciously exhausted.
The investigation is wearing on him, just as I feel the grit of it behind my eyes. It’s a wheel, circling us, never quite near enough to grasp. I’m left hoping, wondering, reaching for answers. I’ll pry open every secret on the island, if it comes to that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE NIGHT OF THE DANCE, I journey along the path to the lighthouse. The fading light streaks pink and gold across the sky, clouds thinning out above the horizon.
My dark hair is pinned neatly and curled owing to the rags I wore earlier to shape the strands. As I walk, the cool salt wind seems set on undermining my efforts, twisting my hair into a tangle. I swing my violin case from one hand to the other, taking pleasure in how the wind sweeps my long coat back, fluttering at the ends of my dress.
Tonight the island is singing.
I near the cliffs and the sea plays its own tune: the soft shhh of waves, water crashing over jagged rocks. Heather bows to the breeze, and it’s all I can do not to unfasten my violin case and start playing where I stand.
Approaching the keeper’s cottage, I admire once more the marks of Jude’s productivity. New brass hinges shine against the door’s blue paint; the front steps are swept clear of debris. I knock against the wood, stepping back to wait.
Jude answers the door still dressed in his work shirt and worn trousers. His eyes widen a fraction, a blush staining his cheeks.
I grin. “Evening, Mr. Osric.”
He swallows hard. “Evening.” He moves back to let me in. After bolting the latch, he turns to face me. “You look beautiful, Moira.”
I take my dress in hand, swishing the fabric back and forth. “I do hope so. This is my best dress.” It’s long and the dark blue color contrasts with my pale skin. The sleeves are short, trimmed with white lace. I’ve sewn beads onto the bodice and the glass sparkles in the low light.
Jude says, “It’s lovely, certainly,” before looking elsewhere. He leads me into the kitchen, where an ironing board occupies the floor space between table and counter. He holds up the stiff white shirt laid across it, running his fingers over the sleeves, checking for wrinkles. His touch is careful, as though he handles something finer than cotton.
I set my violin case on the table. My father’s books are stacked there in a pile. Volumes I don’t recognize are scattered over the counter, and I guess Jude has brought out Llyr Osric’s records too.
In the past dance nights were a great, joyful, chaotic affair between our two families. No matter if the Osrics came to our house, or we Alexanders found ourselves walking over to the keeper’s cottage, my father would take up his fiddle and start playing in the kitchen. Emmeline would tug Jude into a dance. He’d catch hold of my hand, so it was the three of us all together.
The memories are easy to sink into, mesmerizing as siren song.
Jude continues ironing his shirt, his face pink from the heat. I tell him, “Just put it on already. We haven’t got all night.”
He nods dutifully and heads upstairs. I open one of the books nearest me, flipping through the pages. Inside, there’s a copy of an old petition, listing names of those against the hunting ban. A door opens and closes above, and I look in the direction of the hall as Jude’s footsteps sound on the stairs.
He appears in the doorway dressed in his dark suit and trousers. He fidgets with his cuff links, and I clear my throat to get his attention.
“Have you seen this?” I ask, pointing to the petition. “If someone’s looking to dismantle the ban, they might be on this list.”
Jude frowns down at the page. “There’s more than a hundred names here, Moira.”
“We’ll have to go through it later.”
He smooths a hand over his lapel, his gaze shifting to meet mine. That night, walking back from the pub, we’d stood just this close. I remember reaching up to fix his collar, and I itch to trace the line of it now.
“You look very handsome in that suit,” I say.
Jude turns red-faced and flustered at the compliment. He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, I step away. “We better hurry,” I tell him. “We’re going to be late.”
Out on the moors, I look toward the cliff’s edge. The sun has set, bands of burning red accentuating the western skyline. I breathe in the salt air, the smell of earth and dried leaves. I feel Jude’s presence beside me, the leather of my violin case warming my palm. The evening quiet surrounds us. There’s anticipation in it, an expectant energy that twists with the wind, over the hillsides. Tonight I’ll set the hall in motion as I haven’t done in years. I’ll give the island my music—and it will sing.
* * *
From a block away I hear the sound of people gathered outside the dance hall. Once we turn the corner, light and color spill out from the doorway and onto the street. Someone calls my name, but I can’t tell who. I spot councilors, namely Thomas Earl and Calum Bryce, mingling with the crowd.
Warren Knox is among them, his back to me. He turns as though sensing my gaze, and I stare back, jaw clenched. He ducks his head, disappearing into the hall.
I look to Jude. “I’ll see you in the break, all right?”
He nods, distracted. His eyes survey the street before looking my way. “Good luck tonight, Moira.”
The words amuse me. “You need it more than I do.”
“Suppose so.” His smile is winsome in the lamplight. “Associating with murder suspects.”
“Warren Knox is here. Keep an eye out for the Brackens.”
“Will do.”
I squeeze his arm, reassuring, then head around the side of the building. As I enter the back room, heat rushes over me, prickling my skin. Peter and Bree stand near the desk, murmuring to each other. Flint sits on the piano bench, piecing his flute together.
“We thought you weren’t going to turn up,” he says.
“Well, I’m here now.” I set my violin case on a chair. “I’d be perfectly on time if I weren’t waiting for Jude-takes-all-the-time-in-the-world-Osric.”
Straightening up, Flint looks me in the eye. “Osric? You came here with Wick?”
Before I can snap back at him, Peter points at Flint from across the room. “Don’t start anything,” he says in warning.
“Aye, aye,” Flint mutters. He cuts his gaze back down, seemingly chastened.
I take out my bow to rosin it, rubbing the block over the hair from end to end. I take out my violin, tuning it with care.
To make my first violin, my father brought me into the forest to collect the necessary wood. Late-afternoon sunlight winked through the leaves above us, and my heart thrilled when he led me off the beaten path. We hiked through underbrush, deeper and deeper, to where the trees grew thick and close as old neighbors.
“For the neck and back,” he said, “we’ll use maple.”
Chopping spruce for the front, he cured and cut it to size. I watched him work with a knife to carve out a neck and scroll from the maple; I brought my fingers to the instrument in wonder.
“Look now, Moira, and remember,” he told me. “You’ll be crafting the next one.”
After that, he said he’d build me a ship. “But not out of maple and spruce,” he added. “I’ll fashion you a ship from oak and cedar. Wood that can hold off the sea.”
On our next visit to the lighthouse, I showed Jude my fine new violin. I told him I’d take it aboard my future ship of oak and cedar, and his eyebrows pinched together.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
We sat facing each other on the floor of the watch room, and I shifted my gaze to the map of our island on the wall. “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Lots of places.”
“You’ll come back, though, won’t you?”
I put my fingertips to the violin’s strings. They trembled beneath my touch, waiting for the glide of a bow across them. “Yes,” I said in answer. “I’ll always come back.”
He released a breath. “Oh, good.” Then he leaned back on his hands, grinning at me. “I shall keep the light burning to guide you home.”
Now, years later, I’ve neither a ship nor a violin constructed by my father’s hands. The violin I hold is a result of my own labor, my own craft. I knew it when it was only strips of wood, when it still smelled of fresh air and evergreen.
To Peter I say, “Let me play the first few figures.”
He nods, gesturing for me to go on. I carry my violin by the neck, my bow in my other hand. They are extensions of me, light and familiar in my grip. I walk up the steps to stand at center stage, and Bree follows, taking a seat at the piano.
A hush falls over the hall.
The dance floor is packed with islanders, and I look for Jude among them. He stands near the window; when our eyes meet, he tips his chin up, grinning. My pulse soars as I bring the violin to rest on my shoulder. Bree gives me my cue, and I touch bow to strings, sending the first note into the air. It glides out, sharp and true, and I set into something lively, so I might do away with the starch in Jude’s cuffs.
The music lifts to the rafters, clearing the dust from my memories. I stand where my father once played, where I once played, and it’s like rejoining a piece after trailing a full bar behind. Only at a distance do I feel the slow ache of my muscles. I am alive, centered, focused on the notes. Heels click against the floorboards, keeping time.
And surely, surely, surely siren song is something like this. Music that makes my heart sing and call out for something ancient and forever, for the secrets in the deep, in the fog over the moors.
I close my eyes, head tilted to my shoulder. In the dark, I listen to my heartbeat, to the song I weave—for a few precious minutes, nothing exists but that.
I play the last note, and the applause crashes over me.
Opening my eyes, I smile at the crowd, holding my bow out to the side as I dip into a curtsy. I head for the stage steps, cheeks warm. People part in my wake, and I’m quick to place my violin in the back room. After doing so, I move through the sea of islanders, hoping to spot Jude Osric.
Someone taps my shoulder, and I spin to find him standing there. I note his flushed face, his bright eyes, his missing suit jacket—just before he embraces me. I link my arms around him in return, leaning against him, feeling the quick tempo of his heart.
“You were incredible, Moira.” His whisper is a warm breath at my ear. “If I weren’t dancing, I wouldn’t have taken my eyes off you.”
I pull back to look at him proper. He grins, luminous, and I say, “Tell me you haven’t been drinking.”
He bursts out laughing. I revel in the sound—so guileless, so happy. I can’t even recall when last I heard him laugh. “I’m just pleased for you,” he says. “Can’t I be pleased?”
“It isn’t like you’ve never heard me play.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Not like tonight.” He swallows, looking down at me. His dark eyes gleam in the light. “Tonight’s special, Moira.”
Onstage, others take my place. There are Lochlan fiddlers who’ve come to play, a frame drum player from up north. Peter calls to me, questioning, but I wave him off.
Right now I want to dance.
Jude rolls up his sleeves, catching my eye. When he holds out a hand, I grin, clasping it tight. The fiddlers fire straight
into a reel; we whirl onto the dance floor, laughing, our fingers intertwined, Jude’s hand on my waist.
My heart plays its own wild tune. My curls unravel. My feet remember every step. I press close to Jude, gazing up at his face. He smiles back, bright and daring, the way he did when we spun in circles, clutching on to each other, faster and faster until we tumbled into the grass.
He tells me, “I spoke with Imogen Bracken,” and I blink, realizing I’ve forgotten all about our suspects.
“What did she have to say?”
“I asked if she was hoping the ban would be lifted.” He pauses for a moment’s consideration. The music swells, and the shoes of other dancers clatter in rhythm. “She seemed pretty indifferent either way. She didn’t take part in the initial opposition.”
“And Nell? I thought she’d be here. Did Imogen tell you where she was?”
“Waiting for a suitor apparently.” Jude wiggles his eyebrows. He lifts our joined hands, twirling me.
Once we’ve resumed, I ask, “What about Warren?”
“I talked to him, yes. He’s all for keeping the ban in place.”
“He could be lying.”
I look around and everything comes to me in flashes. The flutter of a dress. Hands tangled together. A smile in a man’s sea-wrinkled face.
Jude says, “We can check the petition to see if he’s on it.”
At those words I wish we were already back at the lighthouse. We could be assessing suspects, cross-referencing them with that list of names.
Though Gabriel Flint isn’t old enough to be on a petition made ten years back.
From the stage, the fiddlers’ reel bleeds out to become a waltz. Our steps slow.
“I didn’t get a chance to speak with Flint,” I say.
Jude bows his head. “We have the rest of the night.”
When the musicians break, Peter Atherton heads through the crowd in our direction. I’m ready to take up my violin again, but he sets his sights on Jude instead. His expression is pensive, worry knotted into his brow.
“Wick,” he says, “someone ought to tell you… You ought to know…”
