A burning fury rises inside me at seeing Davis. But there’s nothing I can do.
Rose wouldn’t be on the pier anyway, not with Davis strutting around. She’s probably back at Heath’s house, but I don’t know where he lives—and I’m not about to ask around and make myself known. So I hurry back to the marina before Davis sees me, and I motor across the harbor to the island.
FORETELLING
A woman stepped through the door of the Swan Perfumery early one morning on a Thursday, a week after the sisters’ night at the tavern.
Aurora was sweeping the shop floor, Marguerite was leaning against the counter daydreaming about a boy she had seen working the rigging on a ship in the harbor the day before, and Hazel was scribbling notes on a piece of paper for a new scent she had been imagining: myrrh, tansy, and rose hips. A fragrance to ease sadness and clear away mistrust in others.
When the woman entered, Marguerite straightened and smiled pleasingly as she did whenever a new customer visited the shop. “Good morning,” Marguerite spoke elegantly, as if she were raised by royals, when in fact all three sisters were raised by a woman who’d lewdly dabbed perfume between her thighs to entice her lovers.
The woman did not respond, but walked to a wall of bottled perfumes all containing hues of citrus and other fruit, meant for daytime wear, often cajoling memories of late summer winds and warm evenings. “A perfume shop seems a tad presumptuous in this town,” the woman finally spoke. “Illicit even.”
“Women in any town deserve the allure of a good scent,” Marguerite responded, raising an eyebrow. Marguerite did not show it, but she recognized the woman—she was the wife of a man Marguerite had flirted with outside the Collins & Gray General Store three days earlier.
“Allure,” the woman repeated. “An interesting choice of words. And this allure—” She paused. “It comes from the spells you cast in your scents?”
Marguerite’s mouth quirked sharply upward on one side. “No spells, madam. Just perfectly arranged fragrances, I assure you.”
The woman glared at Marguerite then swiftly moved toward the door. “Your devious work will not go unnoticed for long. We see what you really are.” And in a whir of salty sea air, she opened the door and hurried back out to the street, leaving the three sisters staring after her.
“They really do think we’re witches, don’t they?” Hazel said aloud.
“Let them think it. It gives us power over them,” Marguerite answered.
“Or gives them reason to hang us,” Aurora added.
Marguerite sauntered to the center of the store, winking back at her sisters. “The boys all seem to like it,” she replied with a sway of her hips.
Both Hazel and Aurora laughed. Marguerite had always been unabashed and they admired this quality in her, even if at times it got her into trouble. The three sisters were close, devoted to one another. Their lives interwoven as tightly as a sailor’s knot.
They didn’t yet know the things that would divide them.
For in a place like Sparrow, rumors spread quickly, like small pox or cholera, confusing the mind, rooting itself into the fabric of a town until there’s no telling truth from speculation.
TWELVE
I dial Rose’s cell when I get back to the house, but she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message: “Call me when you get this.”
I don’t know why she went to see Gigi at the boathouse, but whatever the reason, I need to tell her to stay away.
Through the kitchen window, I see Mom standing out on the cliff, her black robe billowing around her legs with an updraft of wind. She didn’t stay in bed all day after all.
I wait by the phone for most of the day, but Rose never calls. I dial her number three more times, but she doesn’t answer. Where is she?
When the sun starts to settle over the ocean, I curl up in bed, knees to chest. I fall asleep with the wind rattling the glass in the windows, the sea air driving against the house.
Just after dawn it starts raining, gently pattering against the roof. The sky is painted in brushstroke ribbons of violet and coral pink. I stay in my room, but still no word from Rose. The rain keeps everyone inside. Mom locks herself in her bedroom, and I don’t see Bo leave the cottage all day. There are things I should say to him—confessions buried inside me. The way my heart feels unmoored when I’m with him. My head loose with thoughts I can’t explain. I should say I’m sorry. I should walk down through the rain and beat my fist against his door. I should touch his skin with my fingertips and tell him there are things I want, I crave. But how do you let yourself unravel in front of someone, knowing your armor is the only thing keeping you safe?
So I don’t say anything. I keep my heart hidden deep and dark in my chest.
Evening eventually presses down and I slump in the chair beside my bedroom window, watching the sky peel apart and the rainclouds fade. Stars illuminate the dark. But I feel anxious, wishing Rose would just call, explain why she went to the boathouse. She’s acting suspicious—making herself seem like one of them. Why?
And then I see something through the window.
Movement down on the path, a silhouette passing beneath the cascade of blue moonlight. It’s Bo, and he’s heading toward the dock.
And in my gut, I sense that something isn’t right.
I pull on a long black sweater over my cotton shorts and tank top and hurry down the stairs to the front door. The air hits me as soon as I step outside, a blast of cold that cuts straight down to my marrow.
I lose sight of him for a moment, the darkness absorbing him, but when I reach the point in the path where it slopes down toward the water, I see him again. And he’s almost to the dock.
The evening wind has stirred up from the west, and it pushes waves against the shore in intervals, spilling up over the rocks and leaving behind a layer of foam. Everything smells soggy from the rain. My bare feet are slapping against the wood walkway, but I still catch up to him just as he stops at the far end of the dock.
“Bo?” I ask. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to look at me. Like he can’t even hear me. And I already know. Under the dark sky and the pale, swollen moon, I can tell he’s not himself.
I take two careful steps toward him. “Bo,” I say again, trying to get his attention. But in one swift motion, he steps forward and falls straight off the edge of the dock and down into the water. “No!” I yell, scrambling forward.
The harbor heaves and churns. He’s already gone under, sunk beneath the waves. I hold my breath, counting the seconds—how long does he have until there’s no more air left in his lungs? I scan the water, afraid to blink. Then, ten yards out, he appears, sucking in a breath of air as he breaks through the surface. But he doesn’t turn back for shore. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder. He keeps going, swimming farther out into the harbor.
No, no, no. This is bad.