Until now.
A sharp, prickling sensation begins at the base of my neck, crawling all the way down my spine. I turn my back on the water and run the whole way home. Every light is on in the two-story house, the tall glass windows framing my father cooking dinner and my mother pouring a glass of red wine.
She puts the glass to her lips and closes her eyes, creating her own kind of silence.
I walk around to the back of the house and quietly slip into the mudroom. As soon as I’m inside, I pull my soaking-wet dress up and over my head, wrap a towel around me, and quietly walk up the back staircase.
“Tana,” my mother says behind me. I jump. “Where have you been?”
She asks the question even though it’s obvious where I was. “I thought I saw something in the water,” I say. My dress is dripping on the hardwood steps, and I roll it into my towel to stop the mess.
“I told you to come straight home and help your father with dinner. Why were you there in the first place?”
I don’t answer because nothing I say will satisfy her.
My mother sighs. “Go get cleaned up, and then you can tell me what you saw in the water.” Her wine sways from side to side as she turns and walks away.
I hurry upstairs to dry off, shuddering as I catch a glimpse of the sea. The sea is my safe place, my refuge, my haven. But tonight, it was dangerous.
“Just in time,” Dad says when I walk into the kitchen. A dish towel is thrown over his shoulder, and he holds a wooden spoon up to his mouth, tasting the stew simmering on the stove.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help,” I say.
“I’m sure you had a good reason.” Dad winks at me and motions to the silverware drawer. “Why don’t you set the table?”
I grab what we’ll need and set the table for three, just like my mother taught me. Tonight’s is a casual dinner, but I know how to set a table for a twelve-course meal, a skill I have yet to use but that my mother assures me is important all the same.
When we all sit down, I place my napkin in my lap and take a long sip of water.
“Try to get a good night’s sleep tonight,” Mom says, eyeing me over her glass. “You want to be well-rested for the ball tomorrow.”
It’s a celebration for Marshall Yates, Landon’s father, marking his tenth year of governing after the late Marshall Yates Sr. could fulfill his role in title only, no longer able to keep up with the demands of ruling. It will be big and loud, with many eyes watching Landon and me.
“This is your first outing since the mainlanders heard there might be something going on between you and Landon.” She says heard as if she isn’t the one who spread the rumors. “We need to play this carefully.”
“Tana will play it just right,” Dad says, turning to me. “Landon is eager to see you—that’s all that matters. And I suspect you’re eager to see him as well.”
I am eager to see my future husband, but I’m more eager to cement our union, to see the faces of the eldest in our coven when they hear the news. “Of course,” I say, taking a bite of my stew.
Dad smiles at Mom, but she doesn’t look convinced. We sit in silence for several minutes before Mom puts her glass down and looks at me.
“You will love him one day,” she says with a nod of her head. Certain.
I want to believe her. Landon has been just an idea for so long, something to wonder about as I drift off to sleep—what he will be like, what our life together will be like. But he is no longer an idea, no longer a distant point on the horizon, and I want the reality of him to match the picture I’ve been painting in my head all these years.
The irony is that if we hadn’t formed the new order, my parents could simply concoct a perfume that would make me fall helplessly in love with him. But that kind of magic doesn’t exist anymore.
I smile at my mother. “I’m sure I will.”
She nods in approval. “Why don’t you tell us what you saw in the water?” she says, changing the subject.
The question makes me tense and my palms begin to sweat. My fear from earlier returns, grasping at my nerves, but I suddenly doubt myself again. Maybe it was some kind of cruel joke; there are still many mainlanders who hate magic, hate that our island is here at all, and perhaps one of them thought they’d get a good laugh out of making the witches believe moonflowers had returned to the Witchery.
My mother is the leader of the new witches, and if I tell her I saw the flower, she will be required to look into it. I’m torn over what I should do; I don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing, but if it is something, she needs to know.
I walk the shores every day. If I see one again, I’ll tell her.
“Nothing,” I say, trying to calm my racing heart. “Just a flower.”
She watches me for several moments before nodding. “Well, please stay out of the water tomorrow. It’s a big night for you.”
“It’s a big night for us all,” I say, and that brings a smile to her face.
I take another bite of my meal, my mind wandering as I do, but it keeps catching on the flower. There are plenty of explanations that make far more sense than a moonflower appearing after all these years, and yet I can’t help the dread that blooms in my center, spreading outward, invading everything else.
three
The currents never used to be a problem. I remember swimming as a young girl, letting go of my father’s hand and rushing into the water without hesitation. He’d read a book on the shore, talk with our neighbors, even doze off if the sunlight hit him just right. The Passage was calm back then, with clear water and gentle waves that caressed the beach as if they were lovers. It wasn’t until I got older that my father stood at the edge of the water as I swam, close enough to run in if needed, wary of the restless sea.
Then one day, it was needed.
I was fourteen years old, testing my father’s patience and my own insolence when I swam out farther than I knew I should. My father called for me from the shore, but I pretended not to hear him, fully submerging myself instead of keeping to the surface and swimming back in. My eyes were open, and I noticed the sand on the seafloor had been disturbed, swirling around in a violent spiral that reduced my visibility to nothing. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late.
The current found my arm first, pulling me under with such strength that it forced the air from my lungs. I don’t remember much after that except the desperate need to breathe and the sheer terror of knowing I couldn’t.
My dad pulled me from the water, pushing down on my chest and giving me breaths until I ejected the salt water from my lungs. I thought he’d be mad at me, furious for what I’d put him through, but it wasn’t me he was mad at. That night, after I’d gone to bed, my parents had their worst fight ever. My father doesn’t yell, never raises his voice or speaks with aggression, but he yelled at my mother that night.
I couldn’t make out all the words, but I heard enough to piece together that he was blaming the currents on her. Until that moment, I’d thought the currents were a natural part of our complex Earth; I didn’t realize they were our fault, a consequence of our rushes where we expel our excess magic into the sea. I couldn’t sleep that night, trying to make sense of what I’d heard when my bedroom door creaked open and my mother quietly walked to my bed. I kept my eyes shut, not wanting her to know I was awake. She sat down on the bed and gently began to stroke my hair, her hand shaking, her breaths shallow as if she was fighting back tears. But the next morning, she was calm and collected, scolding me for swimming too far out.