Chapter 19

As I hike further inland,moonlight throws the jagged terrain into stark relief. I climb over rocks to where hip-high grass gives way to feathery bulrushes that tower higher than my head. Dirt corridors crisscross the thick growth. I shuck off my shoes, carry them, and roam barefoot, letting the ground speak through the soles of my feet and guide me by touch rather than sight.

I've stopped looking for the so-called wards, too engrossed in the earth's quiet call to worry about technicalities. I'm just going to have to trust that the island won't let me get gobbled up by a bog-hole.

The winding path leads me to an inland marsh carved up like a jigsaw by thin ribbons of water. The trail meanders through the meadow, past patches of rock choked with carved glyphs, and stops abruptly at a tiny pond that glimmers at the center of a moonlit glen. Small and crystal clear, it's only as big as a child's swimming pool. Mesmerized, I watch the schools of tiny iridescent fish that zip in circles, then cluster around a turtle resting at the bottom of the pond.

"Rosalie! Where are you?" Liam's faint call rings out. But it's obscured by the island's voice in my ears. Somehow, now, it's speaking in Tyler's voice.

Step in.

Is this really Tyler helping me? Or is it just my own guilty conscience—agitated and vulnerable—as this island pulls me apart?

Obeying nonetheless, I step in and let the cool water tickle my bare calves. Vibrations spike from the pool's bottom into the soles of my feet, then zing up through my spine, exploding into blackness behind my eyes.

I splash onto all fours, my body quaking, and reach shakily for the turtle. Which isn't a turtle at all, but a spherical rock that splits apart at my touch, revealing yet another key inside its hollowed-out center.

My heart hammers as I hold the key up to the moonlight. The three-ring knot at its base is identical to the one I found near the garden, and also the one inside the charm that once dangled from Tyler's neck. But it's far too large to fit any of the locks on Aunt Millie's journals.

I wonder if there's an endless supply of these keys, or if they sprout up like all the other weird things that grow on this island.

Okay, Tyler. I get it. For whatever reason, you and this island are trying to tell me something. Tucking the key in my jeans pocket, I emerge from the water, invigorated by the current that thrums through me, my heart a steadily beating drum.

Liam's calls have faded. I look around to make sure I've attracted no unwanted company and walk on, hoping my instincts are right: that I can trust this island—and Tyler—to keep me within the warded zones.

The pond empties into a thin stream that ribbons through a meadow of waving grass. Sneakers in hand, I follow barefoot to where the ground rises steadily and the meadow grass grows sparse, eventually giving way to empty stretches of ridged rock. Symbols crowd the craggy surfaces. I consider turning back, but the thrum that pulses through my feet urges me on.

The meadow ends in a sloping cliff overlooking a mighty gorge. Thick vines plump with clusters of jewel-like green berries cling to the sheer rock wall that abuts the cliff. My breath catches. The scene is so majestic and surreal, it's as though I'm standing at the gateway to heaven.

Liam must know this place. Because here is where his nightberries grow.

And though they're far less potent than the mythical salttain, it couldn't hurt to gather some, just in case, could it?

Go ahead, the island seems to confirm.

The lagoon at the base of the gorge churns with ferocious power. One slip and I'll fall to my death. But why would the island lead me here to die, when it's had so many other opportunities?

Leaving my sneakers behind, I venture out onto a water-slick promontory that juts out over the edge in hopes of grabbing a few sprigs, but a shock of current shoots through the soles of my bare feet and up my legs.

I lose my balance and slip over the edge. My screams echo back at me from the canyon as I manage to grab at the vines to stop my plunge. Catching my breath, I hold on, listening for the unintelligible voices that murmur beneath the sound of the blood throbbing in my ears.

The slope is so gradual, it's easy enough for me to grasp the vines that cling to the rock cliff and rise shakily to my feet. That's when I notice my fall has ripped away a swath of growth from the rock. Glyph-encrusted clay striated with bands of aqua and cobalt catch the moonlight, revealing the edge of what looks to be a small wrought-iron grate cut into the rock beside me.

Current jitters up my legs, making them rubbery. I ease my way down the slope and focus on not falling. Liam is going to kill me when he catches up. That's if I don't manage to die on my own.

The voice coaxes me forward. Tyler again. I grip the charm that dangles from the chain around my neck and it's warm to the touch.

Come inside, it seems to say.

The opening in the side of the cliff is about the size of an oven door, the ironwork filigree twisted into the now-familiar symbol of interlocking rings. On closer inspection, I realize the grate is actually a gate secured by a heavy padlock.

I grip the nightberry vines and, with my free hand, clutch the newfound key. Trembling, I slide it into the lock. It turns, then—of course it does—clicks open.

Somehow, the island has led me here.

Consumed by curiosity, I push the creaky grate inward and climb inside the opening. Once my eyes adjust to the weak light filtering through narrow slits in the rock ceiling, I'm startled to find that the floor is made from iron grating. I can see clear down to the rushing waters of the lagoon. Fighting vertigo, I creep along the perimeter. Everything reeks of dampness and abandonment.

Groping my way along, I stumble on a metal table bolted to the grating and nearly knock over the assortment of glass jars and ceramic casks that crowd its surface.

This has to have been some kind of workshop. A very inaccessible and forgotten workshop.

One its inhabitant wanted to keep a secret.

A single ceramic cask shines in the scant light, gold leaf covering its surface. Its stopper is the familiar interlocking three-ring knot.

My breath hitches. I want to hightail it back out that opening, scramble up the slippery cliff, and find Liam. Instead, I tip the cask over and pull out the stopper. A rolled-up scrap of paper drops into my palm. The words on it are written in Aunt Millie's cramped script.

Is this her workshop?

Dear Guest,

Since you have slipped past my defenses and wards to find your way here, I pray that you, my equal match, are of good purpose.

You will be the target of those who wish to steal from you, force you into servitude, or perhaps take your life.

One day you will hear the entirety of my story.

Millicent

I grab the table's edge to keep from toppling over and ponder the scrawled words. Of equal match.Forced into servitude.

What does she mean by of equal match? Equal in the ability to conjure phantom plants? Had Aunt Millie been enslaved by greedy poachers, forced to produce troves of salttain for them to harvest?

Where is she now?

* * *

Unnerved,I crawl out of the workshop, somehow manage to scrabble back up the sloping cliff, and, retrieving my sneakers, retrace my steps to the meadow with the small pool, then to the marsh. The ground's vibrations thrum into my legs, growing stronger and more pronounced.

The island isn't just speaking to me.

It's shouting.

I lower myself to the earth. Palms flat to the sandy soil, I focus on how much I want the elusive plant to show itself, how much I need it for Evan. How much Liam needs it for Aurora.

Prickles crawl up my arms. An image of the salttain plant forms in my mind—its tall pearlescent stem and glossy dark green leaves topped with a large globe of tiny white blooms. The pungently sweet fragrance tweaks my nose. I hold still, fingers pressed to the earth. My limbs grow heavy, as if they've grown roots that plunge deep into the soil. Symbols rotate around me like translucent snowflakes.

I have the sensation of being severed from my body, my awareness drifting over the marsh. I see my own crouching form from above as scores of pale green stalks sprout higher than the bulrushes, their fluffy white bulbs a field of giant bubbles.

Minutes or possibly hours later, the symbols dissolve. I crack my eyes open. Sunrise ignites the bulrush tips in fiery orange light.

I stare, disoriented and open-mouthed, as the majestic plants twist toward me as if awaiting my command. I extend a palm and the nearest one lowers its crown of blooms, dropping tiny petals into my palm.

Then I hear it, beneath the hum of the soil's constant murmur, like a single note inside the torrent of a waterfall. You brought me home.

It really is Tyler's voice. There's no mistaking it this time.

Clutching the blooms, I press my hand to his charm. "Tyler?" I whisper.

There's no reply. Only bird calls and the sound of the breeze rustling through tall grasses. Still, I know what I heard.

In the distance, thunder rumbles. The hum of the earth grows sharper, accompanied by a whiff of sulfur. A fat raindrop plunks down in a nearby stream. More follow.

Sheets of rain soak me, and I slide the blooms into my pocket to protect them. Blinded by the downpour, I'm frozen.

"Liam!" I call. "Liam?"

But if he answers me, I can't hear him over the raging storm.

Then lightning splits the night sky, a shattered column of fire. It knifes the ground less than a hundred yards away, and the voltage in my veins intensifies to a river of molten, paralyzing pain. My vision fractures into a kaleidoscope of color. I cower, protected by the tall stalks that bend forward to form a protective canopy, sheltering me like a baby in its mother's arms.