Chapter 8

Milky daylight soaksthrough the sheer curtains. I've slept in my torn and bloodstained sundress. My head is killing me. My leg and ankle throb.

I peek under the covers at my torn-up calf, afraid of what I'll see. But where last night there was a bloody gash, this morning there's only a reddish seam. Liam's stupid berries worked.

I put weight on my sprained ankle. That, too, is better. I slip my hand in the pocket of my sundress to feel for the tiny key from the tidal pool. Maybe I imagined it, along with the dancing plants. But sure enough, it's there.

Dad raps at my door to let me know that Liam brought my bag, sun hat, and the Field Guide. "I'll leave them out here," he says, his voice heavy. In the spaces between his words, I sense his disappointment that I didn't heed his warnings. I can't say I blame him, but then again, my disappointment in him weighs even more.

Once I hear his footsteps recede, I open the door to retrieve my things, then slide Aunt Millie's carved box out from under my bed. The vines engraved on the lid lace together below the hand, forming the same three-ring design that's on the base of Tyler's charm and the tiny key. The key and charm are the same size, the interlocking rings at their base identical.

Is it possible the key fits? Again, I try to deduce who's behind this twisted treasure hunt. Though I have a few suspects—namely Dad, my mother, or Liam—there's only circumstantial evidence to implicate them. And no actual motive.

I slide the key into the lock on the box. It sticks at first, but then I give it a hard twist. And it works. Heart pounding, I open the top and a whiff of mustiness shoots up my nose. Inside is a stack of ancient, locked journals, each slim volume fitted with a leather embossed cover and illustrated with a variation of the same hand and interwoven rings. I fit the key in the first six, but none open. Of course, they don't.

I came here to follow through on Tyler's wishes. So far, all I've found are riddles. But I am, by nature, a scientist. And though I can't share most of my odder findings with my Reddit compatriots, for fear they'll think I'm nuts, I still have faith in my own powers of deduction—and the fact that, with patience and logic, most mysteries will eventually unravel.

Diligently, I jot down notes about last night in my journal. But when I flip through to review my findings from last night, the pages from yesterday are gone.

Every single one.

I know I took notes. Either my memory is really messed up, or Liam tore out the pages. Why would he do that?

The guy practically jumped down my throat for mentioning the walled garden. Maybe he didn't want me to find it for some reason. Maybe he's growing weed in there. But his epic paranoia is overkill. Why would I care? It's been legal in California for half my life.

I check my phone for the photos I took of the strange landscape. Also gone.

Did he delete those too?

Which would mean he looked at my phone after I fell asleep on his bike. I knew I shouldn't have disabled the auto-lock. It also means he's seen everything else in my photo gallery—including Tyler. The nerve of that snooping bastard.

I've got to confront him over prying into my personal business. If he did tear my notes out of my journal, I'm going to make him give them back. If he hasn't trashed them, that is. But if he was out to get me, why would he help me by giving me those berries?

Furious and confused, I return to examining Tyler's charm. Maybe there's more to it than meets the eye. I poke it, bang it against the desk, prod it, until finally, the base of the hand twists loose. From inside the casing comes a key—identical to the one I found in the tidal pool.

My head reels. Tyler wore this charm the entire time I knew him, until he gave it to me. Did he know this key was in there? Or was it just a family heirloom to him? Too bad he's not here to ask.

This key doesn't open the first six journals either. I'm about to give up, but on a lark, try the seventh journal, the thinnest of the bunch. The cover of this journal is the most intricate—rich burgundy leather tooled with a delicate rendering of a hand. I marvel at the way the fingers sprout branches that interweave with the roots growing from the end of its wrist. It's beautiful and haunting. Like nothing I've ever seen.

I insert the tiny key into the lock, and am stunned when it snicks open. Gently cracking the cover, I flip through the blank front matter to the first printed page, unsure what I expect to find—maybe a clue to the island's riddles and Tyler's connection to them? Or to Liam's erratic behavior?

It hurts me to think that if Tyler knew about this island's mysteries, he kept them from me.

But what I have before me has nothing to do with Tyler. Or that liar, Liam. Instead, it's an old-fashioned collection of gloriously illustrated children's fables titled Legends of the Sea and Land.

Disappointed yet entranced, I leaf through the pages. Each of the fables focuses on a different plant and describes its medicinal properties. Some of the plants are poisonous, others miraculous. The stories are full of violence, disease, and lost loves. It's pretty heavy stuff for a children's book.

I keep skimming, determined to find some overlap between the Field Guide and Legends of the Sea and Land. Finally, I stumble upon a story about a tree with fruit that resembles a bleeding heart—the Oak Heart Tree—which is mentioned in both books. Could it be real? Or a figment of both authors' imaginations?

I remember Liam saying, You want to know about plant life here? Why not ask me? For a moment, I consider turning to him for guidance, but just as quickly change my mind. I'm still fuming at him, even if he did help me. And he's about as trustworthy as a leprechaun. Which is how I'm starting to think of him. Liam O'Donnell, the island trickster.

I limp down to the kitchen, my gashed leg only a little sore. My sprained ankle is—well, not. There's no sign of Dad. I'm guessing he's still pissed at me for fucking up, but instead, I find he's set up a chair with cushions for me on the balcony. Taking it as a peace offering, I settle in with my notebook and the Field Guide for a day of research.

But I'm too restless. The island's persistent tug prickles up my fingers through my arms, from my toes to my calves, its echoing ache stronger than ever. I can only learn so much while I'm convalescing on this chair. This island is an onion, its secrets like layers. When I peel back one, I find another.

After awhile, my father slinks out onto the balcony and without a word, sits quietly at his table. I've been here for less than a day, and already our relationship is strained.

Yes, I'm angry. Angry at Tyler for directing me here, then dying. Angry at Liam for his head games and his violations of my privacy. Angry at my mother for her deception. Angry at this island for defying the laws of nature.

But mostly, I realize, staring at my father's bald head—I'm enraged with him. How does he think I can just shove all my hurt, my grief, my shock, into a drawer and move forward with my life?

I get to my feet, even though my injured leg still throbs. "Dad." My voice comes out hoarse, not strident and commanding as I'd hoped.

He looks up, glasses perched on his nose, every bit The Professor. "Yes, Rosie?"

I cross my arms over my chest and glance out at the sea. A soft breeze brushes my cheeks. "I get how you could walk away from me," I say. "But how can you just walk away from your life's work—especially when you live here, on this amazing island? Tyler was convinced it was imperiled."

My father breaks his gaze, closes his eyes, and rests the bridge of his nose on his steepled fingers. After a long beat, he looks back over at me. "Because, Rosie, my efforts here would be futile. This island doesn't need saving. Certainly not by the likes of me. It can protect itself."

I'm struck silent by the idiocy of such a comment coming from my dad, the Climate Avenger. Finally, I bite out, "What are you even talking about? You mean the locals will save it?"

He sighs. "In a sense. They're a proud and private lot. They've inhabited this island for generations. And they're secretive. They even have a name for people who aren't from here: Landsiders."

"Nice." My heart pounds with silent fury as I remember Liam's dismissive attitude. "What do they call you?"

"I'm a guest of Randy Lambert's. The islanders respect him, so they tolerate and welcome me."

I stare at the lapping waves, rage stewing inside of me. The breeze sifts through my hair, its touch mesmerizing, but I refuse to yield my anger to its call. "So, that's it then? You drop out of life, give up your family—your purpose—and consign yourself to doddering old age as an island castaway?"

My voice is shrill, but I still don't even get a rise out of my father. "Rosie," he says, almost dreamily. "Tell me you didn't notice the quality of the air here the moment you set foot off the boat. How it embraces you, enfolds you with invisible arms."

His words send a ripple of fear up my spine. Not because he sounds batshit crazy—but because it's true. "I-I—it…I felt calmer."

Dad nods and smiles. "Then maybe you can understand why a man like me, a man with a past he'd like to forget, on the run from his own personal demons, would want to live out his years in such a place? I'm at peace here, Rosie. Finally."

Tears prickle at my eyes, my anger receding despite my best efforts to cling to it. He's traded in everything to numb his senses on this strange island. "Dad, are you saying this island is like…a drug? Because that's how it feels sometimes. Like it's messing with my head."

Dad smiles, but it's a sad one. "Salttain is a bit like that. It's a special and enchanted place. It's filled with magic."

It's like he's thrown ice water in my face. My father, the man I idolized, has lost his damn mind.

I look down at the table to hide my tears. Maybe it would be better if I still believed he was dead. Because I don't know this resurrected version of him at all.

"Honey," Dad says. "Look at me, please."

I swipe roughly at my eyes and glance over at him. His gaze is clear and shrewd. It isn't the face of a madman.

"Rosie." The sound of my name spoken in his resonant baritone nearly breaks me. Isn't it all worth it—just to hear that again? "What I'm going to tell you may sound off-putting. Especially since your mother worked so hard all these years to make you resistant to such concepts. So, I expect you to balk. But, just like there are lines of ore that vein the crust of our planet, there are also magic conduits known as ley lines. Salttain sits at the convergence of a number of those lines. And ultimately, they're what will save it."

It's as though the balcony has cracked open under my chair. I feel myself falling, reality collapsing like a sandcastle on the beach. He thinks there's some kind of magic here, strong enough to protect an island from the effects of climate change? That is downright ridiculous. And so preposterous, I'm embarrassed for him.

But something tells me that the garden I stumbled across is not a weed farm. And Liam can try to confound me all he wants, but I'm going to find my way back there. Regardless of if the phenomenon I'm researching is natural or just plain weird, I'm going to dig until I can assess what risks threaten this enchanted paradise. Whether the local yokels like it or not.

Because I'm now more convinced than ever that's why Tyler wanted me here.

* * *

Later that afternoon,after ignoring me for most of the day, Dad invites me to putter around in his vegetable garden. He's cleared a path through the scrub to the long, narrow rectangle of bounty cordoned off by a low wire fence.

It's a relief to see a patch of ground brimming with normal stuff rather than bizarre plants: peppers, cucumbers, squash, onions, and string beans. "Everything grows here," Dad says, stooping to pull up a tiny carrot from the rich soil.

He wipes off the carrot on his pants leg and hands it to me. As I savor the sweet crunchy root, the twitching pull in my fingers returns with a vengeance, sending a tremor up my neck. Suddenly, plunging my hands into the loamy dirt is the most inviting idea on the planet. "I'd love to help with this."

"I'd like that," Dad says. "Just like old times. It's even more fertile than California. Everyone on Salttain has a green thumb."

I puzzle over the way this little speck of rock in the middle of the ocean really does seem to be able to grow anything. And why being here, my hands plunged into the earth, makes my heart sing.

One thing I do know: this can't be the so-called magic my formerly sensible father insists on. Instead, it's got to be a phenomenon I can explain through careful exploration and documentation. I envision the paper I'll write—the one that will establish me as a brilliant environmental botanist in my own right, not a wannabe clone of my famous father. Maybe I'll use a nom de plume, so no one associates me with him. Maybe that's an angle my secretive mother will support.

Dreaming about my future in a way I never let myself do before, I help Dad pick peppers, zucchini squash, and an onion for our dinner. This island really is breaking me open, freeing me from the cage of my old fears. Maybe that is all Tyler wanted for me.

I push away the thought that he'll never get to see who I'll become.

Dad and I eat on the balcony as the setting sun stains the sky crimson. Afterward, in the living room, I curl up on the shabby couch opposite the thirty-year-old TV. It's a cozy scenario: father and daughter, an old movie, and the crackling flames. Dad falls asleep and eventually I shepherd him upstairs to bed.

Back in my room, I open the red leather journal, the odor of mildew and decay clinging to its pages. Tucked into the crease near the back of the book is a yellowed scrap of notepaper. Scrawled in Aunt Millie's cramped writing are words that make my blood run cold.

Dear Little One,

These are your stories.

Fondly,

Aunt Millicent

Was this meant for Tyler?The package was addressed to me. My head spins. I try to calm myself, but the twining cords that pulse through my fingers won't still. Moonlight floods my room, coaxing me to the window. The main house is a dark mass against the night sky.

The moon and the diamond dusting of stars cast a glow over the black ground, but they're not the only illumination. Like a mirror image of the starry sky, pale blue lights speckle the dunes that lie between the cottage and the beach.

The air is filled with…not magic, of course, but something.

Ignoring the mild pain in my leg and my promise to stay out of trouble, I throw on a sweater and do exactly the opposite.

I have no plans to venture far. Not so soon after my last mishap.

I just need to know what those lights are.