I rubbed my ears, the friction filling my eardrums and making the noise of the party fade and seem farther away than it was. Over and over again, I drowned out the chatter, the dishes being cleared downstairs, the doors opening and closing….
I liked noise. Rain and birds and wind. I just didn’t like other peoples’ noise. It made the room feel small. Too small. I couldn’t think.
After presents and treats, I’d slipped into the upstairs bathroom, closed the door, and stood there for a couple minutes—maybe more—rubbing my ears as I closed my eyes. I hated that I did it.
I hated that it helped.
I hated that I had to hide to do it.
Because I hated the way Ivar looked at me years ago when he caught me doing it.
I could read the room by now. I knew I was never going to be him, and I knew what parts of me to keep quiet.
Sitting on the edge of the tub and holding my head in my hands, I listened to my breathing in my ears, hearing my pulse, and eventually felt everything slow. My heart. My breathing.
My thoughts.
I drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, feeling the steadiness and calm return.
Finally, I rose from my seat and turned to face the mirror, straightening my hair on both sides, and pushing the quarter of an inch growth behind my ears. I’d have my dad take me for a trim tomorrow. We usually went every other Saturday, but I didn’t want to wait.
Pumping some soap into my palm, I washed my hands again, dried them, and then brushed my fingers down my clean black suit and straightened my tie, the habit of feeling my clothes making me feel secure. Like armor.
I exited the bathroom and turned off the light, heading to the boys’ room we all shared when we stayed over at St. Killian’s.
But heels hit the floor behind me, and I heard my mom’s voice. “I have pajamas.”
I glanced over my shoulder, stopping and taking in her dress. I loved it when my mom dressed up. It was pretty.
“I’m okay,” I told her.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you want to sleep in something more comfortable?”
“I am comfortable.”
I’d showered when we’d returned and changed into a fresh suit.
I started walking again, but I heard her step toward me. “Mads, I—”
I jerked my head. “No, don’t come,” I told her, turning to face her. “I want to be alone.”
“I want to sit with you tonight,” she told me.
My stomach knotted. That was the last thing I needed. I knew she was just trying to do what she thought parents should do, or she assumed I needed something that I didn’t know I needed—like a talk or a hug or something—but parents made everything worse. I didn’t need help.
“I’m okay,” I said again.
Her eyes crinkled with worry, and I knew no matter what I did or said, she’d worry anyway.
I gritted my teeth and forced my feet to move over to her, diving in for a quick hug—patting her back twice—because I knew it would make her feel better. “I’m okay,” I repeated.
Turning around, I headed down the hall, exhaling when I rounded the corner and she hadn’t called me back or followed me.
Veering to the right, toward the boys’ room, I saw my uncle swing around the corner of the hallway ahead and stop, meeting my eyes.
I stopped too.
Something weird crossed his black eyes, like a mixture of amusement and interest, and I braced myself as he walked for me.
I liked my uncle Damon. He didn’t try to talk to me all the time.
Usually.
I watched, my spine stiffening as he leaned down to get in my face, the stench of cigarettes filling my nostrils.
“I know what you did,” he whispered, keeping the words between us.
I stared at him.
“If my child is ever in danger, don’t hesitate to do it again,” he told me. “Understand?”
I remained silent.
But I knew what he was talking about.
I didn’t understand most people. They acted like most decisions in life were a choice. Was I not supposed to do anything when those men came tonight?
That was why I’d kept my mouth shut. My parents would’ve freaked out if they’d lost us, and they still would’ve freaked out if they’d known how I’d stopped it. They would’ve just confused me. I didn’t know what they wanted.
But Uncle Damon wouldn’t make me respond to a question he’d already faced the answer to.
And he didn’t seem upset.
“You got any bad feelings about what happened tonight?” he asked me.
I dropped my eyes.
The lie would make my parents worry. The truth would make them worry more.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” He smirked. “If you ever do, you come see me. Got it?”
It took a moment, but I nodded.
He dove in and left a peck on my cheek before rising again and continuing on his way.
I waited until he was around the corner before I dug out the handkerchief in my pocket and wiped his tobacco spit off my skin.
Stuffing the cloth back into my pants, I walked into the dark bedroom. Ivarsen and II were on the other side of the room in single beds, and Gunnar was in the bed next to mine, his covers down around his feet.
Dag and Fane were up in their nook in the attic, while the girls were next door.
But as I walked to my bed, I spotted a lump under the covers. I moved closer, seeing long, black hair fanned out across my pillow.
Octavia.
I stopped, smelling her from here. Her mom bought her her own shampoo that seemed to seep into everything she owned—and everything I owned when she was close.
I wasn’t old enough to remember Jett being born, but when Octavia came, it was the first time I remembered a baby being around. Perfect and fragile and already loved by everyone, no matter who it would be when it grew up.
I was like that once too. Before people knew me.
I tightened my fists, seeing the bruise on her arm.
Everyone else forced me to come here or go there and to be a part of things. Octavia always left what she was doing or who she was with and came to me instead. It was nice.
She stirred, drawing in a breath and turning onto her back.
I pulled the pillow out from under her, her head plopping onto the bed as I set the pillow to the side. “You’re in my bed.”
I crashed down next to her and propped my head up on the pillow against the headboard.
Reaching into my breast pocket, I pulled out a couple of squares of sketch paper and started folding.
She nestled close, tucking her head on my arm.
“Are you scared?” I asked her, not looking away from my origami.
“I was a little before.” Her small voice, so tiny, made something hurt in my chest.
My hand slowed for a moment, and I swallowed. She was pulled away from me, taken out of the house, and out to the ocean in a snowstorm tonight.
But maybe it wasn’t them who scared her.
She saw everything.
Everything.
“Why were you scared?” I asked, but I didn’t breathe as I waited for the answer.
She shifted, looking up at me. “Weren’t you?”
I said nothing, simply continued folding the dove as her warmth filtered through the arm of my jacket.
A little.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t be afraid. It’ll never happen again.”
“How do you know?”
I finished the bird, holding it up against the shadow of the snowfall on the ceiling.
“Because next time, I’ll be bigger,” I said.
Turning to her, I set the bird under her chin, seeing her smile peek out, and pulled the covers up, tucking her in.
“They’ll find Pithom,” I told her. “Don’t worry.”
She nuzzled in again, closing her eyes. “They won’t find it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s what I wished for on the basil leaf,” she explained. “A ghost ship.”
A ghost ship. I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to burst her bubble.
Pithom was a yacht with a tracking system. It wouldn’t stay lost for long.
“I’m going to find it someday,” she declared.
Yeah, okay.
I gazed down at her, her black lashes draping over her pale skin, and I almost wished it could happen for her. Her imagination was full of wonderous things, and I didn’t have any imagination at all. I didn’t want her to be like me.
The adventures in her head sounded like a different world.
I lifted my hand to move away the lock of hair on her cheek, but I stopped, putting my arm back down.
I forced down the lump in my throat as I stared at her. “Can I come?” I whispered.
“There’s nothing you love at sea, landlubber,” she teased with her eyes still closed. “No birds.”
I turned away. There are some birds.
I didn’t ever really want to go anywhere or see the world. I liked being home, anywhere I didn’t have to face people or meet new people.
But if she was going…
“Can I come?” I asked again.
She nodded, yawning. “Mm-hmm. But I’m captain.”
I bit back my smile, watching her drift off to sleep.
Ship or no ship, she was the captain of everybody, and she knew it.
Standing up, I pulled the covers tighter over her, tucking them under the mattress to keep them in place.
Rising up, I looked down at Octavia, the origami dove still tucked under her chin. The purple bruise on her arm from one of the men’s hands stood out, dark and visible, even in the dim moonlight coming through the window.
I flexed my jaw, tightening my tie and smoothing back my hair again.
Do you have any bad feelings about tonight? he’d asked.
I had bad feelings all the time. When music was too loud. When my mother’s dogs got hair on my bed. When Marina made a dish differently that I relied on her always making it the way I liked.
I watched Octavia sleep.
I had bad feelings when things were taken away from me.
Not about other things.
I brought up my hand, inspecting the dirt under my nail.
Using my thumb, I picked it out, noticing it was red.
I exhaled, my heart thumping in my chest.
Taking out my handkerchief, I wiped off my hand and walked to the window, reaching into my breast pocket and pulling out the basil leaf from earlier.
I hadn’t burned it.
Slipping it between my lips and into my mouth, I chewed the leaf and swallowed it, the tickle down my throat reaching my stomach as the pungent taste coated my tongue.
I turned to sit in the chair, content to sleep there for the night and keep an eye out, but something glinted above me, and I looked up.
A key hung from the lock on the window, a small scroll of paper tucked in the chain.
I looked around the room, wondering who it belonged to.
Reaching up, I unhooked the chain from the lock, holding the skeleton key in my hand and pulling the paper out of the link.
Unrolling it, I read black handwriting. “The chords of the heart need to be touched to be played.”
I narrowed my eyes, reading it again. I wasn’t sure what it was telling me. Maybe it wasn’t even meant for me.
I inspected the rusty old key and the keychain, what looked like a thurible hanging off the end.
I paused. Thuribles were used to spread incense at Mass. The cathedral in the village had a huge one.
My face fell. That was a clue. Thoughts and theories swarmed my brain.
I looked over my shoulder at Octavia, knowing how she would love an adventure. A hunt. This key went to something. Maybe a treasure?
“The chords of the heart need to be touched to be played,” I recited again, trying to figure out what it meant.
Then it hit me. No one is immune to emotion when those chords are pulled.
No one.
I closed my eyes, feeling the blood under my nails as I wrapped my cold fingers around the key.
One night soon.
While everyone was asleep.
We’ll find out what the key unlocks, Octavia. We’ll own the night.
