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Nothing happens.
The screen remains black, unresponsive to my touch. I turn it over in my hands, a curious sense of déjà vu washing over me.
“No, no, no,” I murmur, jabbing random buttons in attempt to revive it. “What’s the matter? Is the battery dead?”
Cold, looming loneliness overshadows me as I realize I no longer have a connection to Jack Stevenson. And with the satellite phone reserved only for emergencies, I am truly all alone.
As the rain continues pounding and the thunder keeps rumbling, I move on to my neglected indoor chores. Unorganized is too kind a word to describe the state of the kitchen. Trays of drying flowers and herbs lie in disarray across the table beside spools of thread and a half-sewn shirt; my harvesting basket sits open on a chair, still stuffed with tomatoes and peas and peppers and strawberries from yesterday morning. The firewood has been not so much piled as flung, and the dishes haven’t been washed in two days.
So many responsibilities I’ve neglected while searching for Adam Stevenson.
And what do I have to show for it? Nothing. I have failed him and his poor brother, Jack. On top of that, I’ve also failed Papa. I promised him that I would watch the lighthouse—and what have I done instead? Scoured the island from beaches to woods, looking for an injured man who is still out there and probably catching his death—
All because of my incompetence.
Maybe Papa is right.
The weight of that notion crushes me as my bold words return to me like an echo. I’m eighteen now. I am strong enough for the Otherworld.
What on earth was I thinking?
I’m not even strong enough for my world.
* * *
The storm goes from bad to worse. Deafening cracks of thunder rattle through bouts of whooshing rain, making Lucius whine like a baby and cower underneath the coffee table. He’s never outgrown his fear of thunderstorms, unlike me—but this storm is the first in a long time, which has unsettled me.
From the lantern room, I have a panoramic view of the tempest outside. Billows of navy clouds eclipse the light of evening. Rods of silver lightning slash the sky and illuminate the swaying world for a split second. Bursts of light against huge, rough waves. Then darkness.
I wish Papa were here.
Somehow, even the warm, lamp-lit house feels lonely and frightening without him. The rumbling thunder sets my nerves on edge, and Lucius’s panting and pacing doesn’t help. I scold myself that I shouldn’t be afraid—not when I’m shut up safely in the house and no danger could possibly befall me.
But I can’t stop thinking about Adam. Every time I shut my eyes, I see that smear of blood on my hand—his blood.
To distract myself, I bake. I wash my face and hands with hot water, tie up my unruly mane, and take out the mixing bowls. There is something therapeutic about measuring flour, swirling yeast, and kneading dough. It doesn’t put all my anxieties to rest, but it helps to calm the storm in my mind.
I sing all of Papa’s songs again as Lucius whines himself to sleep on the kitchen floor. Thunder rolls outside. Waves crash. The rain floods down.
A few hours later, the whole house swells with the scent of freshly baked bread, and the kitchen is spotless once again. Half a loaf of bread is hardly a nutritious dinner, but comfort food is all I can manage tonight. Afterwards, I take a warm shower and change into my linen nightgown and shawl.
I build up the fire in the living room and cuddle Lucius on the floor, my stockinged feet crossed on the hearth and Adam’s journal spread open in my lap. Perhaps it’s invasive to indulge myself in his private thoughts and deepest feelings. Journals aren’t meant to be read by total strangers. But as I page through the book and look at Adam’s handwriting, his scribbled-over mistakes, his doodles in the margins… he doesn’t feel like a stranger to me. In fact, I feel like I’ve already met him, in another life.
Riffling back to the beginning of the journal, I find an entry dated the first day of this year.
01/01/97
For the first time in my life, I feel old. Maybe that’s foolish, because 28 is not considered “old.” But still, it’s scary. Where did the last ten years go? Today Mom asked me if there’s something I want in life. Something more than what I already have. I think she’s fishing to know if I’ll ever get married, but to be honest, I can’t see that happening anytime soon.
Is it wrong not to have any grand ambitions for my life? I’ve worked my ass off to get to the place I’m at today, to have a job I love and be my own boss—and to help support my family so Dad doesn’t have to work so hard. I think about all those years when I wasn’t able to do anything to help my parents. Now at least I can make things easier for them. It’s so rewarding just to pay some of the bills, to buy the groceries or get Mom flowers every week. To not hear Dad say, “We can’t afford this. We can’t afford that.” That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To give back to them after all they’ve given me.
Maybe it’s high time I move out and get a place of my own, but I don’t really see the point in doing that. Mom says she likes having me around, and unless I get married someday, there’s no real reason to spend all that money on a house to live in by myself.
When I do eventually get my own place, I want to build it from scratch. I want to take a pile of bricks and mortar and lumber and turn it into a home. Something about that has always appealed to me. But only if I had someone to build it for—someone to dream with, someone to argue with over things like furniture and paint colors. Anyone can build a house. But it means something more when you’re building a home.
The next few pages are filled with that strange foreign language I can’t read—scribbles and arrows in the margins, little bits of English crammed in with the rest as if to explain the glorious disaster of it all.
The longer I explore the journal, the more it comes alive with a personality of its own. There is a kind of rough-edged magic in the chaos: jots of ancient languages trapped between lists of mechanical parts and scribbled philosophical rants. Even the torn-out pages, coffee stains, and smudges of black grease add character and history to the little book—proving it’s been more places than I ever have.
