Her backyard was quiet, the silence hanging like an ax before an execution. In the distance, the wind howled. The island was angry.
Well, join the club.
She closed her eyes and murmured long-forgotten words. Of a goodbye, an old-as-time chant for an end, for a passing. Even whispering them scorched her soul, the roar inside her growing deafening. Once the earth settled on the black feathers, shestood up. The rain came, washing her face, her hands, the stench of death.
Inside, Lachlan was cleaning up the remnants of the images Rhiannon knew would return in her dreams.
“So what are we going to do about Lisa?”
Ceridwen’s voice was like a string, one that would snap at any moment and score anyone in her proximity, unpredictable and sharp.
Prudence’s lips trembled with doubt. Rhiannon could almost hear the words arguing against this particular culprit fall off that pale mouth. She smiled, the skin stretching painfully.
“Before Prudence chokes herself trying to contradict the assumption that this was Lisa?—”
“Who else could it be? Been in any other fights recently?”
Ceridwen set her jaw, and Rhiannon would’ve rolled her eyes if she wasn’t so certain it would cut right through her already aching mind. She needed to get these people out.
“What did you mean by September in Massachusetts, Tory?” Lachlan asked, and Rhiannon made a face and would’ve laughed at hers probably being exactly the same as Ceridwen’s. All incredulous shock.
“What did you call her?” Ceridwen’s question conveyed that shock very well.
“He brings me flowers every morning and he thinks I am royalty. He gets to call me anything he wants to.” Victoria patted Lachlan’s scruffy cheek. He snatched her hand and kissed her knuckles. Christian cleared his throat, and his usual quiet authority had everyone turning to him as he slowly cleaned his glasses, clearly trying to choose his words.
“I’ve known Lisa her entire life, and while the handwriting on the note is very close to hers, I don’t think?—”
“What note?” Several voices chimed in in unison, Ceridwen’s the loudest.
Christian pocketed the handkerchief and gave Rhiannon a somewhat sheepish look, his hooded eyes staring at her imploringly from behind the thick horn rims. She sighed.
“I got a note a few days ago.” Rhiannon unlocked her phone and handed it to Victoria, who snatched it as if her life depended on it. Then she just huffed in disgust before handing it over to Ceridwen. Rhiannon prepared herself for the scolding. She didn’t have to wait very long.
“And you chose to keep this to yourself?” Her sister’s voice was shrill.
“I didn’t. I asked Christian for help. As you see, he has been helping. He taught half the town in Sunday school once upon a time, and now as the magistrate he knows everyone. What more do you think I should’ve done?”
Rhiannon regretted asking the moment the words left her mouth.
“Tell me! Tell Victoria! Call the sheriff!”
Rhiannon rolled her eyes. The histrionics were too much. She took her phone back and pretended to dial.
“‘Hello, Sheriff? Yes, someone left me a nasty note, would you come over and pull their ear?’ Ceridwen, get a fucking grip.”
Her headache was verging on vicious, nausea nearly overwhelming her. She needed to get all these people out, and she needed her darkness and her silence.
“The note, the wording…” Victoria’s voice was pensive. “They did a lot of hanging in September in Salem, Rhiannon, and you really should’ve known better and called us.”
The sheer violence of the images conjured by Victoria pierced Rhiannon’s skull, and she grabbed the redwood counter for support.
The cries of “Hang the witch!” were loud and the braying crowd chasing Gwendolyn desperate in their blind, raving hatred. They strung up the innocents one by one as she watched,as she prayed. It would be her turn soon. September was here. September 1692.
The wood came alive under Rhiannon’s fingertips, with warmth, with strength. Too late. Too late, as she hit the floor and darkness took her deeper into the violence and the pain.
Rhiannon openedher eyes in the shadows of her bedroom. She knew this ceiling. She had stared at it plenty of nights in the last weeks. It was perfect; not a crack or fissure marred the pale ivory. And despite all the work, all the familiarity, it felt foreign.
There was a sound coming from down the hall, and she stretched, her bones weary and still carrying the fatigue of a migraine. Absently she wondered how late it was. She must’ve fainted, and Lachlan was probably puttering in the apartment kitchen after carrying her upstairs. He had done so before.
