Yet he’s here.
“We are quite self-sufficient,” I assure him, laughing like it’s a joke. He chuckles in a reflex of civility. “You asked where my father went. I admit it’s an unnecessary trip, but my father dotes on me.”
Douglas stifles a laugh, and I nearly break my carefully crafted mask.What would he do if he knew the truth, that if I got caught and killed, he’d be free?
“How so, Miss Douglas?”
The kettle screams, making us both jump. I fetch a mitt and bring it to the kitchen. I’m straining out the leaf dregs and pouring two cups when a pang of infernal hunger hits me deep in the belly. I grip the counter and swallow it down. The monstrous power Mr. Pratterman gifted me with—our contract—remains. I swallow my disappointment with a gulp of scalding tea after handing the interloper his own.
Mr. Croxton is in far worse danger than I am. I flick my gaze to Douglas as though considering the question, biting my lip to signal and flicking my eyes down.It’s happening again.
“It is my birthday tomorrow. Twenty,” I lie. I take slow breaths between my teeth to center myself. “He’s fetching gifts from relatives.”
I should’ve said I’m older. I don’t look twenty. Not before we left and certainly not after a year on the island has covered me in muscle and weather lines. Will he connect me to the missing twenty-four- and eighteen-year-olds on the posters in town?
“Congratulations! What date will that be?” Mr. Croxton asks, smiling. “A Monday, but I can’t recall the number offhand.”
No one forgets their birthday. A test or good-natured conversation? His hand drums on his pantleg like tapping against my own skull, and he smacks his lips unpleasantly every time he sips his tea.
Heightened senses. The deep mechanisms of the island’s spiral heart are connecting to me after months at rest. The first small, oily tendrils wriggle up between the floorboards and twist around my legs. I itch for the knife again or to sharpen my nails and disembowel the man who’s asked the most innocuous question I can imagine.
“He wishes to be murdered!” Douglas exclaims, throwing his hands up. “Fool! Damn fool! And you bear my name as you do it, you miserable fiend of a woman.”
“October twenty-first,” I say, confident. The anniversary of my parents’ death, our escape, and my replacement of James Douglas as lighthouse keeper to Devils Island? I’ll never forget.
I take another sip, and the heat is much less noticeable compared to my warming skin. “Is the society your primary employment?”
Mr. Croxton picks up his cup again. Its dark surface ripples. Is it the gathering storm? A tremble to his hands? Or the island’s stirring? “Not at present. The society doesn’t have the means to employ more than a handful of staff.”
He takes a sip. I could’ve poisoned it. There are countless substances one can add to tea without detection. Mr. Croxton may suspect something is afoot, but I’ve succeeded at playing young, simple Miss Douglas enough not to be an immediate threat. If all he suspects is my “father,” no one will die tonight. The island’s disappointment plunges my stomach into cramps. They’re nearly enough to loosen my unsteady hold on my humanity.
“What else do you do, Mr. Croxton? If you don’t mind me asking.” I smile broadly, as though I were the sort of girl who likes to smile at young men. Does he notice my flared nostrils, the only physical marker of pain that slips through?
“You must send him out,” Douglas interjects. “It won’t be long now.”
A cold draft runs across my spine, pricking my heating body.
Mr. Croxton sets down his tea, nearly drained already. “I’m apprenticing as a glassblower, miss.”
“Why did you join the society?” I ask.
“Do you need the boy’s entire history before you?” Douglas demands from across the room. “He’s not suspicious. Let him go.”
I’d tell Douglas I want to ensure no threat’s been missed. But I won’t kid myself. Hot, slick tendrils flow through my bloodstream, urging me to keep the glassblower. Devour him.
“My father.” Mr. Croxton sits straighter and glances at the door. “Hehelped write the letter asking the lieutenant governor for support. He’s been sick, so I’ve taken on some of his tasks.”
“A good man,” Douglas asserts. He can’t know that. “He may have a family. A wife who loves him. Children waiting for him to come home.”
Mr. Croxton has come to the island on a Sunday and doesn’t wear a ring on the hand clutching the teacup. His apprenticeship will have him wait at least a week before investigating further, if he’s telling the truth. I need more time and more information.
“Girl,” Douglas all but growls, “scare him off or I will.”
Maybe he can, using the small tricks within a ghost’s grasp of the living world.
I picture Liney upstairs and shivering. The hunger doesn’t lessen, but I can distance it a little.
“I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Croxton, and thank you for answering my pestering questions.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear as though bashful while I take the cup and saucer back from him. I settle them on the kitchen counter beside the knife. “My father won’t return tonight. I fear the storm may delay him and endanger you, should you stay.”
