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Perhaps that wretched dog didn’t snatch the shawl. Or the wind blew it away from the house. Perhaps I didn’t lose it in the field, but somewhere on the way home. Yes, that could be it. I should go check the bakery. I passed it during my mad flight. Some fresh air will do me good anyway, help to settle my nerves.

It seems bad luck has found me again. There was no sign of the shawl between here and the bakery, though I searched all along the road, the bushes and trees. Giving up, I went inside as a line was already forming. While I awaited my turn, I suddenly smelled it. Lavender.

Oh, how my heart jumped! I thought, Here he is! Marko Klarin has found me! But when I turned around, it was only Dobrila. She is always wearing the perfumes the Klarins make with their oil, the ones with an overpoweringly sweet undertone. To attract your summer love, they say, like Marko did with Ana. What a ridiculous notion. Lavender is for healing—not for attracting a mate like some animal. But at that moment, I was a little relieved. I’d take her over Marko.

Dobrila was dressed so finely in a pale blue dress I hadn’t seen before. Her family’s olive oil business must be doing well, a fact that fills me with bitterness against my own lean pockets. Still, nothing could distract from that nose of hers, too big at the end.

Of course, she spoke to me. She never misses an opportunity to sour my day.

Don’t worry, I was polite. “Good morning, Dobrila. How are you?” I said in my most cordial voice. She had her usual nasty quips—asking if it was me who summoned the jugo wind. I brushed them off as best I could. But then she said she saw me running in the rain the night before. I had been sprinting so fast I hadn’t noticed anyone on the road. But I did pass by her home. She must have seen me from the window.

She asked what I had been doing. I told her I was merely trying to get home, to escape the storm. “Trying to get home from where?” Her blue eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Paying Branko a visit?” She always teases me about him, as if he is the only person ugly enough to take me. I hate that she is right.

I grew hot all over. I wanted to slap her. Tell her to mind her own business. You know how you said the Devil lurks in the shadows, ready to tempt us from God and the rightful path? Well, Dobrila makes it especially hard to resist. Luckily, at just that moment, a spot opened at the counter. So I took my bread and left, leaving her with no answer. I had bigger things to worry about than her petty remarks.

I will spend the rest of the day cleaning and reorganizing the home. Anything to keep Marko Klarin off my mind.

Hours have passed. Night has fallen and it is raining again. Perhaps I am free. Surely he would’ve come by—

Someone is at the door. Pray for me.

My hands are still shaking as I write this. I do not know how to describe what just happened. I cannot believe it still. But it is alright—I am not ruined. Rather, an opportunity has arisen.

It was a Klarin at the door, but not Marko. It was his son, Nikola, instead. I didn’t recognize him at first in the darkness—he is taller than Marko, leaner. The rain had plastered his hair to his face. He must have walked all the way to my home without any covering. He didn’t even have a coat. For a moment, I thought perhaps he was some confused or drunken villager who had gotten lost, for not many venture to this side of town unless they are visiting the cemetery. But then he asked if I was Magdalena, daughter of Vera and Frane Derokov. It’s been so long since I’ve heard your and Otac’s names spoken aloud.

I realized then who he was and nodded, for my voice had retreated deep down my throat.

“I believe you lost this,” he said, holding something up in his hands.

My heart nearly stopped. It was your shawl. So damp with rain that the bright red looked like blood.

“May I come in?” he asked.

My mouth hung open; I didn’t know what to say. It was improper for him to enter alone, though it certainly wasn’t an issue with Branko. I could see no choice. I couldn’t turn away the heir of the most powerful family on the island. Perhaps I could apologize and sway him. And so, somehow, I found my voice and let him in. He smelled faintly of lavender, but it wasn’t overwhelming or sweet, like the perfume Dobrila wore. It had a more masculine, woodsy undertone.

I’ll admit I’d never seen him so close. The Lavender Prince, the women at the market often call him. I’d heard plenty of their gossip. How handsome he is with his broad shoulders, dark hair, and sea-blue eyes. How striking they are against his tanned skin. How he must be in want of a wife soon, seeing as he was almost twenty-nine. All traits the ladies found perfectly favorable, sending them all atwitter whenever he walked by.

I could see that the women were right—about his appearance at least. He is handsome, though he didn’t look so princely, not tonight. It’s hard to describe the expression in his eyes, the way they flashed like a storming sea. They were almost . . . crazed. A look I had only seen in my most desperate customers.

When he gave me back the shawl, I apologized profusely. Told him how my supply of lavender was low, that I needed to replenish it quickly before the storm came in, in order to help my customers. But he waved away my explanations with a curt gesture of his hand. “I’m not angry,” he said, almost annoyed. And then . . . he just stood there for a while. Looking at my shelves. Studying all the jars and herbs. I was about to offer him some coffee when he asked, “What kind of healing do you do?”

I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it some sort of test? A challenge set by his father, to gauge the true intentions of my work? I grew nervous once more, my palms moistening with sweat. But he didn’t have the same judgmental face his father always wore. Rather, he gazed at me as if I was some kind of . . . strange creature he had never seen before. Even though we had crossed paths many times at the harbor, at church. I thought at least he would know something of me from his father’s snide comments, but perhaps even then I wasn’t important enough for him to truly take notice.

Anyway, he asked the question again, and so I answered. Headaches, stomachaches, fevers, fatigue, nausea, depression . . . all kinds of ailments of the mind and body. I asked why he’d come. And that’s when he told me his mother is sick.

A memory came to me then. A few weeks ago, some women in church whispering about Ana, how pale she looked. I hadn’t thought anything of it.

I asked if he’d taken his mother to see Doctor Mandić. He said they had, but none of his cures were working. Yet again the doctor’s expertise was failing. I hid my pleasure at that.

I inquired more about Ana’s illness. According to Nikola, she’s been sick for approximately two months. Her body aches and her stamina is weak. She can move about for only part of the day and spends the rest in bed. She doesn’t sleep well anymore, suffering from bad dreams. They had taken her to a doctor on the mainland, who recommended she stay there awhile. But Ana didn’t want to. She couldn’t bear to be far from home, from her family. So they were discouraged, running out of options. But then last night, when he found my shawl, he realized there was one avenue they had not yet tried.

Me.

When I understood this—what he was asking—I just stood there, too stunned to speak. Nikola Klarin, heir to the wealthiest home on the island, the Lavender Prince, wanted my help? I couldn’t believe my luck. But then I remembered his father.

“Marko is okay with this?” I asked.

It took him a moment to answer. “No.” What he said next surprised me. “If it were up to him, he would leave my mother’s fate in the hands of God. He may be content to watch my mother waste away while he prays in church every Sunday, but I prefer to act.”