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The disdain in his voice struck something in me. Could it be we both shared an ambivalence toward God? I wasn’t sure, but one thing was clear—he cared deeply for his mother.

This was his proposal: I would come to see Ana when Marko wasn’t home. He frequently traveled on business, visiting perfumeries and factories. This I knew was true. I often saw him loading ships with large barrels of their oil.

But the idea still made me nervous. What if Marko found out? He’d made it plain enough he saw my work as devilry. What if he grew angry and suggested foul play, the same way he spread rumors about your hand in Otac’s death?

I didn’t say this, of course. And yet I think Nikola could sense my indecision. That was when he placed a purse on my table, saying it would be payment for my help. My eyes bulged at the sight of it. I could tell by the size alone it was far more than any of my nighttime shadows offered. “That’s only the first half. I can pay more if you succeed in healing her. And . . . you can have all the lavender you want.” The corner of his lips twitched when he said this, a gentle smirk that brightened his face and sent a strange tremor down my chest.

I almost snatched the purse right there and agreed. Thoughts flooded my mind with what I could do with that money. Repair the hole in the roof where the rain always seeped through. Buy a new dress, one without mends sewn over mends. Travel to the island where you were from, walk the beach where you met Otac, shipwrecked and alone—you know I’ve always wanted to see it. But I suppose something about losing your shawl, the fright it gave me, stayed my hand. Perhaps I’ve learned some temperance after all.

I thought to myself, Why should I help the Klarins? Nikola may not be as judgmental as his father, but I still do not know him. Any wrong move, and he could change his mind, label me as a conniving fraud, chase me off the island. And who would the people believe when it came down to it? The supposed witch-daughter or the Lavender Prince? I couldn’t help but feel that it was somehow a trick. That there was no way I could enter that house, as alluring as it is, and walk out with a winning hand.

Lie low. Don’t stir trouble. And this—this had to be trouble.

“I’ll think about it,” I told him. His jaw clenched. I could tell he wasn’t used to not getting his way. Let this be a lesson for him, then. I wanted him to know I’m not like Dobrila or the other women always fawning after him. I have a business, a livelihood to maintain, with nothing—no family nor savings—to catch me if I fall. I have to weigh the risks properly.

He requested I decide by end of day tomorrow. Marko was leaving on a trip the day after that, and so the house would be free for me to enter. I told him I would. Then, with one last look at the shelves, he left.

I still can’t believe it. My thoughts keep tumbling and crashing like the stormy sea. I’d wanted the jugo to bring me business, but I never imagined it would bring me something like this.

I’d better get some sleep. I hope that a new day will give me some perspective, help me decide what to do.

Though he is gone, his lavender scent lingers all around. Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll find this was all a dream.

Six

Petra

June 2026

Sunlight sears across my vision and the tang of salt fills my lungs. I don’t know where I’m going; all I know is that I need to get out of the house, far away from the suffocating stench of lavender.

I hug my chest as I wander through town. Even though it’s still early, there are already several young women sunbathing along the shore, their tanned bodies splayed out on towels over cement. A few stare as I pass, then whisper to each other. I ignore them, focusing instead on a boat drifting lazily across the horizon.

Inside me war two truths: The first—this island is truly beautiful in its rustic simplicity. A sluggish calm pervades the air, as if the cicadas and gentle waves weave together a song that slows the urgency of all things. I should love it here. It is my parents’ homeland, after all. And I’m with my grandmother. My family.

And yet . . . my trip isn’t going how I imagined. Everywhere I go, I sense a thrum of disapproval. I had hoped things would be better with Karmela, yet I’m pretty sure I upset her when I asked about my mom. Not to mention her decaying house. The idea of spending another night there, with its unnerving shadows and nameless saints leering down at me, intensifies the sweat dripping down my back. I suddenly miss my old bed back in San Francisco. At least there I didn’t feel constantly on edge.

Is it too soon to leave?

The thought haunts me as I approach an iron fence surrounding a small church and cemetery. I can’t leave yet, not without learning more about my dad.

The gate creaks loudly as I enter. I wander among the graves, searching the inscriptions, my feet gravitating toward a monument at the center with a stone cross. It’s the largest tomb in the cemetery, though time has worn its edges and grandeur. In bold letters, KLARIN is engraved, with Marko and Ana beneath. Nikola is also buried in the same tomb, and his partner, but the surface is so eroded I can’t make out the name.

Beside them is another grave, with more people who must be family. I scan the names, recognizing my grandfather Šime, until I finally find who I’m looking for:

JADRAN BABIĆ

1964–1997

Only thirty-three years old when he died. Though he’s surrounded by my other ancestors, I can’t help but feel melancholy at the idea he’s laid to rest so far from my mom. At least he is by the sea, the origin of his name—Jadransko More. I wait for some stronger emotion to come, tears perhaps, but nothing. My closest relative here yet a stranger.

As I study his grave, a peculiar sensation crawls up my neck—as if I’m being watched. Unbidden, I think of the shadow lurking in Karmela’s hallway, hunched shoulders and hanging black hair. I spin around, then jump.

Someone is there, watching me, but it’s only a man. He leans against the entrance of the church, smoking a cigarette. He must have been standing there the whole time.

“You the Klarin girl?” he says in brusque English. “Marija’s daughter?”

I falter. I suppose I could be considered a Klarin, though the title feels strange. “Yes. And you are?”