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“Bullshit?” Davor cuts in. “I bet her father thought the same. It’s foolish of you to spend so much time with her when you know what could happen. Everyone knows not to love a Klarin.”

My face burns at the mention of love. “What does he mean?” I ask Luka.

Luka hesitates, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “They say it’s the people your family loves she targets,” he murmurs.

I stare at him, my blood going cold. How had I not realized that before? My dad, my grandfather—both brought to Lavender House through marriage.

Then I think of the woman just now, hiding within the fortress. The blood in the water at the cove. The shadow in the photo I took of Luka. Has she been watching all along? Does she think we’re in love?

Is she after Luka?

“But it doesn’t matter,” Luka says quickly, sensing my shock. “The mora isn’t real.”

“You calling us liars?” the man—Tomo—says.

Luka straightens, his body bristling. The men across from us move closer, crackling like kindling, ready to burn. I, on the other hand, stand frozen, Davor’s words hovering over me. I suddenly feel foolish for wanting to fit in, when all this time the islanders harbored this secret resentment. Why didn’t Luka tell me sooner?

Davor’s voice cuts through the air. “It’s best you leave, like your mom,” he says, turning around. Before he walks away, he mutters in English, “You cursed bitch.”

Luka lunges forward, and I quickly snatch at his shirt. “Stop!”

He obeys, though his fists remain clenched. The group of people cower back, but their frightened eyes aren’t trained on Luka—they’re all on me.

As I scan their faces, cold understanding sweeps over me. No matter how fond I’ve grown of Tolba, it will never be fond of me. I will always be an outsider, someone who doesn’t belong. Either the oblivious American tourist . . . or a dangerous omen. I suddenly know, all too well, how my mom could want to leave this place, and never come back.

Luka starts to say something, but I don’t want to hear it. Whatever fragile peace I’ve managed to find here has shattered.

“Leave me alone.” As I walk away, my steps gradually pick up pace, faster and faster, until I’m running, the words cursed bitch chasing after me.

Fifteen

Magdalena

25 June 1895

Forgive me for not writing more the past few days. I’ve been too tired after my visits to Lavender House, for each night after spending time with Ana, I have been with Nikola in his workshop, learning to make oils with his still.

I’ve grown quite fond of it there. With the lanterns all around, herbs scenting the air, and the soft rhythm of crickets outside. When I’m there, it is as though the rest of the world falls away and we are floating as our own island, where I am not some witch-daughter or pariah. I am simply . . . Magdalena. And he is Nikola.

He has shared with me many things, not only about the science of plants and perfumery. For example, just yesterday I joked that the other women of the island would be jealous of my private lessons, for they often gossiped of him—I said “other women,” though I meant Dobrila. And this prompted him to confess that they wouldn’t admire him so much if they knew the true inheritance waiting for them if he married. He implied that Marko has a gambling problem, losing their money as quickly as he earns it. It is not hard to imagine—even on Tolba, Marko is often at the kavana, playing cards with the merchants and sailors. It is a terrible secret, and yet I am glad Nikola felt comfortable enough with me to share it. Perhaps he told me only because I am not important enough to matter—who would believe me anyway? But I think it is something else, something growing between us, in the communion of our minds, in the way he only ever laughs in that space, with me.

It seems I have much to say about Nikola Klarin. You can infer from that what you will.

But what I really meant to write about when I opened this diary tonight was Ana. She has been improving, her body less stiff and her stamina stronger, but she told me something very troubling tonight. So troubling that I feigned tiredness after our session so that I could come straight home and think. I am still too frightened to admit the wild thoughts dashing across my mind—perhaps I am wrong, my hunch misguided in some way . . .

Let me record what happened exactly, so that I might make sense of it.

When I went to Lavender House earlier this evening, Nikola told me that Ana had been restless and irritable all day. Cleaning, rearranging furniture, ordering Antula around. When he asked her what was wrong, she wouldn’t say, but he suspects it was a postcard they had received from Marko. He had written to say that he would be coming back a few days later than originally planned, on the second of July. He learned of a new perfumery in a neighboring town, so he had decided to visit there to see if they were interested in his oils. I was secretly grateful for this extension, for it gave me more time with Ana—and Nikola—but I knew from her loneliness that this had likely dampened her spirit, maybe reversed some of the healing progress we had made. Even from afar, Marko is causing me trouble.

And so I braced myself as we entered the bedroom. Ana was pacing around, and several pieces of clothing were strewed about the room—it seemed she had been trying on many outfits. Antula stood in one corner, her expression a bit dazed.

“Magdalena, what a relief,” Ana said as soon as she saw me. She dismissed Antula, who seemed grateful for the reprieve. She cast me a wide berth as she fled the room.

Once Nikola left, I asked if she wanted to lie down for her massage, but she replied, “Could you brush and braid my hair? Antula never does it right. She is far too clumsy, and I think your hands will do a better job.”

“I can try,” I told her.

She sat down at her vanity. She was wearing a beautiful powder-blue gown that brought out the gold in her hair. She looked lovely, with a bit of pink to her cheeks that I wasn’t sure was makeup or a lingering flush from her busy day.