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All I must do is perform the exorcism tomorrow. At ten in the evening, I will go to his house. Save Ana. Save myself.

Please, Majko, pray for me. Let this all go well.

Twenty-Two

Petra

July 2026

When I return to the house, Karmela is gone, though she left a note saying she would be back soon. I assume she is off working on some other business concerning the gala. Eager to read the diary, I dart up to my room. Nestled in my bed, with the canopy drawn, I open the book once more.

It feels ancient and fragile in my hands, like it could fall apart at any moment. Gently, I peruse the pages. At the beginning is a long list of dates from the 1800s along with names. I skim over a few, doing my best to read the aged scrawl.

18. rujna 1893. Petar Ivanov. Trbušna gripa.

Slowly, my mind translates:

18 September 1893. Petar Ivanov. Stomach flu.

Intrigued, I read some more:

19 April 1894. Zora Lazarin. Muscle aches.

5 August 1894. Mira Novak. Depression.

It seems to be some kind of record of ailments. As I continue further down the page, a familiar name jumps out at me. Ines Bondulić. Ulcers. The same last name as Davor’s.

The first entry is dated December 1892. Normally I’d struggle to read so much Croatian at once, but in the same way my conversation has improved vastly during my trip, so has my reading.

Dear Majko,

I miss you. Life is terrible here without you, especially in winter, when I have nothing but the cold to keep me company. But after this last Christmas, I had an idea. I remembered how you said you and Otac used to write letters whenever he was away. So I decided to buy this book to keep as a diary. It is almost the same. I will write, and you will read from up in Heaven. That way, I can feel like you are still here, sitting by the hearth, listening as I share my life.

I think it will be good to keep account of my customers as well. I am tired of the people here acting like I am some witch-daughter in their midst. Let this diary be proof of their duplicity.

Majko. It seems when the mora—Magdalena—first started writing in this diary, she had recently lost her mom. My chest twists uncomfortably as I think of my own loss. But this is the mora we are talking about—the creature that has haunted my bedroom, giving me nightmares and sleep paralysis. That killed my dad and threatens Luka.

I read the next entry, dated in January. Magdalena explains a simple interaction. A person named Miroslava visited her, asking for a balm for her joints. She describes the remedy—a salve made of arnica and beeswax. When I check the ledger at the beginning of the book, sure enough, Miroslava’s name is at the top.

I flip through the entries, reading a few more. Most of them are simple, focusing on a person who came to her with some illness or injury, or they’re about how she spent her day, collecting different herbs on the island, selling remedies at some kind of market. Using the dates in the ledger as a guide, I search for the entry about the person with the same last name as Davor. There are multiple, actually. It seems Ines Bondulić was a regular customer.

My breath hitches when I discover someone with the last name of Andrin, same as Luka’s. Željko Andrin seemed to be a fisherman who came to Magdalena for help managing his seasickness.

I turn the pages, eager to read more. But it would take me far too long—days—to read every entry front to back. I need to focus on finding some mention of Nikola Klarin. I scan several pages until, finally, one of the entries makes my heart jump.

14 June 1895

Dear Majko,

I am a dead woman.

I should’ve known better—there is plenty of lavender on the south shore, enough for my uses. Lie low. Don’t stir trouble, you always told me. And here I went, thieving from Lavender House, from the most powerful family on the island.

The balcony door bursts open, crashing against the wall with a loud clatter. I jolt, almost dropping the diary. Was that the wind? The house trembles and groans, as if shifting on its foundation. Above the vanity, the portrait of the Virgin Mary glares at me with her large doe eyes, her gaze accusing. Somehow, I sense the house is displeased.

This only makes me want to read the diary more—to discover the reason for its distaste. And so, settling deeper into my pillow, I begin.

I read about Magdalena’s fear of being caught for taking the lavender. Nikola’s request to have her heal his mother. Magdalena’s decision to accept.