Page 83

But at Karmela’s hopeful look, my resistance fades. She is still my grandmother. My only family. And this is still the place where my mom grew up, where I found some belonging. I can manage this small favor.

“Alright,” I reply reluctantly.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. Her expression darkens as she turns toward the window. She mutters a curse as she moves closer. “It’s jugo. A bad wind,” she explains. “It better not rain tomorrow.”

I follow, peering outside. Dark clouds gather over the lavender field, casting an ominous shadow over the flowers.

As I stare at the gloomy scene, something white roving through the grass draws my attention. Rex is patrolling the garden, sniffing at a patch of freshly disturbed dirt. A memory flickers, how I’d seen him at the foot of the stairs just before I went out to the workshop that night. Right after I finished reading the diary.

I hurriedly change out of the dress. While Karmela gets ready for bed, I quietly slip downstairs. Snatching a biscuit, I dash to the garden and wave it in the air. “Come here, Rex.” I toss it into the field, and he darts after it eagerly.

I seize one of Karmela’s gardening shovels and start digging, working quickly before Karmela can notice. It doesn’t take long before a glimpse of red peeks through.

The diary.

My hands tremble as I pull it from the dirt. So that’s where it went. Why did Rex hide it? I wipe away the grime as best I can, then flip through the pages. An overwhelming sense of relief courses through me. I’m not going mad. The diary does exist. Magdalena’s story is true.

I’m about to rush inside to show Karmela when a thought makes me hesitate. What if she refuses to read it? Or worst of all, what if she destroys it?

I can’t let that happen. This diary is valuable beyond words. I must let the truth be known, but I don’t know if I can trust Karmela to help me do that.

And then, like a burst of light breaking through the clouds, I understand what I need to do. Magdalena had said she asked Nikola to tell the islanders the truth, but he refused. Karmela wants me to speak at the gala. This could be my chance to make things right. To finally let the truth be known. To put Magdalena—the mora—to rest.

A hint of shame streaks through me as the plan takes form in my mind. Just upstairs, I had contemplated leaving. As much as I detest the truth of my family history, the burden of what my ancestors did, I can’t just run away, like my mom did. She may have only been trying to protect me, but this history belongs to me now, whether I like it or not. And to claim it, I must accept it all—the bright and beautiful, but also the dark and ugly.

Clutching the diary to my chest, I head back inside. This time, I would not let it out of my sight.

Interlude

All is ready.

The tables are set. The decorations are hung. The lavender buds swell in full bloom, like dancers on the cusp of a performance, poised to impress. Tomorrow, the guests will come, the curtains will lift, and the full splendor of Lavender House will be revealed.

And the people will fall in love once more.

A hush sweeps over the island, the air thrumming with anticipation. A strong wind snakes through the field, rustling the brittle flowers. In the garden, a bocce ball knocks hard against another. The sharp clack echoes through the night—like a signal, a starting call.

Let the festivities begin.

Thirty-Six

Petra

July 2026

The vibrant melody of a mandolin floats in through the balcony door. Through the lace curtains, I see the garden outside bustling with guests. The Lavanda Gala started about a half hour ago and is already in full swing. Yet I can’t bring myself to go down.

I stand before the vanity, smoothing the fabric of my gown. A crown of baby’s breath and lavender sprigs sits atop my head; Karmela surprised me with it when her floral centerpieces were delivered via ferry that morning. It matches the gown well, giving my outfit an ethereal and romantic feel.

My hand instinctively flits to my purse. I lift the flap to reveal the diary inside. Still there. I’ve been checking on it all day, fearful it might disappear once more.

I pull it out, ensuring the pieces of paper I’d tucked inside are still there too. I’d spent the entire night agonizing over what I would say at the gala. I can only hope that telling Magdalena’s story to the island—her true story—will appease her and finally put her soul to rest.

Footsteps thud up the stairs. I quickly stash the diary back in my purse just before Karmela’s face pokes through the door. “Petra? What are you doing up here? You should come down.”

Her dress shimmers as she enters the room, and for a moment, I’m speechless, captivated by the sight of her. She’s wearing black, as she said she would, but dark beads shimmer across the fabric and her head is bare of its usual kerchief. Instead, her white hair is twisted into a delicate updo. Rosy blush contours her olive skin, and gold hooped earrings with a dangling pearl hang from her ears.

“What?” she asks, fretting with the fabric of her gown. “Is there something on my dress?”