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How stupid my plan seems now. All for a piece of petty revenge!

I do not know for sure where the shawl lies; all I know is it’s gone. I dare not return to Lavender House to look for it. And I dare not think what Marko Klarin will do once he discovers it and identifies his thief.

Sinner, indeed! I will never hear the end of it. But oh God, what can I do?

And so I sit here by the candle, lamenting my decisions and awaiting my doom.

Four

Petra

June 2026

A sharp sound snaps me awake. Sunshine spills into the room, illuminating the dark silhouette of someone against the balcony doors.

Cold panic washes over me. I shoot up, heart hammering, but as soon as the figure turns, I see it’s Karmela. She says something, but the words slip past me, lost in the fear pulsing in my chest.

“You must keep the door closed,” she repeats, a tight edge to her voice. She fixes her wrinkled hand on the handle to emphasize her point. “Because of propuh. It will make you sick.”

Propuh. The meaning rises slowly from my memories. The draft. My mom was always adamant about the same thing, especially if I rolled down opposite windows in my car. God forbid wind hits you from two directions. I used to argue with her about it, but I’m not about to challenge my grandmother while staying in her home.

“Sorry,” I tell her in Croatian. “I was hot.”

She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “How did you sleep? Good?” Her eyebrows tilt up, her body tensing.

“Good,” I lie. No need to worry her with a bad dream.

Her shoulders relax. “Breakfast is ready.” She says something else while pointing to the crucifix above my bed.

“Crkva?” I repeat back the one word that sticks. Church.

Karmela nods. “At nine o’clock.” She pauses at the door, throwing the room a final glance before leaving.

I reach for my phone. It’s Sunday. I should have realized church would be a possibility. My mom used to attend regularly, but I stopped going when I was about sixteen. I couldn’t understand why God, who controlled all things, had let my dad die, leaving us on our own. My mom and I argued for weeks about it, until she eventually gave up. You are too stubborn, she’d said. All this talk of freedom here is getting to your head. But if I was too American about my ways, I blamed it on her. She was the reason, after all, I knew hardly anything about Croatia.

I did attend mass one more time though, for her funeral, three months ago.

Slowly, I roll out of bed. My limbs are stiff, the memory of last night’s dream still imprinted on my bones. Staring at the closed balcony doors, I think of clawing roots, my mom and her eyes like black pits. The shadow looming against the canopy, its hand reaching toward me.

Less than an hour later, Karmela and I make our way toward the center of town. As we walk, the steady toll of bells cuts through the air like a solemn call. Scattered groups of islanders trickle into the church, its white facade gleaming bright in the sunlight.

Heavy notes of incense overwhelm my senses as we enter. The interior is dim and the stuffy air echoes with people greeting each other, shuffling into wooden pews. Karmela leads me to the side, choosing a seat near the back.

She kneels and I awkwardly follow suit, the wooden beam digging into my knees. As she closes her eyes and prays, I take in my surroundings. The church has an archaic air, its high white walls adorned with darkly hued paintings, ornate candles, and statues of Jesus and Mary. Two nuns dressed in dark habits bustle around a small piano at the front. The pews are about half full, mostly with older people. I wonder if the majority of Tolba’s inhabitants left, like my mom did.

As I crane my head to get a better glimpse of the altar, I catch a few people staring at me. They whisper to those beside them, and more heads turn, their expressions ranging from curious to disturbed. Cheeks burning, I cast my head down.

We attract several more stares throughout the service, but Karmela doesn’t seem to notice, her attention fixed on the elderly priest up front. The mass is all in Croatian, and I stumble through the responses, doing my best to mimic Karmela.

When the service ends, I spot Luka as we file toward the entrance. He’s dressed in a nicer outfit than the day before, a white button-up and dark slacks, his hair swept back, though a few strands escape, brushing his cheek. When we reach the door, he holds it open for Karmela but then lets it shut in my face.

“Hey,” I say, shoving it open.

“Oh, sorry,” he says in English. “Didn’t see you there.”

Doubt it. But I say nothing, following Karmela down the steps.

I inhale a deep breath, grateful to be back in the open air. Everyone congregates in groups, chatting and laughing and waving, like a party has just commenced in the courtyard.