Page 83 of The Secret of the Three Fates
I dared a glance back to the severely reefed mainsail. It was holding at least. A small mercy granted by the storm. This little skiff would not survive a second wave like the last without cracking in two. Though I wasn’t sure which would be worse—to be swallowed up by a wave, or to have the tiny vessel be torn apart, timber by timber, beneath us.
I lost my footing a time or two but by the grace of Ruan’s old gods, we kept speed, steady and straight toward the island.
Somewhere from the darkest recesses of my memory my mother’s voice came to me, bringing back the lessons she’d taught me during those summer months we’d spend sailing together through the Great Lakes. We’d been surprised a time or two by a dangerous squall, but never before did I get the distinct sense that the seas wanted me dead.
Stay to the flats, my darling. Stay to the flats and you’ll see this through.
That’s my girl.
You’re almost there.
Over and over her voice echoed in my mind as my body moved of its own accord. Weathering a storm that we had no hope to survive.
They will not take either of you today.
I kept my eye on the rocky inlet where the ferryman had docked earlier this week. The distance between us and it quickly disappearing. We were close enough to the pier, I could make out the waves crashing against the rocks on either side. I spat out the salty water and remained focused on the shore, on the last steady thing in the world.
“Ruan, can you tie a line?” I shouted into the wind.
He growled something in response that did not sound reassuring, but I took it as agreement all the same. I pointed out the rope lying wet by my feet. “You take the bitter end in your good hand, when we get near, loop it over the piling and then—” But before I could finish my rudimentary sailing lesson, a large wave tossed the skiff onto the shore.
It seemed the sea did the job for us.
The force of the impact threw the both of us into the shallows. A sharp pain shot through my knee, where it struck the rocks below. I stood, reaching back for Ruan, jerking him to his feet as another wave struck us.
Only sheer stubbornness kept us upright. I grabbed the bowline from the little skiff, tugging it toward the dock before climbing up and securing the craft as best I could.
I turned back to dry land to see Ruan there, left palm on the ground, retching up the contents of his stomach. He crouched on the ground, before looking up at me, his coloring as gray as the stormy seas.
“I swear to the gods, never again, Ruby Vaughn.” He spat out more bile as he drew himself to standing, and shook his head, water droplets flying from his hair.
I grabbed ahold of a spare bit of line someone had carelessly left wrapped around a nearby piling, and tossed it to Ruan, who caught it in his free hand and slung it over his uninjured shoulder.
As I turned to walk away, down the path to the house, he started to mutter to himself in Cornish, and I distinctly heard the wordMorvorenfollowed by what I’d come to understand as a term of frustration. Perhaps I didn’t want to learn Cornish after all.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVEAnd into the Fire
WHENI last left the Isle of May, I’d not expected to return this soon. Nor had the jagged stones jutting out of the sea seemed as ominous. I’d foolishly believed the killer would be at Manhurst and that Mr. Owen would be safe here with the duke and the thousands of seabirds. But the more I unraveled the secret held by the Three Fates, the clearer it became that Mr. Owen was somehow at the center of it all. Mr. Owen and these Eurydiceans. He’d disavowed the secretive club before, but I had seen the negative. A negative bearing the likeness of someone who looked an awful lot like him disturbing the goings-on.
I blew out a breath. It couldn’t be him. It justcouldn’t.Why scratch out the faces of everyone but himself? Mr. Owen was meticulous and calculating. If heweregoing to be involved in nefarious dealings he’d certainly not leave incriminating evidence behind.
Ruan touched my elbow, and I spun to face him. “What?”
“Are you well?”
“You were the one vomiting up your breakfast and you ask ifIam well?” I choked back a laugh, gesturing widely at the stormyseas behind us. “Ruan, in the last week we’ve both been shot, I’ve nearly drowned us, and now we’re trying to keep Mr. Owen from getting killed—so no, Ruan, I’m not well. But I am doing my best.” I turned back around and continued storming up the muddy path toward the house. The trail forked, one way rutted and leading to the cliffs, the other to the house and the old lighthouse that still served as a beacon after all these years. Ruan stopped me again.
“This is not the time for your overprotective tenden—”
“Look.” He pointed with two fingers at the mud. It had been recently churned up, with clear evidence of struggle. There were at least three different sets of footprints there.
I stooped down to get a better look and spied a thin gold chain nearly swallowed by the muck. I lifted it from the filth with my fingers and looked over my shoulder to where Ruan towered behind me. “What do you make of it?”
He sniffed, wiping the rain from his face with his uninjured arm. “Shall we see where the tracks lead?”
I nodded, pocketing the chain, and continued, following the single heavier pair of tracks up onto the cliffs. The storm showed no signs of abating as we moved higher up the slope against the icy rain. Teeth chattering, I withdrew Mr. Owen’s revolver from the holster.
Ruan made a sharp sound, and I stopped, noticing a familiar shepherd’s crook laying in the mud beside us, half covered by wet leaves—likely kicked off the path and into the windswept underbrush before the storm set in. There was a distinct reddish streak down one side. Blood, and recent too.
