Page 23 of The Secrets of Roan Island

“There are things–” I stop, wanting to unburden myself, but am unable to.

“Not interested,” she snaps and tugs, only this time, her foot slips on the wet wood. She tips back on the edge of the rickety dock, and before I can think better of it, my arms are around her, faster than an impulse.

I catch her just before she falls into the freezing water, body nearly parallel with the waves.

“What –” She looks shocked. “How?”

But I can’t think. The wind has whipped her scent into a heady concoction that’s gone straight into me. My teeth ache. My hands curl. My pulse jumps. We’re nearing the new moon, but this visceral response is new. I’m edging a tipping point I might not be able to come back from.

I snap upright.

“Noah?”

It’s like a slap to the face. I let go and take a step back. “Be careful,” I growl and glare at the waves, wondering what’s holding up the boat.

“What are you doing out here?” Jafeth comes down the path like he’s out for a normal afternoon stroll, hands in his pockets, whistling. His black clothing is too stark against the palette ofwinter around him, highlighting the dark danger within. He smiles in response to my scowl.

“We’re waiting for the boat.”

He wears our father’s grin, as if this is all just a game to him. “You missed it. It came and went over an hour ago.”

I grind my teeth together. Someone changed the boat’s schedule. And they’ll pay for it.

13

Ruby

Noah is calling yet another boat to take me back. He didn’t say when it would come, but I have no doubt it’ll be soon. He doesn’t understand what going back empty-handed will do to my career, how shaky my footing really is at the university. But what can I do? He refuses to listen to reason.

And he callsmestubborn.

Sighing, I try to focus on the book Shemaiah gave me my first day here. It’s such a dull account of the history of the island that it normally puts me to sleep within minutes, which is what I need. It’s well past midnight, and I’m still worked up from the ordeal with Noah on the dock. The way he caught me. The raw strength of his arms around me. He was so fast. So steady.

And so infuriating.

The thin pages of the book slip through my fingers as I look for where I left off.

Originally called San Vertu, Roan Island was inhabited long before the founding of New Essik. The first knownvisitors to the island found a single elaborate estate already long established. The people spoke a strange tongue, though they learned our language with a quick fluidity that shocked any who met them. There are rumors of strange occurrences happening on the island. Some say they saw monsters. Others claim to have seen gods. And there are some that speak of parties that might better be called orgies that lasted weeks and left the line of propriety far behind. Many call it The Devil’s Playground.

Now it’s getting interesting. Curious, I mark my spot with my thumb, turn to the front page, and note the publication date. The book is older than it seems. Published only fifty years after the founding of New Essik almost three centuries ago. Returning to where I left off, I realize the next ten pages or so have been ripped out. The next complete chapter is back to describing the topography, vegetation, and wildlife found on the island.

Irritated, I throw the book onto the bed, where it bounces and hits the floor with a thud.

This is ridiculous. If there’s a chance this will be my last night at the Roan estate, I won’t spend it reading about different kinds of moss and the effect crickets had on the island’s ecosystem.

There’s a reason the eldest Roan brother wants me to leave so badly. And I think it has something to do with that forbidden hallway. Noah’s warning challenges my curiosity and consumes me with the desire to take a closer look. Yes, this will be much better than reading. One final rebellion against Mr. Noah Roan’s high-handed demands.

Throwing off the covers, I climb out of bed, pull a pair of leather riding pants from the armoire, and lace them closed.

“Stay out of this hallway,” I mimic with mock indignation, tugging on boots and moving to the mirror to make sure theseam of the pants is in place, though why I care is another matter. It isn’t as if anyone will see me.

“What are you hiding?” I mutter, turning away from the mirror.

My heart beats frantically as I grab the candelabra on my nightstand, then press my ear to the door. I listen for footsteps or the murmur of conversation, but hear only silence.

Easing the door open—slower this time, remembering the way it squeals—I sneak back to the forbidden corridor. Unsure what I’m looking for, but certain it’s something Noah doesn’t want me to find.

My instincts zip with awareness as I begin a careful inspection of the portrait hall. Working from painting to painting, I trace both hands over the frames, searching for secret doorways or stashes behind them. These old houses always hide those kinds of things, don’t they?

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