Page 60 of The Secrets of Roan Island

“It’s not an excuse,” I say in response to Shemaiah and my own thoughts.

“I know.”

I look up and find him staring at the table as if he’s seeing through it. For a moment, his mask slips, and he looks as haunted as Noah.

We eat in silence for a while, and it’s not unpleasant. While Jafeth is entertaining, Shemaiah is the brother I’ve grown most comfortable around. He’s a calming presence in the midst of a chaotic and potentially lethal situation.

“Can I ask you something about my research?”

“Of course.” He wipes his hands on a napkin before leaning back.

“So, your great-great-grandmother was human, turned Mavarri, but how did her husband know it would work? How did any of the Mavarri know that the venom on Solstice would turn a human?”

Shemaiah gets up and saunters to the bookshelves. He returns a few moments later with a large book that looks older than the rest. The cover is carved wood, the pages worn thin. He sets it in front of me and opens to a page with intricate script lettering and painted images in the margins.

“This is our origin story.”

In typical Shemaiah fashion, not giving more information than needed, he leaves me to my research, with only a final warning to remind Noah to join them for dinner.

I put the translation glasses back on and start reading.

Silence settles over the room as I read about the Mavarri origin goddess—Mirrav—creating the fifteen clans, one of which was the Roan. She then tasked each of the fifteen to move through the cosmos to transform other intelligent creatures into Mavarri, which was done through venom.

I lean back, removing the glasses, my eyes fixating on the words that blur together as I process what I’ve read. It explains why they would even begin to try changing humans to Mavarri. Maybe even explains Hammish’s desperation to continue hisrace and lineage—if he thinks it’s the first and foremost mandate from his goddess, his actions make a lot more sense. It must have just been trial and error that made them figure out their venom was different during Summer and Winter Solstice. What I can’t figure out is whether the transformation used to always work and now always fails, or if what Hammish seems to believe is true, and it’s just a matter of finding the right person.

“I’m missing something,” I say, sitting forward to pick up a journal from Noah’s great-great-grandmother I was reading earlier.

I’m so engrossed in my task that I don’t hear Noah until he says my name.

The way he says it is a prayer, like he’s begging for something he doesn’t dare ask for.

I’ve been careful to keep distance between us, but Noah has been even more careful, as if afraid. He’s also been excessively accommodating, which I’ve found slightly annoying, if a touch nice. This is the first time he’s initiated conversation since he locked me in that cold, deathly room.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” he says, “but… would you stay in the morgue while I’m at dinner?”

“No. Absolutely not.” I hold his gaze. “We have the bell. I’ll be fine.”

He sighs and sits down in the chair next to me. “I thought you might say that.”

“You’re not going?”

He rubs his eyes as if they hurt as much as mine do from the strain of researching.

“You have to go, Noah. Solstice is in a few days. We can’t afford Hammish getting suspicious.”

“I can’t afford to waste time eating when I still haven’t found a solution.” His voice rises, but the anger there quickly dissipates. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my frustration out onyou.” He runs his hands through his already disheveled hair, then rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for all of it. That you’re stuck here, in danger. That I locked you up instead of trusting you to make your own choice. That I’m not smart enough to solve this and save these women.” He covers his face with his hands, shoulders curling in.

This is a completely different side of Noah than I’ve seen before. A vulnerable, broken side I doubt he’s shown to anyone else. We haven’t talked about him locking me up, about us, since it first happened. We’ve both been too absorbed in our tasks. We’ve tiptoed around one another, afraid to break, afraid to break each other.

But I can see it now. Noah’s already broken.

The death, the struggle, his inability to find the solution. All of it has torn him apart and refashioned him into the man bent over himself at a loss.

“Noah,” I say quietly, turning toward him. My knees graze his thigh.

His muscles tense, but he doesn’t look at me, his head still in his hands, his hair a riot around his fingers. He suddenly twists in his seat, taking my hands in his. A wild, unguarded look transforms his features. “I need to fix this.” He shakes his head, as if unwilling to voice his fears that it might be unfixable. His eyes shine with emotion.

I swallow down my own.

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