CAGE SLOWLY TRACED HIS FINGERTIPS along the strands of Mae’s hair, not touching her, but close. Asleep like this, with her back to him, she almost looked like Ro, and he wanted to lie down beside her. But her hair was longer than Ro’s, and she was smaller. She was darker than Ro too. It wasn’t just her eyes, it was her gaze itself—like she was constantly measuring the world and had found it lacking. Ro saw the world as her own ocean, ready to be mapped, but Mae saw riptides and currents and whirlpools and knew to be cautious. She wasn’t a girl who touched or let you touch her. Like an animal that way, like water that slipped through your fingers.
He reached out again to wake her. His hand grazed her cheek this time, close enough to feel the heat from her skin. She stirred, but her eyes stayed closed, her canvas bag under her head like a pillow, a flashlight tucked into her pocket. After he’d apologized for throwing the glass, Mae had talked to him for what felt like hours, trying to help him remember what happened on that last day with Ro. He’d been telling her about the hospital when he realized she’d fallen asleep next to him.
He got to his feet, deciding to let her rest. Then he strode up to the sailboat and hoisted himself onto the deck. If what Lance said was true, this might have been the last place Ro’d been alive. Had he lost his temper, hurt her? Why was that day a blank? Think. Think! He ran his hand over the wheel, the cubby’s small hatch. The shadowy deck was like being underwater, swimming through a sunken ship.
He hopped down from the railing and onto the cement. Mae was still sleeping in the shadows, except something felt wrong about it. Ro should be lying here with him, not Mae. She might be the only person in the world on his side, but Ro came first and always would. It was simple: her before anyone else. The pit of his stomach churned when he thought of what he needed to do. Grabbing a small spade, he opened the barn door, shut it quietly behind him. Somewhere far off a dog howled, but Cage pressed on through the trees, careening his way over shrubs and bushes until he finally saw Blue Gate. The house was towering in the moonlight, its windows and edges dark. It was near midnight and the lights were off—they should all be sleeping.
He crouched down in the cover of the trees. Clouds were gathering overhead, throwing shadows over the crumbling old brick. He looked at the porch, checked for movement behind the pillars but saw only the empty rocking chairs, the porch swing creaking on its chains. His lungs felt like they were smothering in the humidity, and he took in a deep breath, needing courage. He searched his back pocket and pulled out what Mae had given him tonight. It was the picture that used to be taped up on the wall of the barn—she’d pocketed it for safekeeping.
Now he angled the photo at the moonlight. R.C. & C.S. It was the shot of him and Ro on the dock. His hair was buzzed short and his eyes were more bloodshot than usual. Ro was just golden, like the locket around her neck. She’d come from a swim and smelled like salt water when she’d leaned on his shoulder. Her reckless smile made his throat ache.
He swallowed hard and then glanced up at the dark hedge, imagining what he’d need to do if her dad caught him. Mae had warned him against coming here tonight, but he didn’t have a choice. If Ro had buried the other half of the book, he’d find it. There might be more about the raising ritual in it, and then he’d try it and know for sure. He had to try, no matter how unhinged Mae said he was. His mother would call him hopeless—Good thing your daddy didn’t hang around to see you now. She’d reel over in a fit of coughing, trying to catch her breath. Sooner you realize your lot in life, the happier you’re gonna be, lucky boy. Quit thinking so big. Cage could see her point—he’d always had an imagination. The day he’d glimpsed Ro, he imagined being with her, as impossible as it seemed. Now he was going after the impossible again, and it was waiting for him in Blue Gate’s garden.
The tall hedge enclosing the garden was so thick there was no way to pass through. He found the metal gate, but it was locked and didn’t give when he shook it. Then he saw it—at the corner of the house was a cast-iron downspout that ran parallel to the hedge. A way across.
He gripped the flashlight between his teeth and hoisted himself up, dug his boots into the brickwork as he climbed. The spout was slick but he kept his hold. When he made it past the top of the hedge, he counted down from three and then jumped, falling to his knees as he hit the damp earth with a thud. He held his breath and looked up.
The house was still silent like some guard dog he was trying not to wake. Lightning burst overhead and lit up the windows and the garden, the thorny rosebushes next to the stone cherub. As he stared at its single eye, a whispering noise swept across the surrounding woods and then water was pouring over him. Pellets of rain beat down upon the mangled garden, the statue, but he wasn’t leaving until he got what he’d come for.
When he stepped behind the hunch of the cherub’s wings, the rosebushes guarding it clawed at his legs. Crouching down, he pulled the spade from his pocket. There was a patch of mud in front of the statue’s feet like the ground had already been disturbed, but he plunged his spade in anyway and started to dig. The hole soon filled with muddy water.
If it’s not here…The thought wormed its way into his head and he gritted his teeth. He dug in the rain and the dark, thinking only of her. Lightning struck, closer this time.
Home is the sailor, home from sea. And now he was here again, back at Blue Gate, hacking at the earth. The rain rushed over him, water was everywhere. A few feet down and still nothing—only mud and rocks and a swarm of tree roots long dead.
The rain slaughtered him, filling the hole, and he wondered if someone else had gotten to her hiding spot first. That sent him into a frenzied dig.
“Cage.”
He froze. Mae’s voice was soft, like the rustle of leaves. He turned toward the house but saw nothing in the dark.
“You here?” he asked, his throat raw. He knew he sounded like a kid—he felt like a kid, curled up in a ball in his mother’s apartment alone. The rain was making him hear things and he couldn’t tell what was real anymore and what wasn’t. He wanted to yell, strike his fists against a wall, but instead he slammed down the spade.
It clanked when it hit the earth.
Cage leaned forward, searching the wet ground with his fingers. Lo and behold, something solid—sharp. He worked the spade around the metallic edge and then grabbed the thing that was buried and yanked it from the mud.
Lightning flashed again and illuminated the ground. Home is the sailor, home from sea. And the hunter home from the hill. A metal box lay in his hands. As quickly as he could, he shoveled the pile of dirt back into the watery hole, patted it down.
Behind him, a footfall.
He turned and saw shadows in the garden, a dim light by the gate. A whining came from the hinges, and his head was pounding, harder than the rain, and he couldn’t see, everything was going white in the downpour. And then she walked through the rain and was standing in front of him, her hair loose around her shoulders and soaking wet.
“I told you not to come back,” she said.
Her voice sounded strange and he blinked, the face in front of him blurring. Mae was staring at him like he should know better than to be outside in this storm. She was drenched; she needed to get out of the rain too.
“I’ve got it,” he told her. “Now I’ll know what to do.” He let out his breath and turned to Ro’s box, lifting its tarnished lid. The moldy stench hit him with a force as he huddled over it to look inside.
It was empty.
No, no! This was his plan, and he was risking everything for it—one, two, three, four…
“Is it there?” Mae whispered.
The box was empty. A single shred of paper was curled at the bottom, and that was all. He felt like the rain was coming from inside him; he was drowning in his own sadness. He was sure she’d buried the hidden half of the book here. What was torn out is now underground. If it’s raising you seek, then dig.
He pulled out the shred of paper, held it up. Its ink was running, and even in the dimness he could see it was nothing, just a note in pink pen, half destroyed by water and age. The rain poured down over it, and then Mae grabbed it from him, shoving it into her pocket. All he wanted was to raise Ro, but there was nothing here—it was just another one of her games, or someone had taken it. He’d failed. He couldn’t remember what he’d done to Ro that day, and he couldn’t change it, he couldn’t bring her back. Not without her book.
“It’s gone,” he said, “she’s gone.” As he said it there was a clap of thunder, and through the rain Mae looked like Ro. “I think I need help,” he told her. “What’s wrong with me?” He was talking to Mae, to Ro. “I…I see you, I hear you.”
She stepped forward, she was so close now. “I see her sometimes too,” she said. The rain was flooding her face, her hair, everything. “And I hear her.”
Christ, she even smelled like Ro, that scent of cloves and mint and something sweet. Her shirt was soaked through, and she was staring up at him, so serious.
“It’s not real,” she said, her voice faltering. “It can’t be.” His head was aching. The rain stung his skin, thrashing at him as he tried to listen to her. “Do you…?” she said, and then stopped. She blinked at him through the rain. “Do you really think the ritual could work?”
A flash of memory: his motorcycle hitting the guardrail, the slide into the kudzu. All that green, he was tangled up in it. Lots of blood, streaming in his eyes. He hadn’t been able to get to his feet; he hadn’t been able to move. He shook his head, felt like crying. “I don’t know, Mae.”
“I want to believe.” She looked down at her hands. Her eyelashes were wet from the rain and she was standing beside the hole and the empty box and the water was everywhere around them and he felt like it was washing him away, into the earth, into the hole he’d dug. “I want to believe she could come back,” she whispered.
Cage saw her shoulders rise and fall. He realized she was crying, and then he could move, and he did. He pulled her against him, holding her because it was all he could do.
“Mae,” he said. His arms tightened around her. Mae pressing against him felt good, and he couldn’t help himself, he breathed in the smell of her hair like he used to with Ro.
She tilted her chin to look at him. Instead of moving away she held still, staring up at him through the rain. The water on her face, on that hair of hers, her neck.
He tried to back away, but his legs wouldn’t work. She was standing between him and the house, trying to protect him even now, and then his thumb was on her lips and he didn’t know how it had gotten there and he was going to kiss her, it was all he wanted, and the next thing he knew she was pulling out of his arms, stepping back.
It was over.
The rain pelted down between them, and she was staring at him, her head tilted to the side, her wet hair darker than Ro’s. She wasn’t Ro, she was Mae, and he’d almost gone and lost the only friend he had left. His head ached, but it was nothing compared to what he felt inside.
“I’m sorry,” he said, except now he was so ashamed he couldn’t stand to look at her. She was too much like Ro, only she wasn’t, she would never be, and this was all wrong. It was his head—it was going funny on him again, the pain sharp and steady.
Another streak of lightning split the sky, and he turned and stumbled for the gate and shoved it open, needing to get away, to leave. He ran to the edge of the trees, and only then did he stop to glance back at the house.
It was dark. Something panged inside his chest, and Christ, he couldn’t think of Mae alone in the garden. He had to think of Ro.
He should walk toward the highway, hitch a ride to his uncle’s place. But he couldn’t go there, not now. Not like this, drenched and desperate. He needed to clear his head first. Dry off in the barn, sleep, think.
Cage stumbled deeper into the undergrowth. The rain had eased, but everything around him leaked, like the entire world was a boat with a hole in it and it was sinking and always had been. The branches were dripping; the leaves were dripping. He raised his head to the sky and held open his mouth, caught a few drops. He was so thirsty, and dizzy too—he hadn’t eaten all day. Just a little farther, just a little farther. He started running, trying to find the barn. It was close, not much longer now. He kept going, charging forward, falling and picking himself up again. It felt like someone was following him, and he didn’t recognize the trail; nothing in the woods looked familiar. A huge tree that he didn’t remember blocked his path. He wandered around it, and instead of seeing the barn he fell onto sand.
He was on the beach. It didn’t make sense—he’d been walking toward the barn, but here he was. A white-hot pain pulsed in his head and he shut his eyes and then opened them.
The sand was wet. The clouds parted and the moon fell down on the black water, a round pool of light, all the way out in the center of the bay. The water was calm and flat, like it had never rained at all.
And there in front of him was the dock where it had happened, where they’d found her body. Think, Cage, think. His insides were burning, but he rose to his feet, stumbled over the sand dunes, through the seagrass. And then, at the far edge of the dock, he saw it. There was something resting on the planks. It looked like—
“Ro?” His legs were taking him over the sand. It sloped down toward the water and he fell and got up all in one motion, pushed forward until his boots were clapping over the dock, pounding like his heart. At the end of the dock was a figure hunched over.
Ro—it was her. It was her. She was in a black dress, and it was pooling out behind her on the planks. There were feathers on the dress. Feathers, and Ro, her face turned to the side. He could see her chin, her nose, and underneath were the feathers. They were everywhere. A pile of feathers and claws and…
He sank to his knees. This isn’t real, this isn’t real.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the blackbirds were still there, the pile of dead birds, and now he could smell them. Sharp and sweet, the stench of decay.
Cage leaned over and emptied his guts into the water. Heaved again and again until there was nothing left to come up. As he wiped his mouth, he saw it in the water.
Her pale face, floating down, down, down.
And then he remembered what he’d done.