A few days after Nor’s seventeenth birthday, her mother was scheduled to appear on a popular morning talk show. Despite Nor’s initial intention — that there was no way in hell she was going to acknowledge the highly publicized event, let alone watch it — in the end, the temptation was an itch she had to scratch. With an exasperated sigh, she sat up in bed, pushed her wild hair out of her eyes, and turned on her phone.
She launched the search engine, typed in her mother’s name, and after scrolling through the hundreds of hits that came up, found what she was looking for. And then there she was, her comely face filling the cracked screen of Nor’s cell phone: Fern Blackburn. The host oohed and aahed along with the delighted studio audience as, in the blink of an eye, Fern transformed a homely young woman into a beauty almost as fetching as Fern herself. Then a child, stripped of her sight as an infant, saw her parents for the first time. The only thing missing from the show was a lame man dropping his crutches and walking across the stage.
“How stunning you are,” the host crooned. “And yet how humble.” Everyone in the audience murmured their approval of this striking visionary who would selflessly guide them all into the light of the future. That Fern Blackburn could make wishes come true was no longer in doubt.
Nor squinted at the screen, searching her mother’s face for any signs of the incredible strain and sacrifice Nor knew was necessary for Fern to perform such “miracles.” She saw none and grew more alarmed. There was nothing, not a single flaw, not a bruise or a blemish, not even a broken capillary. Only fern tattoos spiraling across her porcelain skin. Nor remembered what her mother had had to do in the past to practice magic outside her own Burden. She remembered being on the roof with Fern that night. She remembered how her mother’s skin had split open, how her mother’s blood had trickled across the roof. And she remembered how the blood had poured from the wounds Fern had then made on Nor’s skin when her own blood wasn’t enough. If Fern wasn’t paying the price for her spells herself, then someone else certainly was.
The audience rose to its feet and applauded. Nor turned off her phone in disgust and tried not to think about the terrible cost someone had paid for restoring that little girl’s sight.
Nor shuffled downstairs and found Apothia in the kitchen preparing a tray of assorted breakfast foods: fresh bagels and sliced strawberries, hazelnut spread, and a jar of honey. A greasy-smelling hash sizzled on the stove. There was also orange juice, a pot of what smelled like peppermint tea, a French coffee press, and a pitcher of Bloody Mary mix.
“After seeing Fern’s little demonstration on national television,” Apothia said, “your grandmother and I decided we needed something to give us strength. We haven’t yet decided if that strength will come from food or from vodka.”
Through the glass of the parlor door, Nor could make out Judd’s massive silhouette, stretched across the small divan.
When she had first moved into the Tower, Nor had seen the parlor only through the wavy lead windows on the door. For generations, the room had been used only at night, during the dark, lonely hours when desperate islanders would arrive with their whispered desires and frantic pleas. Those few times when the door had been left open, all those trapped, desperate voices had rushed out in gusts of I must haves and please help mes and I can’t live withouts like a wretched case of bad breath.
Apothia placed her hand, soft and dry, against Nor’s forehead as if checking for fever. “You look pale,” she fretted, her eyes flicking over the scarred skin peeking out from along the collar of Nor’s pajamas.
“You always say that,” Nor muttered, popping a sliced bagel onto a plate. Slathering it with hazelnut spread and sliced strawberries, she considered telling Apothia about the strangely vicious plants on the way to the beach, about those strangers who knew more about her than they should, and about the whales and sharks gathering close to the shore. Telling Apothia was another way of telling Judd, minus the scrutinizing glare. But something held her back. Maybe because those things happened on the same night Nor had unintentionally healed Reed’s cheek. She wasn’t supposed to be able to do that. She wasn’t sure what Judd or Apothia would do with that information. Practicing magic outside a witch’s own Burden was black magic. It was . . . well, it was what her mother was doing. If they knew what Nor could do — all that she could do — wouldn’t they look at her and see another Fern? How could they not? No, it was probably better for Nor not to say anything about that night at all.
Nor wasn’t scheduled to work that morning, but she decided to stop by the Witching Hour after breakfast anyway. If, along the way, she saw the ocean looking like its usual self — specifically without a crowd of bizarrely behaving sea creatures — she might be reassured that the world wasn’t falling to pieces.
What she saw, however, was hardly a comfort. Overnight, an invasive vine had taken over the hillside behind the Tower, smothering the lupines that normally blanketed the ground. And while the deciduous trees on the island typically enjoyed shedding their foliage at this time of year, today they waved their naked limbs forlornly. Nor hurried by, troubled by the melancholy that pulsed like a feeble heartbeat from their branches.
Nor entered the Witching Hour and found Vega sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner of the shop, meticulously stacking copies of The Price Guide to the Occult in another new display.
Though it was cold, the sun shone brightly through crystal prisms hanging in the windows, casting tiny rainbows across the black pentacle painted on the floor and across the shoes of customers waiting in line at the register. The first in line was, strangely, Bliss Sweeney.
She hardly ever comes in here, Nor thought warily.
Nor shot an exasperated — and pointless — look toward Vega, who was oblivious to the impatient customers, and then stepped behind the counter to ring up Bliss’s items.
As she was doing this, she became aware of Bliss studying her. Nor stole a quick glance at her face. It was pinched, hollow. There wasn’t anything particularly different about the way Bliss looked, but she seemed — pained somehow.
Bliss suddenly grabbed Nor’s hand, demanding her attention. The movement was quick and unexpected, reminiscent of the way an abused animal might attack without provocation. “You really don’t look anything like her,” she blurted.
Nor didn’t need to ask who Bliss meant. The tattoo on her wrist said it all.
It was a fern, the tip curled like the end of a violin. Everyone in the shop was a Fern Follower; every single one of them had a freshly inked fern — most still red and raised — scrawled across an exposed shoulder blade or collarbone, or on a wrist or throat.
Nor had been eight when Fern had given herself her first tattoo. Nor had woken up in the middle of the night to find Fern sitting on the edge of the mattress, an open safety pin between her fingers. Nor had watched her mother dip the needle into the green ink of a broken ballpoint pen. Then she had punctured the tender skin on the inside of her wrist over and over again, until she had had a crude fern drawn there.
“What do you think, Nor?” she had asked, and held up her wrist for Nor’s inspection. She’d smiled wickedly as the impossible happened: the fern tattoo had come to life and begun inching its way across Fern’s skin toward Nor.
Nor had scrambled backward as fast as she could, her sweaty palms and feet slipping on the nylon sleeping bag. With her back pressed up against the wall, she had whimpered as the fern bared spines and thorns like teeth. “Why is it doing that?”
“Because I want it to,” Fern had said, her eyes narrowing. But then the tattoo had retreated, recoiled like a tongue back to Fern’s wrist. Fern had examined the blood on her arm with interest. “And I always get what I want.”
That wasn’t exactly true. There would always be one thing Fern wanted that she couldn’t have, and that was for Quinn Sweeney to love her.
Bliss pulled out a copy of The Price Guide to the Occult and opened the book to a tabbed page. “I sent in my order form just like it says you’re supposed to, but I was refused.” Bliss paused and licked her dry lips. “I thought maybe there was a chance that you could help me. I haven’t heard from him in years, Nor,” she said desperately. “My son. It’s been seven years since he disappeared. I just need to know what happened.”
Nor swallowed hard. “I can’t —” she started.
Bliss began digging frantically in her purse. “I have money,” she said. “I can pay you.”
“It’s not about money,” Nor said. “I’m sorry, Bliss. I can’t help you.”
“You’re her daughter,” she said, crestfallen. “Can’t you put in a good word for me?”
Nor shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to my mother in years.”
Bliss looked confused. “Oh,” she said. “I thought I saw her —” She stopped, and Nor caught a glimpse of the look she shared with Vega. He shook his head, and Bliss said, “I must have been mistaken.”
She hurried from the shop, and Nor turned sharply to Vega, still stacking copies of The Price Guide to the Occult with creepy reverence. “What was that look you gave Bliss?” she asked. “You haven’t seen my mother, have you?”
“No, of course not,” Vega replied phlegmatically.
As he spoke, a puff of purple vapor passed through his lips. Nor followed it with her eyes as it moved through the air like a poison before sticking to the window. Vega was lying. Sliding down the glass, his lie turned black and slick, bringing to mind mud and grease and bird shit.
Vega turned his head, the wooden beads he had threaded through his dreadlocked hair click-clacking together, and Nor spotted a green tendril inked into the umber-colored skin on the back of his neck. “No one has seen your mother on this island in years,” Vega replied coolly. And this time, he was telling the truth.
Nor left the shop without another word, eager to escape those ominous fern tattoos. She plopped down on the bottom step, not caring that the rain had picked up again or that the biting cold ate its way through her loose-knit sweater or even that what was left of yesterday’s eyeliner was smeared. She raised her face to the sky and closed her eyes. The rain cooled her cheeks. If only the rain could wash away everything else as well — the horrible sick feeling in her stomach, those green tattoos and purple clouds, and, most of all, her mother. More than anything, she wished she could find a way to sever her mother’s noxious grip on people, tightening like a noose with every passing day. She opened her eyes, but instead of finding a world clear of Fern Blackburn, she found Reed Oliveira staring at her.
“You know it’s raining, right?” he asked.
“Is it?” She tugged the sleeves of her sweater over her hands out of habit. “I hadn’t noticed.” His presence made her feel a little bit better. Thankfully, the only tattoo he had was that blackbird inked on his arm. “What are you doing here?”
He held up a paper bag. “Madge never picked up her order this week. For all we know, she could be dangerously low on peppermint and clary sage.”
“That would be a disaster. You are an unsung hero. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”
Reed laughed. “I was going to go for a run after I dropped this off. What do you say about joining me?”
“Are you sure you’ll be able to keep up?”
“No,” he said. “But I am damn well gonna try.”
He gave Nor a silly grin that made her feel light-headed, and at that moment, despite everything else that was happening, she swore if Reed Oliveira asked her to build a ladder to the moon, she’d say yes.
“I’ll have to go home to change first,” she said.
She stood, and her sweater fell from one shoulder. Her face flushed with pleasure when Reed’s eyes settled on her bare skin. Then he frowned upon seeing the neat scars that lined her collarbone. She quickly pulled her sweater back into place, and her face flushed for a whole different reason. This was what it felt like to be around him — constantly pulled in two directions, wanting to be both seen and unseen, and not knowing which one she preferred.
A few minutes later, Nor left Reed waiting in the foyer of the Tower with Bijou while she ran upstairs to change. Reed Oliveira is waiting for me, she thought, her heart pounding as she threw on a pair of running tights, a clean sports bra, and a thick hoodie — all black, of course — jamming her thumbs into the holes she’d sliced into the cuffs to hide her wrists. She twisted her damp hair into a knot on the top of her head and grabbed her running shoes. At the bottom of the stairs, just for a second, she was certain she’d only imagined that he was there, in her house, waiting to go on a run with her. She was certain that she’d find only Bijou and her own delusion chasing each other around the kitchen. Please still be there, she thought, taking a moment to compose herself before she rounded the last few steps, just in case.
And he was, smiling that gorgeous smile of his with Bijou wiggling happily in his arms. Bijou had decided he liked Reed. Reed reminded him of sunshine.
Soon, Nor and Reed were running along the trail surrounding Celestial Lake. Antiquity trotted behind them, disgruntled.
For a while, they ran without talking. Nor tried to think of something to say, but thoughts came to her only in fragments, and none were worth saying aloud. Instead, she increased her speed, rounding the ridge on the side of the lake with quick strides, pleased — not to mention impressed — to find Reed pulling up beside her.
The only sounds were Antiquity’s heavy panting, the splash of Reed’s and Nor’s steps on the wet trail, and the roar of the waterfall at the far end of the lake.
The woods up here are quiet, Nor noted. Strangely so. It wasn’t until they crested the hill that Nor realized that the quiet was too complete. They hadn’t seen any wildlife since a pair of chipmunks had followed them for a short time, chittering, “Run! Run!” To Nor, it had sounded less like a cheer and more like a warning, a warning that Nor tried to tune out.
They stopped in the mist of the waterfall to catch their breath. More wide than tall, Lilting Falls dropped a mere twenty-five feet, skipping down a stairstepped cliff. The pattern the falling water made on the rocks was delicate, like the gossamer grace of a lace curtain or a bride’s wedding veil.
Antiquity, panting loudly, sank into a wet patch of moss by the side of the trail. Nor picked up a stone and rolled it around in her palm. It was an agate, the color of honey and smooth to the touch, like the round marble clutched in the tiny crow’s claw she had tucked in her sweatshirt pocket. Nor tossed the stone into the lake.
She allowed her eyes to fall on the tattoo on Reed’s arm. Every time he moved, the blackbird seemed to fly. He smiled at her. Following her gaze, his smile turned sheepish.
“I never noticed other people’s tattoos until I got one myself,” he mused, leaning closer so that she could hear him over the roar of the falls. “Lately, I’ve seen a bunch of people on the island with the same tattoo, some kind of plant or something.” He met her eyes. “Have you noticed? I wonder what the story is behind that.”
“Does there have to be some deep rationale behind every tattoo?” she asked, trying to mask her sudden anxiety. The last thing Nor wanted to think about right now was her mother.
“Not necessarily, but don’t say that to all those sorority girls with their matching infinity signs. It would break their hearts.”
Nor laughed. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a blackbird tattoo before. So two points for originality.”
“Not if you consider the reason I got it.” Reed smiled at her guiltily. “It was after a breakup.”
“Oh, shit.” Nor shook her head, embarrassed by the wave of jealousy that surged in her chest. She matched his grin with her own. “So your tattoo does have one of those deep but clichéd rationales! There’s a story here, isn’t there?”
Reed stared out at the water for a long time, thinking. Finally, he ducked his head and let out a half sigh, half laugh. “Fuck it,” he said, “you win. Yeah, there’s a story.”
“And?” she prompted.
“And —” He sighed and ran his hands over his face. “The problem was I wasn’t the only one she’d ensnared. I was just the one stupid enough to stay caught for as long as I did.” He picked up a rock and flung it into the lake as hard as he could. It landed with an angry plop.
He sat on a fallen tree trunk on the side of the trail. Nor sat, too, feeling the spray of the waterfall on her cheeks. The log was nothing but a husk now, but she could still make out a hint of its spicy fragrance. She scraped her fingers across the red bark, and in doing so, disturbed a yellow jacket hiding in a knot in the wood. It buzzed at her, angry, until Nor waved it away.
Reed squeezed his hand into a fist, and the bird’s black wings seemed to flutter. “After I ended it, I realized I just wanted to be back home. My last stop before leaving the mainland was a tattoo shop.” He turned away from the water and looked at Nor. “The idea was that this way, whenever I thought about her, I’d look down at my tattoo and remember —”
“The hot searing pain of having a needle punctured into your skin a hundred thousand times.”
Reed laughed, embarrassed. “Something like that.”
“So that’s it?” Nor asked, laughing. “It’s just going to be you and your bird tattoo all alone on Anathema Island for the rest of your life, huh?”
Reed nodded, feigning seriousness. “Damn right it is. I was thinking I could get into stamp collecting to pass the time. Maybe get some reptiles.”
“Like snakes?”
“Really deadly ones,” he said. “And iguanas. A couple Gila monsters. Anything to solidify my reputation as the island’s resident reptile man. We don’t have one of those yet.”
Nor laughed. “Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“I thought I did, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to think about pain every time I look at my arm anymore.”
“No?”
“No. I’ll be too busy thinking about you and how hard you laughed at my dumb bird tattoo.” He smiled, and Nor’s cheeks were aching from laughing so much. “How could I think about you and be in pain?” he said. “You aren’t pain. Even the bees don’t sting you.”
You don’t know that. Nor thought about the scars that covered her skin, scars from a time when it had seemed like pain was the only thing that kept her tethered to the ground. Would she ever be able to forget that pain?
Reed leaned toward her, so close that she could see the droplets of water on his skin and on his eyelashes. They reminded her of morning dew on a blade of grass or a flower petal. Nor’s heart skipped a beat. Oh shit, he’s going to kiss me. But before she could even decide whether she wanted him to kiss her — rather, whether she wanted to let herself want him to kiss her — he didn’t.
Reed got up, strolled over to Antiquity, and scratched her gently behind the ears. Nor cringed, certain Antiquity would find the gesture condescending, but as much as she didn’t want to like him, the old dog couldn’t seem to help herself.
“Come on. I’ll race you home,” Reed said, and took off down the trail. Antiquity was quick to pull herself to her feet and sprint after him.
First Bijou, Nor thought as she started down the trail. And now Antiquity? If Reed somehow found a way to win over Judd, too, she’d be screwed.
Nor let Reed take the lead for most of the run back, leaving herself space to obsess unhealthily about how, a few moments ago, she had been certain that Reed wanted to kiss her.
They rounded Meandering Lane and passed the dock just as the ferry pulled away. Its few passengers stood on the deck. Nor suspected each of them had their own nefarious green tattoo.
Nor shivered. Her mother hadn’t shown any interest in her or the island since she’d left. The fear of Fern’s return may have been a dark cloud that hung over Nor’s head, but it was still a cloud, which was a far easier thing to fear than the possibility of having to face the real life thing itself — especially if the real thing was Fern Blackburn.
Nor traced the raised lines on her wrist with her thumb. Those had been Nor’s first scars. The ones her mother had given her when she’d split open Nor’s wrists and elbows and spilled her own child’s blood across the roof. The rest of Nor’s scars she had done to herself. After she’d received her Burdens, she could barely look at herself in the mirror without feeling afraid. She’d carved that pain into her skin using whatever sharp object she could find — a razor, a pair of scissors, or the sharp point of a pin. Now, when she ran her hands over her arms and legs, the skin there still read like braille, relating the story of how, for reasons even Nor couldn’t understand, hurting herself had once been the only thing that made her feel better.
Nor glanced over at Reed. The rain slipping down his face. His hands white with cold.
It’s better that he didn’t kiss me, she decided, certain that if Reed Oliveira ever got close enough to learn all her terrible secrets, there would be no denying that pain might in fact be all Nor knew.