Songs from the Deep

by Kelly Powell

  “Your promise of police intervention appears null, Miss Alexander.”

  Sweat slicks my palms. I want Thackery to drop his knife beside Jude’s on the sand. I want to grab Jude and run, to curse him for endangering his own life, for playing a hand I told him not to.

  “Dylan won’t like you killing his nephew,” I say in a rush. “He’ll know it was you. You were working together.”

  “We’re beyond that, I’m afraid.”

  I grit my teeth, fury igniting in my rib cage like a flame. “Why?” I snarl. “Men will be out there hunting sirens tomorrow.”

  “I did try to warn you off, Miss Alexander.” Thackery stares at me, his knife still pressed to Jude’s skin. “You should’ve never gotten involved. People on this island go around thinking the sirens are a gift, as if we should thank them for taking our children and bloodying our waters.” He shakes his head, eyes bright. “It’s madness. Your father ought to have known better. We never should’ve enacted a ban against hunting them.”

  “You gave those cans to Russell—you let him poison those sirens.”

  “And where’s your proof of that?”

  My stomach churns. “Why do you truly want the sirens dead?”

  It’s obvious now, the way he speaks, that Thackery has known grief.

  “That’s none of your business.” His knuckles whiten around the knife’s hilt. “I’ve no need to justify myself to you.”

  In front of him Jude stills, his eyes darting to something behind me. I don’t want to look over, don’t want to shift my attention from Thackery, but they come into my line of sight soon enough.

  Half a dozen policemen—all with pistols aimed in our direction.

  Relief sinks into me like a stone.

  Among them is Inspector Dale, and he looks at Thackery like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “What is going on here?” he asks.

  I turn back to where Thackery stands. There’s a flash of mercurial resolve in his eyes, and I notice the slight shift in his grip on the hilt. Jude holds my gaze, pale-faced, his eyes black as pitch.

  No.

  Thackery’s arm jerks, just as a sharp crack echoes through the air. I shut my eyes, thinking for one wild moment I’ve been shot, but a muffled stream of curses joins the ringing in my ears, and I look up.

  I notice Inspector Dale first, walking to where Thackery is crouched, knife forgotten as his hand fists around his shoulder. Blood leaks out between his fingers, dark crimson, seeping through the fabric of his shirt. My eyes find Jude, bent over with his hands on his knees, shoulders shaking, and I let the revolver drop to the sand.

  “Jude,” I say, throwing my arms around him. “Oh God, I thought… I thought…” I stop, holding myself in check, and tilt his chin up.

  A thin red line marks the skin next to his jugular. I can’t stop looking at it.

  He stares down at me. His pupils are blown wide, and I see my face reflected in their blackness. He lifts a trembling hand to my cheek.

  “Moira.”

  Around us, the Dunmore Police are a clatter of noise: Pistols are tucked back into holsters; their boots kick up sand; questions and orders are passed from man to man.

  I bring my attention back to Jude as he says, “Moira, I think I…” He sways a little on his feet. I place both hands on his shoulders to steady him.

  “You’ve had a shock, Jude. You need—”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. Are you all right?”

  I bury my face in the rough wool of his sweater, holding him close. “I’m sorry for earlier,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean…”

  Jude laughs, a high-strung, broken sound. I pull away to see his expression.

  “Thought I’d be the one apologizing,” he says.

  I tighten my arms around him and shut my eyes. “Yes, you can apologize too,” I say. “Seeing as you did something so senseless.”

  “Worked, didn’t it?”

  I grin up at him. “You’re ridiculous, Jude Osric.”

  Grinning back, he slurs his words together. “Shouldn’t call me that.”

  “What should I call you, then?”

  “Brilliant,” says Jude, and he faints.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  INSPECTOR DALE TAKES A SEAT at our kitchen table. It’s late in the evening; past the lace curtains, the sky is already full dark. My mother fixes tea at the counter, her hands shaking slightly as she fills the kettle with water. I sit across from the inspector, lips pressed thin, my attention drawn to the notebook and fountain pen he sets out.

  I tell him of Jude’s plan to meet Thackery, my going to the lighthouse and finding it empty, of seeing Jude and Thackery on the beach. I tell him about Dylan Osric and the tortured siren, how the lives of Connor Sheahan and Nell Bracken were stolen in the hopes of keeping that secret.

  He writes down my statement in a diligent manner, though he seems quite shaky and pale himself.

  I think about Inspector Dale and Detective Thackery. I think of how people never really get the chance to know the entire story of someone else. And I realize that to know someone—truly know them—is to know their secrets.

  Perhaps it explains why the sea takes secrets for a wish. They are the truest part of us.

  Dale is also the one to tell me of Thackery’s losses.

  “His daughter,” he says, voice quiet. “Lost his daughter just after the ban was introduced. He tried petitioning the Council to drop it, blamed them for a long while.” He lowers his teacup, staring down at the tablecloth. “She was five years old.”

  “What will happen now?” I ask. “To the sirens?”

  “I’ll have a word with Mr. Earl first thing tomorrow,” he says. “I make no promises, but I’m sure the Council will see reason now you’ve disproven two attacks.”

  My relief is near tangible, easing an invisible weight off my shoulders.

  “Good,” I say.

  Once Dale picks up and takes his leave, my mother comes to sit in his place. She wraps her hands around one of mine, and our conversation is a soft, hushed thing, like a secret in itself.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what was happening, Moira?”

  Shame heats my face, but I don’t look away. “I didn’t know how,” I whisper, though that’s only part of it. I didn’t want her to know simply because I didn’t care to share any of my goings-on with her.

  The last time I let her hold my hand like this, we were at my father’s bedside. We are closer now somehow, and she smiles even though her eyes shine with tears.

  “You’ve done so much, Moira,” she says. “Your father would be so proud.”

  We stay just like that, sitting at the table together, drinking tea. We talk and talk, making up for all the years we haven’t—until evening becomes night proper.

  I set my teacup down. “I was going to visit Jude.”

  My mother looks toward the window. “It’s a little late for it now, dear.”

  “They’re keeping him there overnight,” I reply. “He ought to have some company.”

  “Well, here…” Getting up, she takes a few of the cakes she means to sell tomorrow and ties them neatly in cloth. “Bring him these.”

  I start on the path to Dunmore with a lantern in hand and my mother’s cakes stuffed into my coat pocket.

  After fainting on the beach, Jude was taken to the hospital. He was treated for shock, and having recently recovered from siren song, the doctors gave him additional care: salves and clean bandages and a tidier row of stitches since he’d torn the previous ones.

  A nurse directs me to his room, and I smile upon seeing the light beneath his door. I turn the knob without bothering to knock and slip inside.

  Jude is already sitting up in bed, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling. My heart does one slow roll in my chest before he turns toward me.

  “Moira,” he says, sounding so pleased that I break into a grin.

  “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” I ask.

  A wicker chair
is placed near the tiled wall, and I drag it to his bedside.

  He leans against the bed rail. He wears a white undershirt, the short sleeves showing off his new line of stitches. A bandage covers the cut on his neck. Despite these things, he looks well—perhaps better than he has in days.

  “Did you speak with the nurse?” His tone is conspiratorial.

  “For a moment.”

  “You ought to tell her I don’t need to be in here.” He throws out an arm, gesturing at nothing in particular. “Keeping me overnight, I mean, it’s quite unnecessary. I’m perfectly fine. Who is at the light?”

  “Mr. Irving, I believe.” Inspector Dale told me as much. Irving boarded the tender back when the police arrived to take Dylan Osric into custody.

  Jude releases a sigh. “He and Daugherty are going to give me an earful tomorrow.”

  I pull the cloth package from my pocket, sliding it onto his nightstand. “My mother had me bring you cakes.”

  “Oh.” He looks at the package. “Thank you. Tell her I’m much obliged.”

  “I shall.” I reach over and take his hand atop the sheets. His skin feels warm next to mine. “Are you really all right?”

  “Yes.” He grins wide, terrifically bright. “Yes, actually. Moira—we did it.”

  “All thanks to Jude Osric’s rash decisions,” I say, which makes him laugh.

  “I am sorry,” he says, and I’m ready to scoff at the apology, when he continues. “There wasn’t any other way. I didn’t see—”

  “We could’ve thought of something.”

  “Perhaps.”

  This time I do scoff. “You nearly got yourself killed, Jude.”

  “I know.”

  Night muffles the activities of the hospital. Everything seems incredibly still, and I find myself wondering if the world is still turning, if the island still exists outside these walls. And despite the fact that Jude is here, alive, I’ll never be able to forget the sound he made when Thackery brought a knife to his throat, or the look in his eyes when we both thought he was going to die. I brush my thumb over the back of his hand.

  “I rang him from the watch room,” Jude whispers, “when I got back from Dunmore. Told him to meet me on the beach. I said I had proof—evidence that he killed Connor and Nell.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I sent a wire to Inspector Dale. I wrote you that note, grabbed a knife, and went. I didn’t… I didn’t realize… I thought perhaps I could reason with him.” He takes a deep breath. “I guess it was quite senseless in hindsight.”

  “You’re not going to contradict me at all, then?”

  “No.” He rubs the corner of his eye. “It was dangerous, I know. I saw a sliver of opportunity and I jumped at it. But, Moira, now that it’s over—dear God, I’m just relieved.”

  “Me too,” I say in a whisper, and I feel silence close around us once more. Rain taps at the window glass. I try to recall the last time I slept, but it seems like years ago.

  Softly, Jude says, “I’m glad you didn’t shoot Thackery.”

  I look at him. It takes me a moment to think of something to say. “Well, I’ve never shot anyone. I didn’t want to hit you by accident.”

  He holds my gaze, brown eyes wide and honest. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says again, and there’s an odd quality to his voice, a grave seriousness mixed in with the relief.

  The words are a weight in the space between us, a balance, anchoring me the way Jude Osric always has. A steady hand in the dark.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. I think perhaps we both know what I’m really thanking him for.

  His hand grips mine, and we sit together in the small hospital room, on an island smeared in blood and secrets. It’s an island filled with incomprehensible things, perfect in its imperfections—a flawed design that still holds despite the cracks.

  And it is ours.

  EPILOGUE

  IN THE EAST OF TWILLENGYLE, the evening sky burns red. Night settles in sooner with the arrival of October, so a waxen moon joins the setting sun on the horizon. Jude steps out of the keeper’s cottage, shutting the door behind him. He holds a lantern high.

  “Whose bright idea was this again?” he asks.

  “I think,” I say, smiling, “it was yours.”

  “Ah.”

  We set off toward the path leading down to the beach. Jude is hatless, wearing his new oilskin jacket, and when he offers his arm, I press close to him. It still feels like a miracle that he’s here at my side at all. We reach the bottom of the cliff and find a cleft in the rock.

  Jude puts out his lantern light. He says, “You have iron on you?”

  “Yes.” I look at him, his dark eyes turned amber in the fading light. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  I reach over, taking his hand. His palm is clammy and warm against mine. “We can go back, if you like,” I tell him. “We don’t need to do this.”

  Jude holds my gaze. “No,” he says, voice steady. “I want to be here, Moira.”

  I grin back at him. We are close, hidden in this damp crevice of the cliff. Jude leans forward and kisses me. I grip the front of his jacket, my heartbeat fluttering.

  “You know,” he says, pulling back, “as of late, I feel almost as if I’ve lost my bearings. What are we to do now?”

  “I will tell you,” I say with a smile. And I lean close again, to whisper in his ear, as though I’m imparting the greatest of secrets. “You, Jude Osric, will keep the light. I will play my violin out on the cliff’s edge. The sirens will remain safe beneath the waves.”

  He presses his face against the side of my neck. “That sounds agreeable,” he says.

  “I think so too.”

  Near the shore, a line of foam trails across the sand, as though the waves might swallow the island whole. My blood sings in my ears. I feel like I hold the world in the palm of my hand, vast and unfathomable, with every unknown waiting to be discovered. The two of us turn toward the horizon, and I survey the dip and flow of the ocean, waiting.

  I hear Jude’s sharp intake of breath and clasp his hand even tighter. We watch as one, two, three sirens emerge from the shallows, wild creatures stepping onto the beach like they know they belong there. My pulse hums with the cadence of island magic.

  Jude and I stand in the shadows, out of sight, but the magic is part of us, too. It’s in our breath and in our blood, woven into our hearts.

  It’s all I need in life.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, thank you to my agent, Kristy Hunter, for taking a chance on me. Thank you for your advice, your enthusiasm, and for being an incredible advocate. I so appreciate all that you do.

  Thank you to my editor, Karen Wojtyla, and her assistant, Nicole Fiorica. It has been a privilege and a delight working with you both. Thank you for believing in this book.

  Thank you to the amazing team at Simon & Schuster, including Justin Chanda, Sonia Chaghatzbanian, Tom Daly, Clare McGlade, Elizabeth Blake-Linn, Lili Feinberg, and Mackenzie Croft. Thank you also to Miranda Meeks for illustrating the beautiful cover.

  Thank you to everyone who read and critiqued early drafts. To Shauna Gallo, especially—I’m so grateful for your advice and encouragement.

  Diana Lavelle, Ariana Ellis, June Hur, Elora Cook, Kess Costales, Liselle Sambury, Fallon DeMornay, Deborah F. Savoy, Sarena and Sasha Nanua, Amélie Wen Zhao, Andrea Tang, Jessica Bibi Cooper—thank you so much for all your kindness and support along the way. It truly means the world to me.

  Thank you to my family, for supporting my love of writing.

  And finally, to my readers. Thank you for following Moira and Jude. I hope you enjoyed their story as much as I enjoyed telling it.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kelly Powell has a bachelor’s degree in history and book and media studies from the University of Toronto. She currently lives in Ontario. Songs from the Deep is her debut novel.

  Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen

  www.SimonandSchuster
.com/Authors/Kelly-Powell

  Margaret K. McElderry

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Kelly Powell

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2019 by Miranda Meeks

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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  Book design by Tom Daly

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Powell, Kelly, 1991- author.

  Title: Songs from the deep / Kelly Powell.

  Description: New York : Margaret K. McElderry Books, 2019. | Summary: Seventeen-year-old violinist Moira Alexander joins with an old friend, Jude Osric, in seeking a killer after the sirens who live near their island are falsely accused of murder.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019005236 (print) | LCCN 2019008846 (eBook) | ISBN 9781534438088 (eBook) | ISBN 9781534438071 (hardback)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Murder—Fiction. | Sirens (Mythology)—Fiction. | Musicians—Fiction. | Violin—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.P692 (eBook) | LCC PZ7.1.P692 Son 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23