“Never. I left eight years ago and never went back.”
Luc whistled softly. “That’s a long time, even by my standards. Your mother’s gone?”
Lizzy knew what he was asking—was her mother dead? The truth was she had no idea. No one did. And that was almost the same thing. “Yes. She’s gone. Everyone’s gone.”
Luc stepped around to her side of the desk, propping a hip on the corner. “My poor little orphan,” he said softly. “You’re not alone, you know. My mother loved you—so much that she made me promise to look after you. She said, Luc, Lizzy is going to be brilliant one day, and I want you to take care of her. It’s as if in leaving me this company, she left me you too.”
Lizzy resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. “You can’t leave a person in a will, Luc. And I’ve been on my own for a pretty long time.”
He stood, and moved to the window. “How long will you need? Three days? Four?”
She frowned. “For what?”
“I don’t know. Bereavement, I guess. Whatever you need to do. I’m guessing there’s financial stuff to handle, a house to sell.”
“It’s a farm, actually. An herb farm. But I don’t need to go back. I can handle everything from here.”
“Seriously?” He smiled, as if pleasantly surprised. “And here I was thinking you were the sentimental type.”
Lizzy shook her head, desperate to end the conversation before she said something that raised Luc’s carefully groomed brows again. “It’s just . . . a lot of stuff. Memories I’d rather not dredge up. Like you said, it’s . . . compliqué.”
His smile widened, straddling the line between arrogance and condescension. “My mother was the sentimental type. She used to say we all need to go home from time to time, to remind us where we came from. I think she was half-right. We do need to go home from time to time, but only to remind us why we left in the first place, so we can get clear on what we do want. Because in the long run, that’s all that matters—what we want from life and what we’re willing to do to get it. Maybe that’s what you need, Lizzy, to go spend some time with your memories. Things might look different when you do.”
Time with her memories.
Lizzy dropped her eyes to her lap, unwilling to meet his gaze. He had no idea what he was asking. Not that he should. How could anyone imagine the kind of memories they were really talking about?
“It’s fine, really. I’m fine. I can make it work long-distance.”
Luc eyed her skeptically. “Suit yourself, but you don’t sound fine. Maybe there’s something to be said for processing your loss, putting a period to things, as they say. I could go with you, make things easier.”
And there it was, the real motive behind his sudden concern. “We’ve been over for months, Luc.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why make the suggestion?”
“Would you believe I was being noble?”
“No.”
Luc dropped the smile, apparently accepting defeat. “Still a crummy time to be alone. At least let me take you to dinner. I promise to stick to business, if that’s how you want it.”
“Thanks. But I think I just need to be by myself.”
Lizzy watched him go, pretty sure he was miffed. But he’d been right about one thing. She did need time to process, to digest the fact that she was suddenly alone in the world, and what that meant. Althea was dead, and her mother had apparently fallen off the face of the earth—either literally or figuratively. And there’d be no more Moons after Elzibeth—of that she was certain. For all intents and purposes, she had just become the last Moon girl.
TWO
Lizzy kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the kitchen. She’d managed to finish out the day, smiling through a steady stream of condolences as news of her loss spread through the office. Now all she wanted was a large glass of wine and to be alone with her grief.
She opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured herself a generous glass, then paused to water the herb pots she kept on the sill. Rosemary, for remembrance. Basil, for courage. Thyme, for warding off nightmares. It was the catechism of her childhood—the catechism of all the Moon girls.
On impulse, she plucked a basil leaf from the plant on the sill and rolled it between her palms, releasing its savory-sweet fragrance—peppery, anise-like, faintly minty. It was one of her favorite aromatics, perhaps because it reminded her of happy times spent cooking in her grandmother’s kitchen. But this time another memory surfaced—an older memory.
Althea had been out surveying the damage after an unusually late frost when Lizzy came up from behind. She couldn’t have been more than seven at the time, but she had known instinctively to keep still, mesmerized by the strange intensity in her grandmother’s face as she knelt beside a clump of blackened basil plants and, with eyes closed, passed her calloused hands over them. She had murmured something then, tender words Lizzy couldn’t make out. It was the first time she’d ever seen her grandmother’s gift in action, but she’d never forgotten it. Or the sight of those same plants the next day, healthy and green, and without a trace of frostbite.
It had been Althea’s most startling gift—the ability to raise a nearly dead herb or flower with a touch and a few gentle words. That, and an uncanny knack for growing things that had no business flourishing in stingy New England climes. Whispers about her grandmother’s green thumb had been commonplace in Salem Creek. Some chalked it up to magick, others to a strict reliance on her almanac. Whatever it was, it was widely accepted that the rocky soil of Moon Girl Farm could refuse Althea Moon nothing.
Who would tend that soil now that she was gone?
The question needled as Lizzy carried her chardonnay to the living room. It would belong to someone else soon. The house and barn, the herb fields, her grandmother’s apothecary shop, all passed out of the family and into the hands of strangers. She had always known it would happen, that one day Althea would die and something would have to be done with the farm. She just hadn’t given much thought to what that something might look like—or that it might fall to her to carry it out.
She’d have to work out the logistics, find a Realtor willing to handle the sale long-distance, then contact an estate dealer to handle the contents of the house. There wasn’t much of any real value. But what of Althea’s personal belongings? Her clothes, her books—the collection of journals kept under lock and key in her reading room? Could she really trust the handling of those to a stranger? And if not, who did that leave? Certainly not her mother, whose recklessness had sent the final dominoes toppling. But Rhanna was another story—apparently one without an ending, since no one had heard from her in years.
Lizzy felt numb as she perched on the arm of the couch, emptied of anger and blindsided by the events of the day. The sun was beginning its descent, sliding into the cracks and crevices of Midtown Manhattan’s jumbled rooftops, like one of those sepia postcards drugstores stocked for tourists. Three months after trading her tiny loft for a place in the East Tower, she still wasn’t used to the view. Or any of the other perks that came with her posh new address. Luc had assured her that she would grow into her new surroundings, but as she glanced around the room, she recognized nothing. The furniture, the art on the walls, even the reflection staring back at her from the darkened window seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger pretending to be Lizzy Moon.
Over the years, the city had polished her rough edges, leaving no sign of the girl who’d run barefoot through her grandmother’s fields, gathering herbs until her fingers were stained, her nails gritty with New England soil. But then, that was why she’d come to New York: to rid herself of that girl. To live like other people. A plain, round peg in a plain, round hole. No surprises. No suspicions. No secret book with her name on it. Just . . . normal. And it had worked, mostly. She’d come a long way since leaving Salem Creek. But was there such a thing as too long? Was it possible to walk away so completely that you lost yourself in the process?
S
he drained her glass and headed to the kitchen for a refill. She was on the verge of a good wallow; she could feel it. But she couldn’t afford to become nostalgic, or forget what had ultimately driven her from Salem Creek.
Eight years ago, a pair of teenage girls had failed to return home at curfew. Hours turned to days, days to weeks. Heather and Darcy Gilman had simply vanished.
It had taken less than twenty-four hours for Althea’s name to be raised as the likely culprit. It was hardly a surprise. Anytime anything went wrong—an early blizzard, a freak high tide, an outbreak of measles—the Moons were somehow to blame. Many claimed to speak in jest, but for those in certain circles, the rumors held a ring of truth. What Salem Creek lacked in worldly pretentions, it more than made up for with arcane superstitions and gaudy displays of religious fervor. The disappearance of the Gilman girls proved no exception.
A hotline had been set up and the press descended. Vigils were held, complete with Bibles, candles, flowers, and teddy bears. And then, just when the furor was beginning to die down, there’d been a knock at the door. Someone had called in an anonymous tip, claiming to have seen Althea dragging the girls, one at a time, into the pond, and then burying something nearby.
A warrant had been issued, a pair of small straw poppets found. Voodoo dolls, the paper had called them, because they bore an eerie resemblance to the missing girls, right down to the color of the coats they’d been wearing the night they disappeared. But they hadn’t been buried as the tipster claimed, only left out under a full moon, along with a small cloth bag of salt and caraway seeds. A protection ritual, Althea had explained to police, an offering to help guide the girls safely home to their parents.
They’d searched the pond next. An hour later, the bodies of Heather and Darcy Gilman had been dragged up from the bottom while half the town watched from behind a line of yellow crime tape. The ME’s findings hadn’t been long in coming: a fractured skull for one girl, a broken neck for the other. Both homicide.
Decades-old rumors resurfaced with a vengeance, sometimes whispered, sometimes not. Spells, potions, naked rituals held at full moon. Virgin sacrifices. Many circulated by people who’d known Althea all their lives. There wasn’t a shred of real evidence, which was why no case had ever been brought, but that hadn’t stopped the tongues from wagging. Or prevented the good people of Salem Creek from holding a candlelight vigil—one nearly half the town had shown up for—to pray away the evil in their midst. Innocent until proven guilty—unless your name was Moon.
And now the woman they’d suspected of murder was dead. Had there been a sigh of relief? A day of feasting proclaimed by the mayor?
Ding-dong, the witch is dead?
Yes. Definitely wallowing now, and maybe just a little bit tipsy. She should probably scare up something to eat, but the idea held little appeal. Instead, she headed down the hall with her purse and her newly filled glass, intent on a long, hot soak before bed.
She tossed her purse on the bed and peeled out of her clothes, then turned to retrieve her wineglass from the nightstand. The contents of her purse had spilled out over the comforter, including the journal Evangeline Broussard had sent along with her letter. The sight of it hit her like a blow to the solar plexus, the kind that doubled you up even when you knew it was coming.
Althea was gone.
Grief overwhelmed her as she sagged onto the bed and picked up the book, her tears so hot and jagged she nearly missed the sheet of paper that slid from between the pages and into her lap. She blinked at it, her tears shuddering to a sudden halt. The words were splotchy in places, but there was no mistaking Althea’s taut script.
My dearest Lizzy,
If you’re reading this letter, you know that I’m gone, and why I asked for your book to be sent. Your happiness was all I ever wanted—and all I want for you still—but it would be a lie to say I didn’t hope that happiness would be found at Moon Girl Farm. I’ve never stopped wishing you home, wishing that one day you would come back to the land we both love so well, and to the Path the Moons have walked for generations. You showed such promise as a girl, so many gifts. But you were afraid of being different—of being special. You wanted so badly to be like everyone else that you were willing to throw away those gifts. But gifts like yours can’t be thrown away. They’re in you still, waiting to be called up. Waiting for you to come home. Ours is a long and undiluted line, but I fear that line will soon be broken, our legacy lost forever. You’re all that’s left now, the last and best of us. But there are still things to learn, things there wasn’t time to share before you went away. Broken things that need mending. Hidden things that need telling. The books are here, the teachings of all those who came before you. And you are their steward now, the keeper of our secrets. It’s my hope that one day your book will be there too, shelved beside mine, so that gifts like ours will not be lost to the world. But that choice is not mine to make. It’s yours. We all of us have a story—one we tell knowingly or not with our hours and our days. But as I said all those years ago, no one should write your story but you. Whatever you choose, know that you are always in my heart, and that this is not goodbye. There are no goodbyes, my Lizzy, only turnings of the Circle. Until then . . .
A—
Lizzy was still crying as she folded the letter and slid it back between the blank pages of the journal. They were the kind of words that should never have to be written, the kind that should be said only face-to-face. Not that her grandmother’s letter held many surprises. She had always known what was expected of her—the same thing that was expected of every Moon girl. She was meant to produce a daughter and train her in their ways, to ensure that the line remained unbroken, because that’s how it had been done for generations.
There were no Moon men. No brothers or sons, or husbands either. It hadn’t been planned that way—or if it had, no one ever said so aloud. The Moon girls had just never been the marrying kind, preferring to keep their own company, raise their own daughters, and focus their energy on the family farm.
But precious little had remained of the farm by the time Lizzy left for school—or of the family for that matter—and she doubted the eight years she’d been gone had done much to repair that. Besides, she had a life. One she’d worked hard to build. Let someone else rebuild the farm, someone who actually wanted it.
But Althea’s words echoed back to her. The books are here, the teachings of all those who came before you. And you are their steward now . . .
Once again, it came down to the books. That’s why Althea had arranged to send her journal. It wasn’t just about her story. It was about all their stories, and the duty that now fell to her as keeper of the Moons’ secrets. Always, always duty.
Yes, she could find a Realtor to list the farm. She could even locate someone to clear out the furniture and her grandmother’s personal effects—but not the books. She had no idea what to do with them—it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone had ever talked about—but disposing of them was out of the question. Theirs was a subtle form of magick—quiet magick, Althea had called it. None of that nonsense with cauldrons and candles for the Moon girls. No summoning spirits or casting curses. No covens or midnight bonfires. Just healing work recorded for posterity, proof that they had lived, and done good in the world.
She’d have to make the trip to Salem Creek and box them up, even if all she wound up doing was shoving them in the back of her closet. At some point, she’d need to think about what would happen to them when she was gone—when there would be no one left to pass them on to—but not yet.
Althea saw her as the last and best of the Moons. But she wasn’t. Her gifts—if that’s what they were—were different from Althea’s. She wasn’t a healer or a charmer. She made perfume. And since her promotion to creative director, she didn’t even do much of that. The truth was that, beyond a functioning reproductive system, she had little to offer the Moons. No remedies to share, no wisdom to impart, no sacred rituals to pass on to the next generation.
/> But she would go back for the books—for Althea’s sake. And maybe Luc was right. Maybe she did need to spend some time with her memories, to look that other Lizzy Moon in the eye one last time before she walked away for good.
THREE
July 17
The sign for Moon Girl Farm was so faded Lizzy could barely make out the letters as she turned into the drive. It had taken six hours in a steady drizzle, the last of which had been spent winding along the frost-heaved backroads of rural New Hampshire, but she’d finally made it.
She had called Luc before 6:00 a.m., when she knew he’d be at the gym and unlikely to pick up. Her message said only that she had changed her mind about going home, and would call him when she had some idea how much time she would need. She had then turned off her phone, nixing any chance of a return call.
At the top of the drive, she cut the engine, reminding herself as she got out of the car that this was something she had to do, one last duty to be discharged before she could finally bolt the door on this chapter of her life. But even now, with a knot the size of a fist forming in her stomach, she could feel the pull of the place, a connection to the land that seemed to have been sewn into her soul.
There had always been something otherworldly about the farm, a sense that it had somehow been carved out of time, and stood apart from the rest of the world, like Brigadoon—a place that existed only in her imagination. And yet here it was. Her childhood, preserved in time, like a living thing suspended in amber.
There’d been nothing but open pasture on the outskirts of Salem Creek in 1786, when a pregnant Sabine Moon had fled France for the newly formed United States with nothing but a handful of jewels sewn into the hem of her skirt. And she’d put those jewels to good use, trading them for an eight-acre parcel of land, where she would set up a small but soon-to-be-thriving farm.
She’d been spurned by the villagers, who were wary of a woman brash enough to buy land without the help of a man, and then farm it herself. A woman who wore no ring, and offered no explanation for her swollen belly. Not to mention the bastard daughter she eventually paraded beneath their noses. And then two years of drought decimated the town’s crops—all except Sabine’s, which continued to flourish. And so began the whispers about the strange ways of the Moons, the women who never married and bred only daughters, who grew herbs, and brewed teas, and made charms.
The Last of the Moon Girls Page 2