Page 39 of Summer of Salt

My sister wandered in shortly after. She took Lucille’s place, crossing her legs under her body, looking like a small child in the overstuffed chair.

It was twilight and there were heavy bags underneath her eyes. I realized I hadn’t seen her in days; she had been walking around the house from shadow to shadow, like something that didn’t want to be caught.

“Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?” she asked. Then, looking around, “Thereareghosts here, you know. Vira told me once.”

“She was just trying to scare you.”

“I don’t know. I trust Vira when it comes to creepy things.”

“Hey, have you noticed... ,” I said, but stopped, because I couldn’t figure out how to phrase what it was I wanted to say.

Have you noticed people are avoiding us?

Have you noticed nobody will talk to us?

“I passed Lucille in the hallway,” Mary said. “She practically climbed the wall to get away from me. So yeah. I’ve noticed.”

“What do you think it is?”

“You know what it is, Georgina, you just don’t want to admit it to yourself, because it sucks too much,” she said.She pulled two cookies out of the pocket of her dress and handed me one.

“They think we’ve got magic,” I whispered.

“They’ve always thought that,” Mary corrected. “But now they think I’ve killed Annabella.”

This small crumb of knowledge had been sitting low in my stomach, wiggling around in my gut, trying to get my attention. To hear Mary say it out loud made it real. They thought—the birdheads, the islanders—that my sister killed Annabella.

“It’s not fair,” I said.

“You can ask me,” Mary offered. “I won’t be offended.”

“I never for one second—”

“Right, but it’s fine if you did. I can see how it makes sense. I’m a bitch. People love blaming bitches for things. And plus—you don’t know where I was that night.”

“You’re a bitch, Mary, but you’re not a murdering bitch.”

“Murdering Bitchwill absolutely be the title of my memoir,” Mary said. She popped the last bit of her cookie into her mouth and chewed slowly.

“Well, wherewereyou that night?” I asked.

“At the Fowl Fair. With you.”

“And afterward?”

“Here and there,” she said, and her expression clouded over. “Do you want to go out tonight? Colin Osmond is having a party.”

Even under the black stain of death, the island loved its parties.

I shrugged. “If you want to go, I’ll go with you.”

“I want to go,” she said. “Can you believe it’s almost our birthday?”

“Why won’t you tell me where you were?”

“I didn’t kill Annabella.”

“Mary, I would never think that.”