She smiled, as if satisfied. What's the scientific name of Nanny?”

“Delphinapterus leucas,” he said, raising himself up to watch Nanny swimming close to the shore. “Rose already knows that.”

“What does that translate to?”

“Delphinapterus, without fins, leucas, white. Why?”

“You're an oceanographer. Can oceanographers predict what the weather will be in September?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said, his pulse kicking over. “Why?”

“Liam,” she said. “Maeve is home, Rose is well. You and I—it's just so wonderful. I never thought we'd have all this. I was just thinking . . . why should we wait? September is almost here.”

“Lily,” he said, pulling her close. Her eyes were bright blue, even in the dark.

“I love you, Liam,” she whispered, their gazes locking. “I want you. Yes, Liam.”

“Yes?”

“I want to marry you. A September wedding . . .”

He stared into her eyes so deeply, and he saw the smile come to her lips. His own heart was pounding. He thought of everything he knew about what Lily had been through, and he pictured Ghost Hills, monster waves crashing over the reef. They were sixty feet tall, capable of killing anyone in their path. He knew that Lily had nearly been swept under once; Liam was going to make sure it never happened again.

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The late afternoon held golden light, spilling it down the rock cliffs, into the fjord, across the calm bay. Fiddles and tin whistles played, inviting the town to dance, calling everyone from their houses for the last days of the ceili. Marisa and Jessica sat by the stone fisherman, listening to the music.

“Mommy, why don't you play?” Jessica asked.

“I can't play without Sam,” Marisa said.

“You wrote your new song and everything. . . .”

It was true. Inspired by Anne's phrase, and by knowing Patrick Murphy, Marisa had written a new song, “Storm Tossed”—it was ready to play, but she knew that it would have to wait until she had her partner and fellow Fallen Angel, her sister Sam, with her again.

A group of young girls, Irish dancers, ran along the wharf in their green dresses; a van from Prince Edward Island rumbled down the cobbled street, band members jammed in, singing at the top of their lungs. A quartet from Yarmouth sat on stage, two fiddle players racing through “Maureen's Reel,” the tin whistle and accordion players tapping their feet for percussion.

Marisa lifted her head for every car that drove through town. She watched as the ferry slid across the strait, its white wheelhouse glinting in the butterscotch light. A single whale arched its back, a glossy black island that disappeared in the ferry's wake. Night would fall soon, and another day would be over. Another chance to play gone . . . Marisa tried to concentrate on the band playing. They were very good, but Marisa knew that she and Sam could beat them.