Jaren sat on a tree stump on the shore, directly across the lake from where the islanders had released what appeared to be flowers into the water. He had promised his father he wouldn’t wander, and he hadn’t intended to. But every time he went gathering, the mournful memory-song rose up in him, and he felt the strangest urge to come back here. The first time, the island had been quiet, with no visible signs of life. There was no reason to return.

But as soon as he’d set out this morning to forage for nettles and dandelions, the only edible plants available this early in the spring, he found himself on the trail again, the one leading to the lake. He had still been more than a mile away when he heard the singing. In that moment, he finally understood where he’d heard the song that had haunted him for days. He had rushed through the woods to get here, ignoring his father’s warning. The eerie, distant tune had been real, as real as the person who sang it.

This song, however, was nothing like that. It was joyful, making his foot tap against the mossy roots despite himself. Despite the fact that he was beginning to wonder if the stories of Endla were true.

Last night, he had met some of the other villagers at Bricklebury’s only pub for a drink. He was still considered an outsider, but he was an outsider with three pretty, eligible sisters, and that was apparently enough to earn him an invitation.

Casually, Jaren had asked one of the other young men about the lake. Lake Luma, they called it. The empty lake.

“It’s not exactly empty,” one of the villagers said. His name was Lars, and he was tall and lanky, with a shock of red hair that seemed to have a personality of its own. “It’s full of poison.” He lowered his voice an octave. “Magic poison.”

“Magic,” Jaren repeated, hiding his chuckle behind his pint.

“Laugh all you want,” a young woman with unruly eyebrows spat. “It won’t make it any less true.”

Jaren ducked his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. I just don’t believe in magic.”

The woman’s brows dipped into two angry slashes and she stormed off, in search of better company. Jaren grimaced at Lars. “Whoops.”

Lars leaned closer, cupping his mouth behind his hand, though he had to shout to be heard above the boisterous conversation filling the small pub. His red hair tipped toward Jaren, as if it, too, were in on the secret. “Maggie’s father was killed by the lake.”

“But if everyone knows it’s poisonous, why would he go in?”