I kneel at her side and take a few seconds to let my pulse calm. Then I lean close to her and say what needs saying.

“I told you before that you took him from me. . . . You didn’t. He was mine for a time, but now that’s past, and it’s all right. It would have happened with you or without you. But now he’s yours. He belongs to you, and I think he always will. And I hope you know how lucky that makes you. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I don’t hate you. You never deserved that. So . . . that’s all.”

Chapter 11

11

That night, Clara sleeps next to me again.

She doesn’t cry and my mother doesn’t cry either. I wake up feeling rested and cheered. It’s a feeling I recognize. It’s how I used to always be. Maybe we’re all adjusting to being reunited.

“Take me outside, Brooke,” Clara pleads after a breakfast of boiled oats and a handful of dates.

I can’t see why not. Wylan isn’t a threat anymore, and I won’t take her far. Just right to the cove outside. “Sure,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Talon and Willow skip up as we pass the platform. Willow’s constant shadow, her mutt, Flea, prances up as well. When they learn where Clara and I are going, they ask to come along.

“Fine,” I say. “Sure.” Nothing can spoil my mood. “Anyone else?”

“Straggler!” chirps Willow. “You have to come!”

“I’m busy, Willow,” he calls over.

He’s on his back on the platform. It looks like we interrupted his nap.

“You’re not busy!” Talon shouts. He and Willow scuttle over to Straggler and grab him by the arms. As I watch, they yank him off the platform and tow him over.

I don’t know any adults as persuasive as children.

A race begins before we have even emerged from the mouth of the cave. Willow darts across the beach, Flea barking as he lopes alongside her. Clara breaks into a run, kicking up sand behind her. She’s fast, but Talon is all heart and determination. I wonder who will win.

I plop down to watch, their shrieks and hollers ringing in my ears. Willow trips first and tumbles onto the sand, and then Clara does. Talon throws himself down, I think, because everyone else has done it.

The morning is fearsome—a storm is gathering strength above us—but I don’t care. The sound of my sister’s laughter is louder than the crash of the waves. How can this day ever be anything less than perfect?

“Don’t feel like racing?” Straggler asks as he sits next to me on the sand.

“Maybe later.” I look at him. “How about you?”

“Nah.” Straggler shrugs. “I mean I would. But I twisted my ankle this morning and it’s a little sore.”

“What happened?”