Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I can’t stop staring at him work, totally unaware he’s being watched from above. Just this lone figure, completely in his element in the maze’s controlled chaos.
So that’s Damiano Ricci. The “unusual” groundskeeper who has a way with plants.
Unusual is putting it mildly.
A wave of fatigue slams into me without warning. My body’s favorite party trick. The journey from Seattle has wiped out what little energy I had left. I drag myself from the balcony, shutting the doors against the endless chill. The bed looks so good right now that I don’t even bother changing out of my travel clothes. I kick off my shoes, pull the cashmere throw over me, and surrender to exhaustion.
Again.
As I drift toward sleep, I swear I can hear my mother’s voice on the wind, whispering to me like she used to: “Be careful, my Briar.”
She always said this island had a way of breaking fragile things. And if there’s one thing I am now, it’s fragile.
Chapter 2
Briar
I wake up completely confused, the light all wrong compared to my apartment back in Seattle. For a second, I have no idea where I am, and my heart starts pounding until I recognize the room. The light’s different now. Evening. The fog outside my window casting a weird pink glow from the sunset.
My body feels heavy, limbs leaden with the particular exhaustion that follows travel. I check my phone. 5:47 PM. I’ve slept for nearly four hours. A text from my father waits on the screen:
Arrived safely? Call when you can.
No “how are you feeling” or “I miss you.” Just checking that his recovery investment made it to the destination without complications. Typical Maxwell Waters tracking his assets. I toss the phone aside without answering. He can wait till tomorrow to confirm his damaged daughter didn’t collapse somewhere between Seattle and his magical healing island.
The house is quiet save for the distant kitchen sounds—Mrs. Fletcher most likely preparing dinner.
I force myself to sit up, then stand, ignoring the dizziness that follows. My reflection in the antique vanity mirror shows a ghost—brown hair limp around a too-pale face, collarbones sharp beneath my sweater. I look away quickly. There’s nothing sexy about how I catalog myself these days—just a clinical inventory of what’s falling apart this week.
I splash cold water on my face in the ensuite bathroom, reapply tinted lip balm more for the moisturizing properties than the color, and pull my hair into a loose knot. Better. Not good, but better.
Downstairs, Mrs. Fletcher is setting a single place at the small breakfast table in the kitchen rather than the formal dining room.
“I thought you might prefer something cozy tonight,” she explains, setting down a bowl of what smells like fish chowder. “Local catch, fresh this morning.”
“Thank you.” I slide into the chair, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic bowl. The heat feels wonderful against my perpetually cold fingers. “This is perfect.”
It’s wild how the kitchen hasn’t changed in eight years, a time capsule while my life’s been a hurricane. The copper pots still hang from the ceiling rack, polished until they gleam. The stone countertops have the same faint purple stains near the sink where Mom used to crush blackberries for Sunday pancakes. That massive hearth with its iron hooks dominates one wall, with those oak cabinets that have grown darker with age. Even the knife marks on the butcher block island are still there, evidence of seven-year-old me “helping” with dinner.
It’s fucked up how stuff stays the same while people disappear. Mom’s hands used to move through this exact space, touching these same things, but she’s been reduced to a memory while these stupid copper pots are still here, unchanged. Sometimes I wonder if that’s really why Dad keeps this place so perfect. Not because he’s sentimental, but because he’s terrified, as if keeping all the physical things exactly the same might prevent him from losing anything else.
I trace my finger along the wood grain in the table. God, when did I become so dark? Before I got sick, people used to say I was funny, the life of every party, not this morbid chick obsessing over mortality. Add it to the list of things my illness stole. Goodbye to my sense of humor replaced by too much time thinking about impermanence. My college friends would be like, “Who are you and what happened to Briar?”
Sometimes I ask myself the same thing.
Mrs. Fletcher busies herself at the counter, affording me the dignity of eating without scrutiny. I manage several spoonfuls before my appetite wanes, but the warm broth soothes my throat and settles in my stomach. Small win for today.
“The island hasn’t changed much,” she says conversationally. “A few new shops in town. The Godwins built that members’ club everyone whispers about.”
“The Vault,” I say, recalling the briefing my father’s assistant provided. Because of course Maxwell Waters believes in thorough preparation, even for shipping his daughter off to recovery island. “Apparently, quite exclusive.”