Chapter 17 Wren
Seventeen
Wren
Lili is practically vibrating with excitement when I wheel into the back room the next morning, her energy too big for the
space. She’s perched on the edge of the table, her fingers tapping against the cover of her dad’s notebook impatiently until
she sees me.
She glances at her watch with exaggerated precision. “Didn’t we say 6:30 a.m.? What is this 6:33 nonsense?”
I don’t answer. She’s still not wearing the McCleave’s polo shirt, but I never expected her to. The blue-and-white checkered
dress she has on today is nothing special. Just fabric. Just a pattern. But somehow, on her, it feels like summer itself walking
toward me.
I veer around the opposite side of the table. “Who let you in?”
“Your dad. He even thanked me for the new display of Nerissa dolls I put together in the gift shop yesterday.” She gathers
up her bag and notebook. “I want it on the record that you are the one who’s late.”
“Some girl was texting me at an absurd hour last night,” I say, locking my wheels and opening my laptop.
She grins, her eyes glinting with amusement. “I bet that girl had a very, very good reason.”
Then she’s dragging her chair—loudly—around to my side of the table, before settling in so close that I can count the faint
freckles on her nose.
“You’re in my light,” I mutter, trying to focus on the screen instead of her.
Without missing a beat, she turns on the desk lamp and pushes the notebook toward me, nudging it consistently. “Come on, open
it, open it.”
Before I can respond, she leans in again. Her hair brushes my neck, soft and warm, and the faint, sweet scent of strawberries
fills the air. She’s too close, and it’s distracting in a way that makes me uncomfortable.
In one sharp motion, I unlock my brakes and wheel away.
“What’s wrong?”
“I need air,” I say, my voice rougher than I want. “And coffee.”
It’s an overreaction. Spending most of the day with her yesterday, then texting late into the night—it blurred the lines in
ways I don’t want to admit. I woke up tangled after hazy dreams that weren’t about the girl who’s supposed to be in my head,
and now guilt and frustration are running under my skin like an itch I can’t quite scratch.
But that’s on me. No one else. Which is why, when I glance over my shoulder as I reach the door and see the look on her face,
I say, “You coming?”
There are quite a few cafés and restaurants surrounding McCleave’s, but when I wheel past Petticoat, Lili points back at it.
“Eryn’s not working today?”
She is, but I don’t feel like sitting across a table from both Eryn and Lili, nor do I feel like explaining that.
“The coffee at Handlebar Café is better.” Not a lie, but I still rarely go there, mostly because it’s farther from the museum
and wheeling over all the cobblestones drives me nuts. I’m beyond annoyed when we get there, and listening to Lili’s order
just makes it worse.
“Good morning. I’d like a large cold cup with three pumps of classic, two pumps of vanilla. Then an inch of caramel drizzle
in the bottom, swirled until it’s mixed well, then two half-caf ristretto shots and swirl that, then iced coffee to the line,
and a splash of cream to finish, please. Oh, and ice.”
As the poor barista trudges off, Lili turns her smile on me only to have it fall when she sees my expression.
“What was that?”
“It’s warm out. It’s not a crime to order iced coffee in the morning.”
I shake my head slightly, laughing under my breath. “Everything about that order was a crime.”
She looks around the mostly empty café. “There isn’t a line yet. I’d have gone with something simpler if there were other
people waiting. And you know what?” she continues. “I like my coffee this way. I’m happy to tip extra for it, so I don’t think
the barista minds either.”
“She minds.” I gesture toward the counter, where the barista is aggressively stirring caramel into the bottom of her cup like
it personally wronged her. “Even if only on principle.”
Lili sighs like I’m being impossible, and when our drinks are finally ready, we move to a table outside.
She watches me over the rim of her cup. “You know there are things in this world that you’re wrong about.”
“Not many.” I eye her coffee. “You, on the other hand . . .”
She pushes it toward me. “Try it then.”
I sip my Americano. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re supposed to be showing me some huge thing you discovered.”
“Oh, yes!” She pulls her coffee monstrosity back. “Okay, so one of the books I borrowed from the museum was a copy of the
Eliza Mitchell diary, because you said she was the earliest source that claimed Kezia had a smuggler’s hole somewhere near
Quaise.” She pulls the book from her bag and begins flipping through the pages before sliding it over to me and tapping on
one of the paragraphs. “This is the section where she actually claims to have seen inside it.”
I’ve read this before, but I scan it again now to appease her.
Many have wondered whether Kezia Gardner did indeed possess a concealed passage by which she might convey contraband to the water under cover of night.
I was very anxious, as well as curious, to find out about there being anything of the kind.
One day, I went out a Black Berry Picking alone, as was my usual custom.
I managed not to be seen, and I went where the entrance might be found.
I crawled in and found just as had been told me quite a storage place, and in the center I could stand nearly straight.
All was timeworn and very much decay’d but I saw all that I needed to convince me of the crafty business she had that provate room arranged for.
No doubt she was a very capable woman, but lacking very much in principle.
I finish reading, waiting for her to explain how this is supposed to prove anything. “Okay?”
She’s still grinning as she opens her dad’s notebook and hands it to me, leaning to point out a passage on the left page that
appears to quote Kezia. It’s difficult to read and Lili is apparently too impatient to wait.
“Never mind, I memorized it. It says: ‘1775 Tuesday, July 18: The blackberry brambles along the south pasture grow thick with
fruit, though I dare not go near. One breath of their sickly sweet ripeness and my throat begins to tighten.’” She barely
pauses before adding, “And before you ask, I already found the same exact lines in Kezia’s diary. I can’t make out all the
words exactly but blackberry, throat, and tighten can’t be anything else.”
She shoves her tablet onto the already-crowded table, the photo of the diary entry pulled up and ready. “Kezia wouldn’t have
hidden anything near blackberries because she was allergic to them!” Lili collapses back against her chair, pure satisfaction
written all over her face.
I reread all three sources, struggling with her dad’s handwriting and the damaged page in the diary, but eventually I have
to concede that she might be right. “I think I see the words too, barely, but yeah.”
“Wren.” She grabs my shoulders and gives me a light shake. “It’s okay to be excited. We just proved she couldn’t have had
a smuggler’s hole where everyone else claimed!”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Okay, but you’re talking about one account. There are others.”
Her grin doesn’t dim a single watt. “The Mitchell account predates the other sources. Isn’t it possible that everybody else took their stories from hers?
” She knows she’s right as she holds up her ridiculous coffee for me to cheers.
“Come on,” she says when I don’t immediately lift my own cup.
“This is good for you too. Think about it: The Whaling Museum cites later accounts for the smuggler’s hole in their Kezia exhibit, and McCleave’s can challenge their sources!
Don’t tell me you don’t love the idea of that. ”
I do, but even if the smuggler’s hole is a myth, it doesn’t erase the rest of accepted history. If there’s more to find, and
that’s an ocean-sized if, it’s going to take more work and, frankly, a lot of luck. But I still raise my coffee, because she already proved me wrong
once and part of me wants to see if she can do it again. “To sticking it to the Whaling Museum.”
I watch as she leans back, eyes bright, completely lost in the thrill of discovery. She owns this moment, like she never doubted
for a second that she’d make it happen.
It’s hard not to be impressed.
Lili catches me staring, her smile turning curious. “What?” she asks. “Surprised a Tourist Girl could put something like this
together?”
“Yeah,” I say, still watching her. “But I won’t make that mistake again.”
Her teasing expression falters, like she wasn’t expecting me to actually answer. Like she wasn’t expecting me to mean it.
I wasn’t expecting to either, but I can’t take it back. I can, however, put a smile back on her face.
Reaching across the table, I pluck her cup right out of her hands and take a sip. The sugar and caramel hit first, thick and cloying, like someone melted a candy bar straight into a cup. I choke it down, pushing the drink back toward her.
Lili’s surprise turns to laughter. “Well?”
I set the cup down with a shake of my head. “Like I said, a crime.”