I broke it off, and never told Peter about the baby. If he had known I was pregnant, he would never have gone away. But he did go away. Two weeks later, I learned that he joined the marines and shipped off to Vietnam. I hurt him so badly, and he never knew why, never knew he had a little girl—or that her name was Rhanna. He was killed just before she was born.
I’ve never spoken of him to anyone, but I’ve never forgotten. You’ll find a cigar box at the back of my closet, where I’ve kept a few small treasures from our time together. A photo he took of me the day we met. A beaded bracelet he gave me for my birthday. Ticket stubs from the first picture we ever saw together—Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy in Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner. And a lock of his hair, given in exchange for one of mine. It seems silly now, but that’s how it is when you’re young and in love. Perhaps I should have gotten rid of these things—Rhanna should have been remembrance enough—but I couldn’t bear to let them go.
So there it is. I’ve told you all of it. I should have told Rhanna. He was her father, after all. But she was always so distant. And then you came along. By the time you were old enough, I wondered if it even mattered. I’ve been ashamed for so long. Not because I’d been ready to break faith with all the Moons before me, but because I did break faith with Peter—and with myself. I broke a good man’s heart—a man I loved—for the sake of someone else’s beliefs. I let someone else write my story.
Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder how things might have been if I’d followed my heart instead of the rules. We’ve been taught that to love is to give ourselves away. But that’s wrong. We lose nothing when we love. It’s only in refusing to love that we pay, and lose the most precious part of ourselves. That’s why we’ve come—to love. Because that’s all there is. It’s all love—and it’s all magick.
I’m tired now, and my Circle has drawn to its close. I must lay down my pen. But I leave you with these last words. Love, my Lizzy. Love wherever it may lead, and write your story. Write it with your whole heart, and give it a happy ending.
A—
EPILOGUE
January 24
Lizzy smiled as she switched on the lamp and sat down at Althea’s writing desk, warmed by the faces peering out at her from the collection of silver frames scattered over the polished surface. A candid shot of Rhanna at work on one of her sketches, her hair fastened geisha style with a pair of paintbrushes. A black and white of Althea at twenty-two, clutching an enormous stuffed poodle—the kind won at fair booths by lovestruck young men. A grinning Peter Markey, Althea’s lost love and the man Lizzy now thought of as her grandfather, boyishly handsome with his Brylcreemed wave of dark hair. And the most recent addition, taken on her own wedding day, her hair woven with a chain of wildflowers, her smile radiant as she slid the ring onto Andrew’s finger.
She had borrowed an embroidered hankie from Evvie, and carried her grandmother’s cherished copy of Rumi’s The Book of Love, as her something blue. Althea hadn’t lived long enough to see her married, but the mingled scents of lavender and bergamot had filled the air as they spoke their vows on that sunny afternoon.
A distant hammering broke the quiet: Andrew working in the new drying barn. It would be finished by spring, and then a new mural would appear. Moonflowers this time, Rhanna had decided, with lots of stars and indigo sky as their backdrop.
The landscape of Moon Girl Farm was already changing, reinventing itself for the next generation. Salem Creek was changing too. A pair of commemorative benches had appeared in the park last fall, anonymous gifts to the town of Salem Creek, complete with neat bronze plaques. The first honored the memories of Heather and Darcy Gilman. The second, inscribed with the words HARM NONE, was dedicated to the life and good works of Althea Moon. Eight years ago, the names Gilman and Moon had become inextricably linked, but at long last the whispers were over.
Lizzy lifted her pen, then paused to peer out the window. The sun had been down for hours, the winter sky a velvety, unbroken black. It was the first new moon of the new year, the sacred space between waxing and waning, between nothingness and becoming. It felt right, somehow, to begin it tonight, at the beginning of the moon’s birthing cycle. She smiled softly as she turned back the cover of the journal, blank for so long, and began to write.
The Book of Elzibeth
My sweetest baby girl,
When I was very young, I asked your great-grandmother—her name was Althea—what we were. Her answer was a kind of fairy tale, the kind with magick potions and powerful queens, because it was all I could understand at the time. She promised to tell me more when I was old enough to grasp it. But by then, I no longer wanted any part of that fairy tale. I had become afraid of myself, afraid of my own power, and I tried to run away. And then, when Althea died, I came home. Not just to the farm, but to myself.
A wise woman—the woman who will be your aunt Evvie when you arrive this spring—once told me that home isn’t
