Joanna washed her hands, content that everything (or so it seemed for now) had been put back in its rightful place. She pulled the ancient wand out of her loose bun so that her long silver hair fell down her shoulders. She needed a shower.

As she strode through the living room on her way upstairs, the blinking answering machine caught her eye, and she stopped in her tracks. The red button winked twice at her, then paused and blinked twice again. Ah, she thought, they aren't as inconsiderate as I thought and are finally learning that a mother does worry even when her girls are immortal.

She walked over to the machine and flicked her wand at it. She could, of course, press the button, both acts requiring a single gesture, but somehow this felt easier, plus Gracella had taken care to clean the vintage machine: she had seen her doing so with Q-tips and rubbing alcohol.

"Uh ... this is Norman. Uh ... your husband?" the machine said.

"Oh!" She was caught off guard. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for Norman to continue. Why did he have to announce himself like that? They had known each other for millennia, and she certainly hadn't forgotten his voice. What was with the upbeat word husband with the question mark at the end? Well, she had to admit that she herself didn't know what their status was. Being apart this long, would they actually be considered divorced?

"I've been thinking ... How to put this? ... Maybe this is not the right place to say it, Jo ... I probably should speak with you directly instead ..."

Joanna waved a hand at the machine as if to urge it to speed up.

"Yes, I know, you're getting impatient with me right now, so I'll get on with it ..."

Joanna snorted. She couldn't help but feel a slight thrill at hearing Norman's soft gruff voice, which suggested a nose-in-the-books-all-day kind of weariness. There was also the pleasure of the deep familiarity of his voice, like hearing from an old friend who anticipated her thoughts.

Norman continued. "Ever since that little shindig of Ingrid's - the library fund-raiser - well, even before that, I thought ... Well, maybe we can just talk a little?" The latter came out rushed. "I would really like that, Jo. Call me! I was thinking it would be truly terrific if - " Just as Norman had been gathering some momentum, the machine sounded a long beep, cutting him off. It reminded her of that Gong Show from the 1970s and she laughed out loud.

"Hi, this is Harold Atkins calling Joanna Beauchamp," piped in yet another male voice, this one more self-assured and to the point. "I wanted to follow up on that little conversation we had about letting me take you out to dinner. I heard about some new place down by the waterfront. Would you like to try it out? By the way, how's that raven of yours? Hope to see you soon. Tomorrow at the preschool? Are you picking up Tyler?"

Harold Atkins, a dashing gentleman widower, had recently moved to North Hampton. His daughter and son-in-law, both doctors at the local hospital, worked long rotation hours. Harold had proposed that rather than raise little Clay with a series of nannies who came and went, better to have the child's own grandfather for the job. He was retired from his veterinarian practice in New York City and had nothing keeping him there any longer. His wife had died of ovarian cancer three years earlier, and the city was filled with painful reminders of the woman he had dearly loved. So Harold had sold his Manhattan brownstone for a handsome sum to buy a house on the beach in North Hampton and be a grandpa.

Joanna didn't find Harold's message intrusive; it was flattering that he had taken such an interest in her instead of that bunch of sexy grannies at the preschool. What did Freya call them? Not cougars - snow leopards - slim, glossy silver - haired ladies with their light work (expressionless foreheads), weekly manicures, and monthly visits to the salon, who eagerly sidled up to him or threw him salacious sidelong glances. Harold was a very young, very urbane-looking seventy-year-old, and it didn't hurt that he was also rich.

She and Harold had become friendly since early September when school had started, and he always appeared especially pleased to see Joanna. She had noticed that her jeans fit more loosely lately; maybe it was that she had lost a few of her extra pounds and didn't look so bad herself. She and Harold had exchanged numbers to set up playdates for Tyler and Clay, who were buddies.

It's raining men, she thought with a sudden bout of angst. How funny to find herself the object of two suitors. Norman wanted to talk. What was it that would be "truly terrific," she wondered. It was hard to imagine stodgy old Norm excited about anything. He was so ensconced in academia, very much fulfilled by life in the ivory tower - although his small, monastic cell had elicited a twinge of sadness in her. Now here was Harold Atkins asking her out on a date. The truth was that Joanna had grown comfortable in her singlehood; she enjoyed being alone. Plus she had Tyler now, who took up much of her thoughts, although perhaps it was a way to assuage the longing she felt in her son's absence. Joanna deleted both messages and replied to neither.

It was all so overwhelming. But finally she had to admit hearing from the two men wasn't what was troubling her. Something was not sitting right, and it had to do with the girls, Freya in particular. Freya was hiding something. Joanna could not exactly pinpoint how she knew, but she trusted her mother's instinct that something was wrong.

Chapter four

Girls, Girls, Girls

There was someone skulking around the Dragon, and even asleep Freya heard it: creaking in the crew cabin starboard, then in the salon and kitchen galley. It wasn't Killian. He was lying next to her with his arm looped around her waist. She needed to wake up but couldn't quite push past the layers of sleep to the surface. There was the noise again. This time it was footsteps on the companionway. She forced her eyes open, her ears finely attuned, but now there was nothing. The night was still, and the only noise was Killian's soft breathing.

The glow from the lights on the dock shone through the portholes of the cabin. There was nobody in the room except the two of them. Freya slowly extricated herself from the blanket and sheets, dressing quickly and quietly, careful not to wake Killian. She was soon stepping onto the footbridge, where only the Dragon was moored. There was no one around, but she figured whoever it was had taken care not to get caught.

Deciding to give up on going back to sleep, she walked against a strong gust along the path that traversed the darkened beach until she reached her car. Instead of taking the right toward Joanna's, she swung the Mini Cooper in the opposite direction, driving west, taking the narrow sandy road, flanked by cattails, that ran along the shore. Not fifteen minutes later, Freya reached a dilapidated two-story beachside motel on the outskirts of town, half of which appeared sunk in the sand, perilously tilting sideways. The neon sign read UCKY STAR, the L permanently extinguished. The puke-pink and mint-green facade, as well as the rusty white railings along the upper story, had eroded in the briny air. Despite the motel's appearance, about a dozen cars were parked out front, so Freya backed up, preferring to pull up in the shadows, lest her Mini be spotted by someone she knew.

She got out and walked toward the motel's front lot. It was so quiet this time of year without the constant thrum of cicadas and insects screeching in the grasses; only the sound of the wind as it whispered through the reeds and the waves crashing before slithering away.

Just as Freya entered the lot, she heard heels clicking on the upper walkway of the motel. The stranger, a tall woman, tottered forward unsteadily, then seemed to sense Freya's presence because she leaned against the railing and peered out to the lot. Her clothes were rumpled, and wayward strands of light blond hair had come loose from her bun. Freya hid, hunkering down behind a car, but one glimpse was all it took to know that Freya had just seen Ingrid, looking uncharacteristically disheveled. What the hell is she doing here?

Perhaps Ingrid and that detective of hers had finally gotten around to getting it on? Freya smiled to herself. Being an expert in all matters love, especially when it came to other people's romantic quests, Freya had not been unaware of the torch Ingrid carried for a certain Matt Noble. In this case, it hadn't been images in her head but that sweet little kiss she had witnessed them exchange at the last annual library fund-raiser that confirmed it. However, when she had asked Ingrid about it, her sister shrugged it off, saying, "Oh, Matt, but he's just a friend!" Yet Freya had seen the blush spread in Ingrid's cheeks and decided that for now she would leave it alone and respect her sister's privacy. Strange to think Ingrid and Matt would rendezvous at such a run-down hotel. Maybe it was a kink of theirs. Oh well, everyone had their little secrets.

She heard one of the doors open then close, and when Freya rose from behind the car, Ingrid was gone. Freya sprinted across the lot to a door on the lower level, on the sinking side of the motel - the cheaper rooms. She tapped out the secret knock.

"Will you get that, babe?" she heard from behind the paper-thin wall among sword-clanking sounds, muffled grunts, and blows coming from the TV.

A young woman with a ponytail, the golden-brown mane swept onto a shoulder, cracked open the door. She wore a snug T-shirt that blared WRONG ISLAND UNIVERSITY, a skirt as big as a handkerchief, tights, and calf-hugging high-heeled boots. "What do you want?" she said, giving Freya the once-over.

Freya stared back at her with equal disdain. "Uh ... I'm here to see my brother?"

"Let her in," said Freddie from inside.

The coed swung open the door, and Freya strode in. She stopped abruptly, taking in the sight: everything in the room - the floor, the beds, the desk strewn with leftover fast-food wrappers, the TV, the armchair where Freddie sat wielding a Wii remote at a video game on the TV screen - pitched slightly to the right. There was a pile of neatly folded clothes on one twin bed, while the other was unmade, covers and sheets spilling onto the floor. Freddie, in a tank and boxers, sat with one very long, muscular leg swung over the armchair's side and the other foot, like that of an ancient Roman sculpture, resting on the floor among other discarded food wrappers. His lips broke into a huge grin as he turned to Freya. A dwarf boar, Freddie's familiar, burst out from beneath the blankets on the floor, waddling over to root around in the wrappers as if he were taken with a sudden urge to hunt truffles.

"Buster!" said Freya to the piglet.

"So cute!" said Wrong Island University.

"Buster or Freddie?" asked Freya, curious.

The girl cocked her head to one side so that her ponytail flipped over. "Well, both, really."

"Ugh!" harrumphed Freya, annoyed that her twin continued to play his video game even when he knew she hated it - all that cartoon violence. After she had refused to play along with his revenge fantasies against Killian, Freddie devolved into a slug. Funny that: he lived with a pig and had become a slug. But at least he had done his laundry; that was a start.

"Babe," said the girl, "I did all your laundry, so now all you've got to do is put it away. I really should be getting back to the dorms. It's late. Do you think you'll be needing anything else?"

Freya was amused at her twin's resources. He had somehow managed to procure his very own personal assistant despite being holed up in self-imposed exile.

"I'm great," said Freddie, swinging his leg over onto the seat, getting up to rub his flat belly.

While Freya watched, appalled, the coed pecked him on the lips, then stared at him a moment. "You're such a god, Freddie!"

"If you only knew," he said, raising an eyebrow as he walked her to the door.

"Okay, bye ... um, Freddie's sister, whatever your name is!" After the coed was gone, Freddie locked the door behind her.

He swiveled around toward Freya, his arms open wide for a hug. She begrudgingly returned his affection even as she felt a twinge of guilt. She patted him on the back before she went over to one of the twin beds to sit. He returned to the armchair across from her.

"Talk to me!" he said, clapping his hands together. "What's up?"

Freya couldn't help but smile at her sleepy-eyed twin, recalling the little boy he had been, her best friend, who now made a valiant effort to sit at attention. She longed for that kind of closeness with him again, the intimacy of twins who shared their own secret language, as they once had. But she held herself in check. There wasn't going to be a truce, not yet, not until Freddie got these stupid ideas about Killian out of his head.

"Gotta hand it to you, bro," she said. "Little college girls doing your chores, getting you food? What is this, a harem?"

"Whatevs," said Freddie with a shrug. "They like doing stuff for me."

"I'm sure they do." She smirked.

"So, why are you here so late? Did you find it?"

Freya shook her head and didn't answer. "This is very unhealthy, you know, the video games, the laziness, this fixation on Killian, which has gotten way out of control. Why don't you just let me take you home? This can all end right here, right now, but you've got to stop with these crazy, unfounded accusations."

"They're not unfounded!" Freddie insisted. "How many times do I have to go over it with you? I remember it very clearly."

Freya put a hand up. "Please don't! I remember what you said."

"Well, did you look for it even?" he asked.

Freya stared wordlessly at him. Buster nosed his calf, and Freddie gave the pig a gentle squeeze, which made the little fatty roll onto his back. Freddie flicked his hair out of his eyes and glared at Freya. He was stubborn, sure, but he was also beautiful: dear Freddie, who'd always been a love. Freya understood exactly why a girl might do his laundry, then place it like an offering at his feet. Freddie's features were a striking contrast of delicate and bold: creamy gold skin, large green eyes like hers, the sweet dimple in his strong chin. With that head of flaxen hair, he did exude a celestial kind of radiance. He was a ray of pure sunshine, beaming at her from the squalor of this run-down motel.