The Singing Bone (44 page)

In Alice's letters to Hans, she tells him about the way the sea changes color as the clouds shift in the sky. She describes the storm petrels, the cliffs, the fog. She tells him about youth culture—the metal kids who dress in black and paint their faces white.
They make me nervous
, she writes,
but only because they remind me of the Wyckians
. In Hans's letters to Alice, he tells her about the progress of the film, about meeting with Stuart. He mentions that Ariel sends her love.

  •  •  •  

One night, Finn put his hand on Alice's thigh, on the tattoo of Jack ­Wyck's name. He opened his fingers and gently pressed and found her eyes. Alice looked at him. His face was expressionless. She knew she didn't have to say anything—to explain—but she knew that this was also a question.

Alice told Finn about Jack Wyck, about that summer, and how she had lost her way. Soon she was telling him about Trina, and how Stover had died, and, finally, she told him about Molly. She told him quickly, in a low voice. When she cried, he rose and got her a glass of water. After she finished talking, she expected him to pull away from her, but instead he took her in his arms and said nothing. Nothing! Of all the things Alice had imagined, she'd never thought of someone saying nothing. When they moved apart he kept his hands on her shoulders. He looked at her for a long time, studying her, until she rolled away. “Why are you looking at me?” she said.

“The ballad,” he said. “It's about you.”

She nodded.

Every once in a while, he would ask her for a detail. She hesitated at first, but soon she told him about the film and the reason she'd left. They were hiking, and she could see a waterfall in the distance, moving soundlessly over the rocks.

“I'm going to miss you,” Finn said.

She didn't say anything. She tried not to think about what might happen when she went back. She wanted to forget the Wyckians, forget the danger, the death. Prisons. She looked at the ocean.

Alice found four more variants of the ballad to translate and a few fragments, and one night she came upon a new fragment of the harp rhyme. In the fragment, a naive girl is drowned by her own sister and when a traveling musician finds the girl's body, he turns her ribs into a harp and the harp sings out the murderer's name—all what Alice ­expected—but then something changed. The end shifted away from the one she'd grown accustomed to—no one was hanged or burned or drowned in this variant. Alice read on, surprised. Instead, the guilty sister steals one of her father's ships and sails to an island. She lives the rest of her days there and is never seen again. Alice sang the words, plucking the sounds out on the piano that stood against one wall in Finn's living room. With each word, a greater sense of wonder settled over her. She closed her eyes and grasped the sides of the piano bench with her fingers.

  •  •  •  

The fog has reached Alice and she sits down on the damp grass and waits for it to clear. The fog moves around her. It's so thick that she can no longer see the cliff's edge. If she stays put, there's no danger. She will wait until the air loses its opacity, for the sun to emerge and burn it away. In the meantime, she likes the shelter, the protective cover, this temporary cocoon.

Alice sings “Hørpu Ríma,” rocking slightly for the tempo. She has the words memorized. She sings the ballad from start to finish and while she sings, she closes her eyes and thinks of Molly. She remembers lifting the rock on the shore of the reservoir, of turning to her friend, of watching the slip of blood at her temple, and of feeling, all the while, that murder was temporary—the way it is in a play—that soon they would again be crossing the field together where she'd first seen Mr. Wyck, laughing, and there would be sunlight, and she would take her friends' hands in her own—Stover's and Trina's, too—and the page would turn, but there was no page to turn. There was no sunlight. All there was after was darkness, falling.

Alice whispers the words of the song, comparing it to all the other versions she's learned, shifting through the endings —the sister kills the girl, the miller, the girl puts her body back together, the sister is punished, the sister flees. She can hear the call of the storm petrels, the boom of the waves hitting the cliffs below, and above that, she can finally hear herself sing.

My deepest thanks go to . . .

Everyone at Regan Arts, but especially Ron Hogan, who has an excellent editorial eye; Jessica Papin, my agent, who read that long-ago draft in one night, listened to the songs, and with poise, humor, and intelligence, helped me navigate the world of publishing.

The small writing group who first encountered Mr. Wyck—Nora Maynard, Debbie Koenig, and Andrea Lynn, as well as friends and readers: Meg Bratsch, Eylin Palermo Munsell, Wanda Modzelewska, and Tamara Zahaykevich for encouragement and enthusiasm. Jen Kollar and Jackie Zahn helped locate research materials.

There is really no way to thank two dear friends: Nora, who saw a pathway to revision, and Meg, who read the book perhaps three times. All writers need such intelligent, thoughtful friends. I can only hope to return the favor.

My sister, Kate, and my father, Bill, who inspire me with their wit and creativity.

Finally, my mother, Mary Downing Hahn, and my husband, Allen Rose, to whom this book is dedicated—it was the safety of your love and belief in this book that kept me at the helm in rough waters.

65 Bleecker Street

New York, NY 10012

Copyright © 2016 by Beth Hahn

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Regan Arts Subsidiary Rights Department, 65 Bleecker Street, New York, NY 10012.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to real persons, products, or places, are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental and is not intended to refer to any actual persons, products, or places.

First Regan Arts hardcover edition, March 2016

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015948385

ISBN 978-1-942872-56-6

eISBN 978-1-942872-57-3

Interior design by Nancy Singer

Jacket design by James Iacobelli

Jacket photograph © Tony Watson / Arcangel