Chapter 2

it's hard to tell if the mail box is rusty or if it was always brownish-red. A careless hand has painted a number 1 on the side of the in white paint.

The little door seems to be stuck. I get a better grip, plant my feet, and try again. The rusted metal feels rough under my slender fingers. Just when it seems like I might break it, the mail box pops open. A narrow slip of paper is all that lies inside. On it, a scrawled message reads, "The wise gull knows when to leave his nest. -L".

I roll my eyes. "L" would be my uncle's friend Lavinia, probably the only person in town who's stranger than he is. I haven't seen her since I were small, but he still talks about her all the time.

Remembering how upset he was the last time I read one of her notes, I put the slip of paper back into the mailbox and close the door as best as I can.

I still have a little time to look around, or I could head inside.

The crooked, splintery railing around the porch is lined with sea shells and wave-smoothed stones collected from the beach. In my experience, things that end up on the porch are usually forgotten completely. I retrieve the spare key from a planter full of dry brown flowers, then let myself in.

The inside of the house is as wellkept as the outside is neglected. polished walnut floorboards reflected the afternoon light from the windows. I walk down the hall to the study, the house creaking around me like an old ship. As a child, I were certain a wave would sweep it away, but after this much time, I think the house might just outlast the sea.

I stop in the doorway to my uncle's study and there he is, pacing, his gray-peppered hair standing up in all directions.

"The marks," Uncle John mutters. "How did they... Did Lavinia tell them? No, no, she... can't go through town. Could take a boa--"

He looked up quickly, like a startled bird.

"Ruth! I hadn't expected..." He frowns. " Bother! I'd completely forgotten."

I can't help smiling. "Oh, no harm done."

He barks out a laugh. "No harm. You can't... This isn't the best time, I'm afraid."

An unfamiliar fear burns in his green eyes. With him, it's hard to know whether he's just hung up on a strange idea, or if something really is wrong.

"Wait, I say. " What's going on?"

"The island, of course. You know." Uncle John pushes his glasses up his long nose. Large smudges show on the normally clean lenses.

"My turn, that's all. There really isn't time for discussion." He steers me towards the door and all but shoves me out of it. "Off you go! Wonderful seeing you again. Have a safe trip."

The door slams behind me. I hear the lock turn, and then thunk of the deadbolt.

My mind turns to the spare key in the flowerpot. One option is to unlock the door and let myself in. Of coarse I could knock and try to reason with my uncle. And then of coarse there's an option of just leaving. My uncle isn't stupid, nor is he exactly crazy. Maybe I should do as he says.

Once held calm down, Uncle John will probably let me back in. In the meantime, I should give him some space. I grab my suitcase and start back down the road to Marooner's point.

If I'm lucky, u might catch the bus back home. This would be perfect chance to spend the summer in Boston with my friends, provided Mother doesn't think of other relative I could visit instead.

By the time I walk the two miles back to town, the afternoon is turning golden and my hands have gone numb from dragging the suitcase. I blow a stray lock of hair away from my eyes, then sigh when it falls into place again. At least if I do decide to leave, I'll be glad I brought the brought the suitcase with me.

Marooner's point usually sees it's fair share of summer people later in season, so right now it's practically a ghost town. Every time she visits, Mother goes on and on about the quaint 19th Century charm, but as far as am concerned, the town is just run-down and outdated.

A cobbled street leads me to the town square, where a dry fountain stands. The three-tiered fountain promises a beautiful display if some one would turn it on. It's been dry for as long as I can remember.

As I enter the square, a barrel chested man throws a contemptuous look my way and mutters something under his breath. By the wide-brimmed hat and rubber boots, u guess he's a fisherman, like most people in this town. His eyes dare me to confront him.

"What did you say? I fix him with the sternest look I can muster.

He flashes a crooked smile, clearly not intimidated by some scrawny girl. "I said it's the old warlock's niece, back again so soon."

I frown.This isn't the first time I heard Uncle John called a warlock. "What do you mean by that?"

"Come on, we both know what you are, girl. I'm sick to death of your playing kind playing dumb." He smirks at me. "They'll cart you all soon enough, and the rest of us'll be better of it."

My cheeks burn. I hear my mother voice, nagging at me not to let my temper get better of me.

I know better than to start a fight with a man twice my size. I adjust my grip on the suitcase and start walking again, head down. Though the fisherman's low chuckle brings a new flash of anger, I manage to ignore it.

The bus station lies across the square.

In past summers, I always wanted to leave this town out of boredom. Now it's fear that drives me, which is ridiculous considering what a sleepy, peaceful town this has always been. It's not like gang-infested streets of New York that I've read about. Nevertheless, there's something creepy in the air, perhaps downright hostile. I hustle over the bus station.

A bronze bell jingles overhead as I enter the general store that doubles as Marooner's point bus station. Meagerly stocked shelves, only about as tall as me, break up the long, dim room. The unvarnished floor creaks underfoot as I navigate through crooked rows of canned goods to the old ticket counter at the back.

I drop my suitcase before the well-pollished wooden counter, then shake the numbness from my fingers. Only a few seconds later, Mr. Davis, the store's owner, hobbles over.

The old man raises his eyebrows. "How can I help you, miss?

"One to Boston," I say. "The last bus hadn't left yet, has it?"

"No, not..." Mr. Davis squints at me. "Aren't you John's Chilcott's niece?"

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