I give up on the mirror, search the windows for blinds or curtains instead. There aren’t any of those either. When I peer outside I don’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean no one’s there, lurking behind a cabin or tree. I back away from the window, take my coat to the bathroom, and close the door. Making sure it’s silenced first, I pull out my phone and turn it on. I cross my fingers and check the screen.
No service.
I groan, then tap the settings app. Of course there isn’t any Wi-Fi.
I wait a minute to see if the phone will find a signal, but the no-service status doesn’t budge. My skin crawls at the thought of the red notification number climbing higher and higher. I’ll have to find service elsewhere on the island. I search the walls for power outlets to charge the phone and learn there are none. Befuddled, I stand in the middle of the room until I realize guests don’t need outlets if they can’t have electronics. The alarm clock on the nightstand is battery-powered.
I pull enough clothes out of my duffel bag for an overnight stay. Bra and underwear always go on the top closet shelf, pajamas on the second, jeans and my favorite turquoise sweater on the third. I used to hang my sweaters until I read that stretches out the shoulders; now I fold them in half, then in thirds. If this cabin doesn’t have a mirror or power outlets, there’s a zero percent chance it has an iron, but I check anyway, for the sake of my jeans. Inevitably, I come up empty and sigh. For the life of me, I cannot understand why most people are too lazy to take three minutes out of their day to make themselves presentable. I hide the phone in my pajamas and close the closet door.
In the desk drawer, I find a map of the property. I put it and the key card in my pocket and tug my heavy jacket back on. I step outside, making sure the door is locked before setting out. I find myself absurdly relieved that the lurking fog has vanished. In its place, crystal flakes twirl toward the earth. I tip my head and watch them fly. For a second this world is peaceful, safe. Then a blast of wind whistles past me and the spell breaks. I head toward the outermost circle of cabins. Traipsing through the fresh powder reminds me of Kit. She loathes walking through untouched snow, hates to see it disturbed, used to insist we avoid it no matter how circuitous our route became. I wonder how she deals with that on an island. I smile, imagining her waking up early every morning to clear the walkways. Kit has always known how to keep magic alive.
I search every window for a glimpse of my sister or her belongings. All the rooms are empty and orderly, like a hotel that hasn’t yet opened. Where is the guests’ stuff? Surely they can’t all be neat freaks. I find no swimsuit or goggles, no deck of cards or well-worn paperback on the desks. Trappings of Kit are nowhere in sight. Sweat pools in my armpits despite the cold.
Where is everyone? I sense them nearby, beady eyes on me, but every time I glance over my shoulder, I find nothing, no one.
Once I’ve finished the first ring, I move on to the second. I feel like the Night Stalker peeping in strangers’ rooms, but this method is quicker than knocking on every door. Outside, the grounds are still. No one wanders the island. It strikes me how rare it is to be out in the world without another person in sight. A natural disaster could wipe humanity off the face of the earth at this moment, and I would have no idea. The thumping in my chest picks up.
What if Kit is desperate to get out of here when I find her? The mainland is more than an hour away. What if the Hourglass flips over in a storm? I have no clue where the nearest piece of land is, let alone how to get to it. What if this island sinks and sinks, gobbled whole by the Atlantic?
What if I never get to tell her? What if someone else does first?
In between houses I stop and put my hands on my knees, panting. I have always hated secrets: having them, learning them, holding them. This one burrows like a maggot into my chest, chewing a hole through my heart. I take a breath. I can’t be the Collins sister who loses her head. I wait for my breathing to slow.
An odd sense that I’m being watched forces me to lift my chin. Several feet away, two women stand on the path, observing me. The older one has a kind face; the other is middle-aged and vibrates with nervous energy. They’re bundled in winter clothing, but neither wears a hat, which highlights their identical hairstyles.
Both of their heads are shaved bald.
The skin stretches taut, revealing every dent, bump, and ridge on their skulls. Liver spots afflict the elderly woman’s scalp, but the other is the unsightlier of the two with her oblong dome and uneven ears. Together they’re fun house mirror reflections, two eggs waiting to crack. I wince at their exposed crowns, at the fragile gray matter waiting beneath the crust.