Siren's Storm by Lisa Papademetriou Page A

things that people said to Will—“Everything happens for a purpose,” “He’s with your grandfather now,” “It’s God’s will”—all of these murmurings were just words to Will. He understood that people wanted to comfort him. But the words were just pitiful attempts to distract him from the fact that Tim was gone, and that nothing in Will’s life—not a wife, not a career, not children—would ever be Tim. People spoke to him of the circle of life.
But life isn’t a circle
, Will thought.
It’s a straight line leading in one direction—like a gangplank
.
    The only people who really bothered Will were the “cherish the memories” people. They kept insisting that Will should be thankful for the time that he and his brother had shared. They said that Will should always remember the good times and be on the lookout for signs of Tim everywhere. But Will didn’t want to cherish the memories. Will didn’t miss the idea of Tim—he missed Tim. The flesh-and-blood brother who had once busted Will’s nose, and who had blamed Will when he broke a window in the potato barn, and who had cried so hard at the end of
Charlotte’s Web
that he threw up.
    So it was a relief, sort of, to find someone who really knew how he was feeling.
It haunts you
. “People keep telling me that I’ll get over it, but—”
    “You never get over it.” Asia’s voice was a hatchet falling—sharp, fatal.
    “No?”
    “Never.” Asia’s eyes burned.
    At the nearby table, one of the girls leaned over to whisper to the other. They both laughed, casting narrow-eyed glances at Asia. He thought about how stupid it was to envy people you didn’t even know. Sure, Asia was beautiful. But Will was certain that Asia would trade that beauty in a heartbeat to have her sister back. Those girls saw only the outside. They couldn’t possibly guess the reality.
    It haunts you. You never get over it
.
    “That’s what I thought,” Will said at last.

Chapter Six

    From the
Walfang Gazette
    Mystery at the Miller
    A mystery donor dropped a four-hundred-year-old gold doubloon in the donation box at the Miller Gallery sometime last week.
    “I came across it when I emptied the box,” said Marjorie Willstack, a gallery volunteer. “At first I thought it was a bottlecap. When I realized what it was, I nearly died of shock.”
    Jacob Worthington of Worthington’s Fine Antiques, who specializes in rare, collectible coins, estimated that the doubloon could be worth as much as $6,000. “It certainly doesn’t seem like the kind of thing someone would place in the box as a mistake,” he said. “It’s not the sort of object one would carry in a change purse.”
    The Miller is grateful for the gift, but asks that the donor come forward.…
    Will ran his fingers over the recorder. He sat on his bed with legs crossed, the mussed covers pushed back around him. Guernsey was beside him, her warm chin resting on his knee.
    Ever since Will had taken the flute to the antiques store, it had occupied a chunk of his mind. Why hadn’t he ever heard Tim play it? Why would his brother havean ancient recorder, anyway? Why not just a regular flute? Where had it come from? Had Tim found it, or had someone given it to him?
    The night air outside was still, cut only by the sound of crickets.
    He looked at the smooth bone carefully, wondering what kind of animal it had come from. The recorder was the length of his forearm, so it must have come from something large. A deer, perhaps. Or a sheep.
    Will tried to recall the tune of the song Kirk had been singing earlier, but it was hopeless. Tim’s musical gift had passed over Will completely. Between Gretchen—who had a beautiful singing voice—and Tim’s guitar and perfect vocal pitch, Will figured that he should have picked up some talent by osmosis. But he hadn’t. Will had always liked it when Tim and Gretchen sang together. Sometimes Tim would play the guitar, and sometimes Johnny. Gretchen could hold down the