The Last of the Moon Girls

sunshine, and together they smelled like Althea. A few months later, she made good on her intention, unveiling a simple, dual-note fragrance she’d named Althea, after the woman who had inspired its creation.
She’d found the bottle in one of the dusty secondhand shops downtown, and saved her lunch money for two weeks to afford it. It was still on the dressing table, square with a heavy base and a long, tapered stopper. It had been refilled many times over the years but was empty now, save for the sticky brown resin at the bottom. She lifted the stopper anyway, hoping for a telltale whiff of her grandmother, but was disappointed to find only the cloying tang of oxidized oils.
A fresh wave of grief washed over her as she returned the bottle to the dressing table, the ache of Althea’s absence moving through her like a physical pain as she wandered to the low-ceilinged nook that had served as a storage larder before Althea fitted it with shelves and a chair for reading. Over the years, her grandmother had acquired many cherished possessions, but none more cherished than her books. Her guilty pleasures, she had called them, perfect for whiling away the frigid New England winters.
And then there was the bookcase: glass-fronted with three tiers, and doors that locked with a tiny brass key. Lizzy bent down to peer through the glass. The books. As a girl, she’d been in awe of them, or at least of what they represented. All those Moon women—spinsters to the last—sitting by their fires night after night, scribbling secrets meant only for walkers of the Path. And now, like Moon Girl Farm, they belonged to her.
She found the key right where Althea always kept it, in the drawer of her dressing table. There was a whiff of leather and old paper as she opened the door, and for a moment she caught herself holding her breath, like a child expecting to be caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Except there was no one left to scold her. She ran a finger down the row of ribbed spines, the leather cool against her fingertips, then dropped to her knees and slid the first book free.
The Book of Sabine. The woman who had started it all.
Lizzy turned the pages slowly. The ink had faded to a muted brown, the nib strokes spidery and fine, making them hard to decipher. The mix of English and French hardly helped. Not that she needed to read any of it. She knew it all by heart. Sabine’s betrayal by the man she loved, and her flight to avoid persecution. The struggle to survive in a strange land, with an infant daughter on her hip. Her edict that no Moon allow themselves to be enslaved by marriage, lest they be betrayed and the line ended. It was the stuff of family legend, told and retold down through the generations.
She slid the volume back onto the shelf, running an eye over the others. So many Moons, each with a story to tell. Patrice, the first Moon girl born on US soil. Renée, the only Moon to have ever produced a son. The poor thing had lived only a handful of hours, unlike his twin sister, Dorothée, who had managed to thrive. Whispers about the boy’s death had persisted throughout Renée’s life. Sylvie, who’d scandalized the town by living openly and unabashedly with a woman named Rachel Conklin. Aurore, who had shocked the neighbors with her daily walks in the woods, wearing nothing but her shoes. Honoré, who after four stillborn girls had finally given birth to Althea at age forty-four. And of course, the most recent addition, The Book of Althea.
They were all there—plus one more. Lizzy frowned at the final volume, not black like the others but a deep-wine calfskin, embossed with flowers and vines. She had never seen it before. Was it possible Rhanna had left a book behind after all? It would be just like her to break with tradition and use such a vividly colored book, one final gesture of defiance.
What kinds of things might her mother have recorded? An apology, perhaps, for her reckless behavior and poor choices over the years? Lizzy doubted it. Remorse had never been Rhanna’s strong suit. Still, she was curious.
She pulled the odd volume from the shelf and laid it in her lap. The book was thick and oddly lumpy, fastened with a small brass hasp. Lizzy flicked it open and folded back the cover, expecting to see her mother’s round, backward-slanting hand. Instead, she found a square of folded waxed paper tucked between the cover and first page. She teased open the folds, surprised to discover a carefully pressed sprig of rosemary. She blinked at it, then looked down at the open page and the tidy script running across the top—Althea’s script.

Rosemary . . . for remembrance.
My dearest girl,
You must forgive me, dear Lizzy, for the secret I have kept. I had my reasons for not wanting you to know I was ill. I didn’t want you to come back because of me, because you felt some sense of duty. I made so many mistakes with your mother when she was young. I was determined to make her honor my path instead of her own, when I of all people should have known better. I never wanted to put that kind of burden on you. I wanted you to be free to spread your wings—and fly home only if that’s where your heart led you. If you’re reading this, perhaps it has.
My Circle will close soon—as all Circles must—but there is time yet, and so I have picked up my pen. Because it is our way to teach, to reach back into history and pull out what should always be remembered. We must never forget who we are. How far we’ve come, and what we’ve had to endure at the hands of