The Last of the Moon Girls

things to learn, things there wasn’t time to share before you went away. Broken things that need mending. Hidden things that need telling. The books are here, the teachings of all those who came before you. And you are their steward now, the keeper of our secrets. It’s my hope that one day your book will be there too, shelved beside mine, so that gifts like ours will not be lost to the world. But that choice is not mine to make. It’s yours. We all of us have a story—one we tell knowingly or not with our hours and our days. But as I said all those years ago, no one should write your story but you. Whatever you choose, know that you are always in my heart, and that this is not goodbye. There are no goodbyes, my Lizzy, only turnings of the Circle. Until then . . .
A—
Lizzy was still crying as she folded the letter and slid it back between the blank pages of the journal. They were the kind of words that should never have to be written, the kind that should be said only face-to-face. Not that her grandmother’s letter held many surprises. She had always known what was expected of her—the same thing that was expected of every Moon girl. She was meant to produce a daughter and train her in their ways, to ensure that the line remained unbroken, because that’s how it had been done for generations.
There were no Moon men. No brothers or sons, or husbands either. It hadn’t been planned that way—or if it had, no one ever said so aloud. The Moon girls had just never been the marrying kind, preferring to keep their own company, raise their own daughters, and focus their energy on the family farm.
But precious little had remained of the farm by the time Lizzy left for school—or of the family for that matter—and she doubted the eight years she’d been gone had done much to repair that. Besides, she had a life. One she’d worked hard to build. Let someone else rebuild the farm, someone who actually wanted it.
But Althea’s words echoed back to her. The books are here, the teachings of all those who came before you. And you are their steward now . . .
Once again, it came down to the books. That’s why Althea had arranged to send her journal. It wasn’t just about her story. It was about all their stories, and the duty that now fell to her as keeper of the Moons’ secrets. Always, always duty.
Yes, she could find a Realtor to list the farm. She could even locate someone to clear out the furniture and her grandmother’s personal effects—but not the books. She had no idea what to do with them—it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone had ever talked about—but disposing of them was out of the question. Theirs was a subtle form of magick—quiet magick, Althea had called it. None of that nonsense with cauldrons and candles for the Moon girls. No summoning spirits or casting curses. No covens or midnight bonfires. Just healing work recorded for posterity, proof that they had lived, and done good in the world.
She’d have to make the trip to Salem Creek and box them up, even if all she wound up doing was shoving them in the back of her closet. At some point, she’d need to think about what would happen to them when she was gone—when there would be no one left to pass them on to—but not yet.
Althea saw her as the last and best of the Moons. But she wasn’t. Her gifts—if that’s what they were—were different from Althea’s. She wasn’t a healer or a charmer. She made perfume. And since her promotion to creative director, she didn’t even do much of that. The truth was that, beyond a functioning reproductive system, she had little to offer the Moons. No remedies to share, no wisdom to impart, no sacred rituals to pass on to the next generation.
But she would go back for the books—for Althea’s sake. And maybe Luc was right. Maybe she did need to spend some time with her memories, to look that other Lizzy Moon in the eye one last time before she walked away for good.

THREE
July 17
The sign for Moon Girl Farm was so faded Lizzy could barely make out the letters as she turned into the drive. It had taken six hours in a steady drizzle, the last of which had been spent winding along the frost-heaved backroads of rural New Hampshire, but she’d finally made it.
She had called Luc before 6:00 a.m., when she knew he’d be at the gym and unlikely to pick up. Her message said only that she had changed her mind about going home, and would call him when she had some idea how much time she would need. She had then turned off her phone, nixing any chance of a return call.
At the top of the drive, she cut the engine, reminding herself as she got out of the car that this was something she had to do, one last duty to be discharged before she could finally bolt the door on this chapter of her life. But even now, with a knot the size of a fist forming in her stomach, she could feel the pull of the place, a connection to the land that seemed to have been sewn into her soul.
There had always been something otherworldly about the farm, a sense that it had somehow been carved out of time, and stood apart from the rest of the world, like Brigadoon—a place that existed only in her imagination. And yet here it was. Her childhood, preserved in time, like a living thing suspended in amber.
There’d been nothing but open pasture on the outskirts of Salem Creek in 1786, when a pregnant Sabine Moon had fled France for the newly formed United States with nothing but a handful of jewels sewn