This haunting debut novel explores the intense
bond of sisterhood as a grieving twin searches for her own
identity in the ruins of her sister's past.
A
LOST SHADOW Moira Leahy struggled growing up in her
prodigious twin's shadow; Maeve was always more talented,
more daring, more fun. In the autumn of the girls' sixteenth
year, a secret love tempted Moira, allowing her to have her
own taste of adventure, but it also damaged the intimate,
intuitive relationship she'd always shared with her sister.
Though Moira's adolescent struggles came to a tragic end
nearly a decade ago, her brief flirtation with independence
will haunt her sister for years to come.
A LONE
WOMAN When Maeve Leahy lost her twin, she left home
and buried her fun-loving spirit to become a workaholic
professor of languages at a small college in upstate New
York. She lives a solitary life now, controlling what she
can and ignoring the rest– the recurring nightmares,
hallucinations about a child with red hair, the unquiet
sounds in her mind, her reflection in the mirror. It doesn't
help that her mother avoids her, her best friend questions
her sanity, and her not-quite boyfriend has left the
country. But at least her life is ordered. Exactly how she
wants it.
A SHARED PAST Until one night at
an auction when Maeve wins a keris,a Javanese dagger
that reminds her of her lost youth and happier days playing
pirates with Moira in their father's boat. Days later, a
book on weaponry is nailed to her office door, followed by
the arrival of anonymous notes, including one that invites
her to Rome to learn more about the blade and its legendary
properties. Opening her heart and mind to possibility, Maeve
accepts the invitation and, with it, also opens a window
into her past.
Ultimately, she will revisit the
tragic November night that shaped her and Moira's
destinies– and learn that nothing can be taken at face
value– as one sister emerges whole and the other's score is
finally settled.
The Last Will of Moira
Leahyis a mesmerizing and romantic consideration of the
bonds of family, the impossibility of forgetting, and the
value of forgiveness.
Excerpt Prodigy I lost my twin to a harsh November nine years ago. Ever
since, I’ve felt the span of that month like no other, as if
each of the calendar’s thirty perfect little squares split
in two on the page. I wished they’d just disappear. Bring on
winter. I had bags of rock salt, a shovel, and a strong
back. I wasn’t afraid of ice and snow. November always
lingered, though, crackling under the foot of my memory like
dead leaves. It was no wonder then that I gave in to impulse one November
evening, left papers piled high on my desk and went to where
I’d lost myself in the past with a friend. I thought I might
evade memory for a while at the auction house, but I slammed
into it anyhow. It was just November’s way. Only this time, November surprised me. -- I had to have it. Just over a foot long, the wavy dagger looked ancient and as
though it’d been carved from lava rock. The grooved base was
a study in asymmetry, with one end swooping off in a jagged
point and the other circling into itself like a tiny,
self-protective tail or the crest of a wave. Gemstones
filled a ring that bound metal to a cocked wood handle.
Intricate engravings covered the silver sheath. If not for a
small hole in the blade’s center, it would’ve been flawless. I leaned in to touch it but was jarred out of my study by a
poke to the thigh. The poker, a little girl, almost capsized
me, and not from the poking, either. I don’t believe in
ghosts, but if I did I might think I was looking at my
sister from years past. My sister, a child. Eyes like the
sea. Long, red hair like hers--and mine, before I snuffed
out my pyrotechnics with several boxes of Platinum Snow and
found a pair of scissors. My vision grayed a little as I stared at her. She might’ve
been seven or eight--a few years younger than Moira and me
when we’d filched a sword like the one I intended to have
and lost it in the bay. Well, I’d lost it, pretending to be
Alvilda, Pirate Queen. The girl poked me again. "Can I help you, little one?" I asked. "Are you lost?" She didn’t answer, just pointed toward the far back of the
viewing table. There wasn’t much there: a bust of JFK, a
pearlized candy jar, and an indigo bottle that might’ve been
Depression-era glass. Noel would’ve been able to say for sure. "Do you want that?" I took a guess and pointed at the candy
jar. Maybe there was a secret stash of chocolate in there;
who knew? But she shook her head. I looked again and saw a
small black box slathered with pink roses, the buds as sweet
as frosting. Of course. "The box?" She nodded. I cradled it before her, and she reached out a hand pudgy
with youth. "Careful," I said. I looked for parental figures
but saw no one exhibiting missing-child panic--or with the
right hair color. The girl didn’t take the box, just left it
in my hands and opened the lid. Music swam up at me. "The Entertainer." The girl giggled. "Do you--" My voice turned to rust. "Do you like music?" "I love dancing to the music." Her voice was sweet, as shy
as her smile. She was so much like Moira, but whole, able to
run and laugh. I missed my sister’s laugh--maybe most of all. "Do you play any instru--" "Jillian! There you are!" A woman with dark hair strode
toward us, her face a combination of annoyance and relief. "I was looking at the music, Mommy," the girl said. "See how
pretty?" The mother bent before her daughter. "You scared me. Next
time you want to look at something, we’ll go together." The girl nodded, serious, just as the lights flickered. "Let’s find a seat." The woman pulled her daughter behind
her as the girl lifted her hand to me. Good-bye. They
disappeared in the crowd. I shook off my melancholy thoughts and turned back to the
blade. My fingers itched to touch it, but just as I reached,
an auction attendant pulled it off the table, sheathed it,
and placed it in a cardboard box. "Viewing time’s over," she
said. "But--" "Fallen in love, have you?" I’d never seen another blade like the one I’d lost to the
sea, and the desire for it tugged at me as if a line were
rooted in my mouth. "I have to have it." The woman added items to her container: the blue bottle, the
candy jar, the music box. "You’d better get out your
checkbook, then. Old George thinks that sword will go for
hundreds." Fine, then. I had a checkbook. After a few minutes of dodging elbows and purses, I
registered as the temporary owner of one beat-up paddle
(number 51). Snippets of conversation danced around me as I
wedged my way between wide-shouldered men and women. "John would love that old clock for Christmas." "Let’s get through Thanksgiving first." "Thanksgiving’s just a day. Christmas is an event. Besides,
it’s never too soon to buy for Christmas. Don’t you think
he’d love that clock?" I veered away from them, closer to the stage. That stage and
the old floor, pockmarked from where rows of shabby velvet
seats used to reside, were all that remained of the theater
that had once been a revered landmark in Betheny, New York.
At least, that’s what Noel had told me. I’d only been a
resident since college. I’d just reached the front when George Lansing, the owner of
Lansing’s Block, appeared center stage. There was a blur of
activity--the sale of someone’s stamp collection, a worn set
of stools, a mahogany china closet that would break backs. I
saw the blue bottle poking out of its container at George’s
feet and knew the blade lay there as well. The bottle sold,
and then George grasped the music box. "Going once!" he said, after a token amount of haggling with
the crowd. A middle-aged woman with a sour expression had
raised her marker and placed a bid of $5. Where was the girl? Wouldn’t her mother buy the box for $6?
I looked around but didn’t see her. "Going twice!" My arm lifted almost of its own volition. "Ten dollars." George didn’t even look at me, probably just wrote the
bidder off as a sucker. There were no further offers. I didn’t need a music box. I didn’t want a music box. In
fact, I’d hate that music box. But the child who looked so
much like my sister should have it. I couldn’t seek her out,
though, because just then George held the sheathed dagger
over his head, and the raucous room grew hushed. I leaned
closer; everyone seemed to. "Now here’s something you don’t see every day," Lansing
said, his voice as gritty as his wares. "This here’s a
keris. It’s a little roughed up with a hole through its
middle, but not bad shape when you consider it was made
somewhere in Indonesia probably two centuries ago." Somewhere in Indonesia. Probably two centuries ago. I
smiled. Lansing had never been big on facts--something Noel
had taken profitable advantage of in the past. And then Lansing’s pitch rose, and the chant began: "Who’ll
bid two hundred dollars, two hundred dollars, two hundred
dollars?" It seemed half the room’s occupants held their markers high,
and the price rose to $225, $250, $275. I gripped my marker
with slick palms. Noel had taught me how to bide my time, to
don a face as still as the water on a windless bay; the
slightest ripple would attract Lansing’s attention. "This blade’s worth at least double that last bid, and I
won’t sell it for anything less than $350!" He pounded the
podium--a technique that probably wasn’t in the Christie’s
handbook, even if it did work. I looked over my shoulder as
number 36 grumbled his bid of $350. How much was I willing to spend in honor of a memory? "Going once for three hundred and fifty dollars, going twice!" I raised my marker and hollered, "Four hundred dollars!" George finally looked at me, and his speck-dark eyes grew
wide. "It’s Noel Ryan’s friend, the little albino girl," he
said with a smirk. He eyeballed the room, but Noel wouldn’t
be found here tonight. "He send you for this?" "No," I said, "he didn’t." Little albino girl. Times like this I just wanted to
shout out that I, Maeve Leahy, was in fact a professor and
connoisseur of more languages than George Lansing could
probably name. But I said nothing, just tried to skewer him
with my most lethal stare as people turned to look at me and
my hueless hair. He smiled as he waved the gilded carrot
that was Noel’s impeccable reputation and keen eye before
the crowd, and didn’t blink when the false bait drew bites
and the bidding resumed. My Irish kicked in when it was down to me and another
persis- tent soul, someone who pressed on from the back of
the room. I had to have the blade, so I would have it. I
lifted my marker and tried not to think about the cost. But the other bidder didn’t relent, either. "You?" George Lansing said with incredulity the first time
number 12’s marker was called out. After, he just glowered
at whoever gave my checkbook and me such a run, which was
curious in and of itself. I craned my head to pierce my competitor with dagger eyes,
to say, Back off. This is mine. But I couldn’t stand tall
enough to see a face, just the competing placard and an odd
black hat on a short-statured body. I was no fashionista,
but the hat looked like a pillbox
wrapped in a scarf. None of it mattered in the end. Once the price teetered up
to $700, not even Lansing could coerce blood from the
others’ snapped shut, firm-tucked, copper-pinching veins. So
I won. The tautness in my chest loosened as I made my way to the
pay-and-pickup window. I might’ve forgotten about the music
box, but the woman behind the counter quoted me $710, and
handed it over straightaway once I’d written out the check.
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