I’m standing alone on a beach at night.

A cold winds blows around me, whipping the dark ocean into a roaring maelstrom. My whole world is sand and sea and the freezing air, but my mind is lost in the distant patterns high above me.

I lift one hand to point at the black sky, tracing a curved line between five glimmering stars to form a perfect ring.

Silver flame snakes through the distant spaces where my finger passes.

The heavens are burning.

The stars are screaming.

“Silver circle,” I whisper.

I wake with a start, bolting upright in my bed. I’m having a panic attack. My heart is racing; my skin is cold and clammy. I must have been crying in my sleep, because my cheeks are wet with tears.

Struggling for breath, I try to remember what happened and how I got here.

A hand touches my shoulder, and I whip my head around, half expecting to see Bea’s face melting into the pillow beside me.

It’s not Bea, but what I see shocks me enough to stop the panic attack in its tracks. Felix is lying on my bed next to me, head propped up on one elbow.

“Feeling better?” He asks, his hazel eyes flashing with concern as I wipe away my tears.

“I’m fine, totally fine,” I mutter, looking around my familiar old bedroom in confusion.

“I’m just a bit foggy I guess. How did I… we… get here?”

“You really don’t remember?” Felix says, cocking his eyebrow.

“We were outside Bea’s house,” I say, remembering it as I go. “Someone was leaving, so you took my hand, you pulled me up… we started running… and then… then…” Nothing. Darkness.

“And then you fell down to your knees, muttering something about a circle,” he says. “You were clutching your chest, and you just passed out. I had to carry you all the way here. A guy hiding his face with dark glasses and a hoodie carrying an unconscious girl bridal style through the burbs in the middle of the day. We got some shady looks.”

It comes back to me slowly. A circle wreathed in silver flame, flashing into my mind as Felix and I were running away from Bea’s house. Falling to the ground under a wave of unrelenting pain radiating from the scar on my chest.

“How did you-”

“Get inside?” He interrupts me. “The key was under the doormat. Not very imaginative.”

I nod, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. With my back to Felix, I speak as evenly as possible, hoping I don’t give away just how anxious I’m feeling.

“Are my parents home?” I ask.

“You think I’d still be here if they were?” He asks.

That answers that.

“So why were you following me?” I ask.

“I already told you, I wasn’t,” he says.

“Then why were you outside Bea’s house?” I ask.

There’s a long silence before Felix answers.

“I’m not entirely sure how to explain it,” he says. “But I just had this feeling. Like you were alone, and you didn’t want to be. Like I should find you. Keep you out of trouble. Turns out, I was right.”

I turn around, studying his expression to see if I can detect sarcasm or lying.

But Felix is just staring up at the Fable poster above my bed, his and the other boys’ faces smiling down at us from the ceiling.

OMFG I should have taken it down before when I had the chance. Lame.

“That hotel,” he says, apparently unphased by the poster. “The Rose Inn. We stayed there a month ago, for the WISH concert.”

He turns to face me, his expression serious.

“Did you see it?” He asks.

I nod, remembering the hollowed-out husk of the building drowning beneath the forest’s onslaught.

“The same thing happened to my bike,” I say. “And Mi- I mean, a gravestone. It’s as if the rules of time are bending, or disappearing or something… like… things are going into the past… or the future… god, I don’t know.”

“If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t have believed it,” he says. “Buildings don’t just turn to dust like that. Not in a month, anyway. ”

“Something’s going on,” I say, inching closer to him over the bed. “All this stuff has been happening to me. I’m sure it’s connected to a fairytale my grandmother told me when I was a kid. About this girl by the sea and –”

Five princes.

The five are gathered. Strike the dark heart.

Bea’s words in the forest echo through my mind.

I still don’t know enough. I shouldn’t be talking with Felix like this right now. Until I know who I can trust and who I can’t, it’s not a good idea for me to reveal what my suspicions are. I need to figure out which side he’s on, and the other boys too. Hell, I don’t even know if there are even sides to begin with.

Besides that, the memory of Felix tearing my towel off in the bathroom flashes into my mind, along with the feeling of his lips against my skin. He hasn’t once acknowledged what happened, except for when he tried to inspect my neck earlier. Why hasn’t he asked me about how quickly it healed? Is he hiding something?

I can’t take the chance. Not until I know more.

“I’m feeling a lot better now,” I say, leaning against the bed’s headboard. “Thanks for bringing me home. I think I should sleep some more.”

"Ok," Felix says, flopping down on the bed again. "Go ahead. And when you're done with your power nap, you can finish telling me your theory about how a rapidly deteriorated hotel is connected to some fairytale. Sounds riveting." He puts his hand behind his head, getting comfortable from the looks of it.

“I mean… I should sleep some more… alone,” I say, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. His hair is like dark halo of shadow against the white pillow. I fight a sudden urge to reach out and touch it, run my fingers over the smooth planes of his perfect face. How would he react if I did that?

I can’t afford to find out. I have stick to my plan.

“I’ll come back to the cabin tomorrow,” I say. “I just need to do a few things here this evening and-”

“Sure, whatever,” Felix says, standing up. “I’ll see myself out. And don’t come into the forest alone tomorrow. I’m coming to get you.”

“Sure,” I say, avoiding his eyes. I think he’s staring at me, but I keep my gaze downcast. When I look up again, he’s walking out my bedroom door. I hear footsteps on the stairs, and a few seconds later, the front door slams shut.

Operation Figure This Shit Out is go.

*****

An hour later, I’m sitting on my bed with my laptop and plate of microwave mini pizzas. Despite doing several searches for the Silver Circle, all I can find on it is scraps, snippets of useless or conflicting information.

“The Silver Circle is a cult formed by the Earl of Lamont in the mid-15th century in France, with followers in all parts of the globe.”

“The Silver Circle is a secret society made up of members of only one family, isolated to the Irish fishing village of Creeslough.”

“The Silver Circle has existed for over six hundred years.”

“The Silver Circle doesn’t exist.”

I slam my laptop closed, tired of going around in circles. Victoria Webb, the psychotic woman who tried to stab Felix through the heart with a wooden dagger last year, was supposedly a member of the cult. But searching for her name and background brings up nothing before or after the stabbing incident.

Apart from that one event, she has no digital footprint at all.

She’s practically non-existent.

A ghost.

So I try a different approach. I open up my laptop again, looking through my browsing history for the article I read a few weeks ago when I was trying to figure out the origins of gran’s fairytale.

In Search of The Creeslough Sea Maid - www.mythology.org

I click the link, and I’m taken to the article. I skim through it again, and one paragraph in particular stands out.

Although the circumstances and mission of the characters varies between tellings, most scholars agree that the Fiacha Rudraigh is canonically comprised of the princes of five mythical nations or realms – the Prince of Darkness, the Prince of Heaven, the Prince of the Seas, the Prince of the Tuatha Dé Danann (fey folk) and the Prince of Men. This band of heroes is mentioned throughout Irish folklore, and their purpose as a group is never clear. In the myth of Ligh and Argetlán they are hunters of giants, and in the Fomorian stories they banded together to overthrow a common enemy, the Ciorcal Airgid or Silver Circle.

The writer, Professor Emeritus Eagla McAuley of the Royal University of Ireland, seems to be some sort of expert on the myth of the five princes, and on the Silver Circle. She’s exactly the person I need to speak to.

I scroll up to the top of the page, then to the bottom again, looking for any sort of contact details.

There’s nothing.

She doesn’t seem to have any social media profiles set up, and I’m about to give up contacting her when I have a sudden brainwave.

I find the website of the Royal University of Ireland. She’s a professor emeritus, so she’s retired and no longer works for the university – but they should still have her contact details on file. I type an email to the HR department, mentioning that I’m a student writing a thesis on an area that Professor McAuley specialized in, and I’d hugely appreciate help getting in touch with her for help with my research. Before sending, I add in that I’m writing about the Silver Circle. That should get her attention.

Even though it’s a long shot, it’s better than nothing.

Before I forget, I do a quick search for the name I heard Bea say while I was outside her window. It was something like “Charlotte Gordon” or “Charlotte Warden.” There are hundreds of results, and I have no idea what to look for, so I write down the name on a post it and stick it on the back of my laptop.

Charlotte Gwardon will have to wait.

Then I text Zee and Jamie to see if they can meet at the Night Owl in an hour. Grace’s mom won’t let her have a cell phone, so Jamie will have to stop at Grace’s house to pick her up with no warning and hope like hell that Mrs. Beaumont is out with Grace’s dad at their church group or something like that.

I open my sent items and re-read the email I sent to the university, wondering what the time is in Ireland but not really feeling like googling it.

I close my laptop, and steel myself for what I have to do next.

I haven’t been in the attic in years, not since I was a little girl. I’ve never been a fan of small confined spaces, and of course that only got worse after the accident.

I pull down the dusty fold-away attic stairs, trying to keep my cool and focus on the task at hand instead of on the dark and the too-close walls and stuffy air.

Gran had so much stuff, there’ll probably be like twenty boxes to go through. Maybe I should have asked the girls to meet me this evening rather…

But as I climb into the attic and look around the small space, I realize that it’s the same as ever, and there is only one box marked with gran’s name.

One box.

All of gran’s possessions. Her shelves and shelves of beautiful old books, a lifetime’s worth of paintings, jars of shells we gathered on the beach together, her handbag collection, all the prized keepsakes that had meant so much to her, and which I’d hoped to keep.

Gone.

My grandmother’s life, the complete living legacy of Imogen Sibeal Matthews, cut down to one single cardboard box.

Anger bubbles up inside of me, and I almost call my mom to scream at her over the phone. But it’s pointless. She and my dad will be in the kitchens at Biblio right now, and my chances of getting through to her are next to nothing.

And I have more important things to worry about than my over-zealous mom throwing out gran’s things.

Taking a deep breath, I lift up one flap on the cardboard box, praying that it isn’t empty.

It’s not, but it’s not exactly filled to the brim either.

The box contains two books, stacked neatly on top of one another. I pull out the first one, a small leather-clad journal embossed on the spine with the initials IM.

Imogen Mulryan – gran’s maiden name, or it could also stand for Matthews, her surname after she married my grandpa.

I remember my mom mentioning that gran had a diary, and sometimes she’d read my mom pages from it.

I never paid much attention back then, but I’m sure my mom said it was fascinating and creative, just like gran – full of strange dreamlike fairy stories, crushes on cute boys in the small Irish village of gran’s childhood, complaints about school and bossy adults.

But as I open the journal, I’m met with blank, creased pages. I flip through the entire thing, looking for any sign of writing, but all I see is white paper, strangely blotched with ink, and shapes which might have been words at one time but have now faded away. A whiff of ancient salt hits my nose, and it falls into place.

Water damage. Gran’s journal has been in water. Probably the sea, by the smell of it.

I do however, find the words “the ring”, the ink half-faded near the back of the book, and a few pages later, two pages which have become stuck together. Carefully, I slip my fingernail into the top corner, and then gently peel the pages apart. A single entry has escaped the ravages of the ocean. The writing is thin and looping, and unmistakably gran’s. My heart hammers in my chest as I read.

2nd February, 1959

Bea left today. I am devastated, but I was careful not to let her see that. She says she’ll write me from the states, but I’m doubtful she’ll remember. She’ll be far too busy fighting off the hoards of handsome American boys she’s sure to have chasing after her.

Her departure is the talk of the town; everyone in the village has a different story about why she left and what she’ll be doing. I overheard Mrs. O’Connor telling Mrs. Mullen in church that Bea was up the duff and she went to ‘that land of wickedness across the seas to hide her shame.’

Idiots, the lot of them. I’m sixteen next year, and there’s nothing in this world that’ll stop me from joining my darling Bea in her travels, wherever they may take her.

I do hope she finds her father, and that he doesn’t severely disappoint her, although I fear he will.

Before she left, she told me that she’d had one of the dreams again. It was the same as usual. We were on the beach, and he killed me again, just like he does every time. It’s been a while since I had the beach dream, but I did have the French one about the man wearing roses last night, and I dreamed about the painters a few weeks ago too. I told her this and she promised she’d let me-

The ink fades to white, and there’s nothing more. I flip desperately through the remaining pages, but the rest of the book is completely blank.

Once I’m satisfied that I’ve searched every nook and cranny of the book, I lay it on the floor and reach inside the box for the other book. This one is larger – a photo album, with a plain white cover, stained brown with age.

The first photo is of a woman I immediately recognize as my great grandmother, on my mother’s side. Gran’s mom. The picture is faded and slightly out of focus, as the groom, my great grandfather, carries the beaming bride in his arms out of the church. My great grandmother has her eyes screwed up tight with laughter, while a group of sour-faced women in the crowd look on in scandalized disapproval at their undignified behavior. I wriggle the photo out of its mounts, turning it over. The handwriting is unfamiliar, but plainly feminine.

Wedding. Archangel Saint Michael Church, 1941.

I place the photo back, and turn the page. The next photo is of the same woman, a portrait of her standing alone in her wedding dress, holding a cascade of white lilies. Unlike before, she’s not smiling here. Here her expression is veiled, cautious.

I study the picture, wondering what it is exactly that I’m looking for anyway, when I spot it.

There’s a glinting silver ring wrapped around her finger, just below the golden wedding band.

A ring in the shape of a scaled serpent biting its own tail.

My head spins as memories and images flood in. A woman with bright red hair wrapping my fingers around the ring, whispering soft words to me in a language I don’t understand. A dark-haired man facing away from me, his face hidden, wearing Victorian clothes smudged with brilliant blue paint, asking me to take off all my clothes, including my ring.

Groaning, I hold my head in my hands, feeling like I’m about to throw up.

After the nausea subsides, I leaf through the rest of the photo album with shaking hands. There are several photos of the town gran grew up in, and Bea’s is in almost all of them. She and my gran looked almost like sisters – the same flaming red hair, pretty faces, bright blue eyes.

Eventually there’s a photo of my gran in her teens, smiling in front of a rather precarious looking jetliner. The date Oct 1960 is written in the margin. The next photo has 1967 scrawled next to it.

A seven year gap.

During that time gran and Bea would have been living their wild days traveling around America, settling in Portland, converting Bea’s grandfather’s hunting cabin into its current form, a secret recording studio for visiting musicians. Which I guess means that Bea must have found her dad, if she inherited the cabin from her grandfather.

This photo shows gran in a pine forest, at some sort of picnic. She’s dressed in a bright purple kaftan embroidered with green thread, her arms around Bea, who’s dressed in a flowing green sari, with a daisy chain on her head. Two men sit on either side of them. One is watching Bea like she’s the sun and the stars, the other is rolling something which looks suspiciously like a joint.

It’s grandpa.

And it’s not just a little joint. It’s huge, probably containing enough THC to send everyone in the picture to happytown for a month.

I wonder if mom’s seen this photo. I’d pay good money to see the look on her face.

I turn the page, landing on a photo I’ve seen many times before.

My gran and grandpa’s wedding day. It’s a portrait shot, and a detail that I’ve never noticed before leaps out at me.

On her ring finger, below the wedding band, gran is wearing a silver ring. In the shape of a snake biting its tail. The same ring that my great gran wore in her wedding photo.

With a fluttery feeling in my chest, I slam the photo album shut and climb out of the attic, running downstairs as fast as I can. I stop at the foot of the stairs. Hanging on the wall in front of me, my mom beams into the camera, her hand clasped tightly with my dad’s on their wedding day. Her free hand is wrapped around a dainty bunch of white Sweet Peas. The silver snake ring glints between the creamy petals.

I stare at it for some time, wondering how much my mom knows, if anything.

If she still has the ring, why doesn’t she ever wear it? Why did she throw away all of gran’s things?

Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.

The phone vibrating in my hand almost gives me a heart attack.

I hold it up, reading the message that pops up on my screen.

Jamie 15.21: Where r u babe? We’ve been waiting ages. Still coming?

Dammit. I forgot about meeting the girls at the Night Owl.

I run upstairs to my bedroom, grabbing my wallet, a cardigan and the house key. I smooth down my hair, reprimanding myself for losing track of the time.

Until tomorrow morning, I’m going to be a normal sixteen-year old girl, living a normal life. No more worrying about ancient myths and spooky items of jewelry.

I’ve had enough magic and mystery for one day. It’s time for cake and coffee.