The Locket’s Promise

“Sometimes the smallest gifts carry the heaviest vows.” — Violet Dallow

As Violet stepped back into the house, the air met her like a familiar embrace. The bitter warmth of coffee drifted from the kitchen, stitched together with the buttery scent of toast just catching at the edges — the kind of ordinary, comforting smells that had defined the rhythm of her mornings for as long as she could remember. Today, though, they seemed magnified, almost ceremonial, as though the house itself was marking the occasion of her departure.

She lingered in the doorway, watching. The light slanted across the kitchen in pale gold, catching the dust motes in a slow, lazy dance. Her mother moved with quiet efficiency at the counter — the scrape of a knife over toast, the hollow clink of crockery on the wooden table, the faint rustle of newspaper pages shifting in the next room where her father sat.

It was so ordinary. Painfully ordinary. Yet Violet’s chest tightened as she stood there, watching unseen. The simple cadence of her home life — the sounds, the smells, the play of light — pressed down on her with a weight she couldn’t quite name. She felt, absurdly, as if she ought to memorise it, every detail, as though committing a page of history to memory before it was sealed away.

Her mother glanced up, catching sight of her at last. “There you are,” she said, her tone warm yet clipped by the brisk rhythm of a morning already in motion. “You’ll want to eat before you go. Big day ahead.”

Violet smiled faintly, though her throat felt too tight to answer at once. She stepped forward, the floorboards creaking beneath her weight, and let her hand graze the frame of the doorway — grounding herself, as if she could store away the texture of the wood for later.

“Everything alright, Vi?” her mother called again, this time with that edge of concern Violet had come to recognise in recent weeks, the worry that lingered no matter how firmly her parents tried to bury it.

“I’m fine,” Violet said quickly, summoning a brightness she didn’t feel. “Just excited for camp. Thought I’d get an early start on packing.”

Her mother turned from the stove, spatula in hand, and gave her a long, knowing look. “Excited, is it? Not nervous at all?”

Violet let out a soft laugh, crossing the room to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Maybe a little.” The familiar floral note of her mother’s perfume clung to the air — light, delicate, unchanged since childhood. For a moment it hit her with such force that she nearly faltered, undone by the rush of old memories: scraped knees soothed, bedtime stories whispered, arms that had always been there.

At the table, Jasmine sat small and solemn, her hair still tangled from sleep. She watched Violet with wide, earnest eyes — eyes so like her own it was like looking into a mirror of her younger self. The love and worry written there made Violet’s chest ache.

“Can I help you finish packing, Vi?” Jasmine asked shyly, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “I promise I won’t forget anything important this time.”

Violet chuckled, warmth flickering through the heaviness. “Alright. But only if we stick to the list this time.”

The memory of their last attempt returned in a rush — Jasmine proudly stuffing a bag full of dolls, books, and mismatched treasures, but not a torch or sleeping bag in sight. For once, the recollection didn’t sting. It was a reminder of how fiercely she loved her little sister, how badly she wanted to keep that innocence intact.

As they made their way into Violet’s bedroom, the morning light filtered through the curtains in pale, honeyed shafts. Dust motes hung suspended in the glow, drifting and tumbling like tiny ballerinas caught in an endless, silent performance. The room itself — with its jumble of books, posters curling slightly at the corners, and the faint scent of lavender talc — felt at once familiar and strangely distant, as though Violet were already a visitor saying goodbye.

She moved quickly, her hands folding clothes, tucking small necessities into her rucksack. Every item felt heavier than it should, weighted with the unspoken knowledge that this departure was different, though she could not have said why.

“Pass me that jumper, will you, Jaz?” Violet asked, nodding towards the burgundy pullover draped over the back of her chair.

Jasmine bounded over, her hands clutching the jumper, but her gaze had already strayed to the dresser. There, among the clutter of hairbrushes, pens, and scattered notes, gleamed the soft silver curve of a locket. She reached out, lifted it delicately, and turned to her sister with wide, questioning eyes.

“Vi, what about this?” Jasmine asked, her voice hushed, as if the object itself demanded reverence. The chain dangled and swayed from her fingers, catching the light in brief, bright flares. “Aren’t you taking it with you?”

Violet froze, her breath catching. The locket’s familiar gleam seemed to command her attention, pulling her back through time. She could almost feel her grandmother’s soft, weathered fingers at the nape of her neck, fastening it into place, hear her murmured words: For strength, always. She could see her mother’s proud eyes, explaining that the women of their family had worn it for generations — a quiet inheritance of courage and love, passed from hand to hand, neck to neck.

It was more than silver. It was every whispered story, every lesson, every sacrifice woven into their bloodline.

Her throat tightened as she reached out and let the locket rest in her palm, the coolness of the metal seeping into her skin as if it were alive, carrying with it the pulse of history.

“Actually, Jaz,” Violet said softly, crossing the room to stand before her sister, “I think you should keep it for me while I’m gone.”

Jasmine’s eyes widened, startled. “Really? But… but it’s yours. Gran gave it to you.”

Violet lowered herself so they were eye level, their reflections mirrored in each other’s wide, uncertain gaze. For a moment she simply looked at Jasmine, as though memorising every detail — the soft down still clinging to her hairline, the tiny freckle just beneath her left eye, the raw, unguarded trust in her expression.

“And now I’m giving it to you,” Violet said, her voice low and deliberate, “just for a little while.”

She gave the locket back with careful hands, marvelling at how delicate Jasmine’s fingers seemed, how childlike, as though made for holding pencils and skipping ropes, not burdens. With a slowness that belied the urgency twisting in her chest, she fastened the chain around Jasmine’s neck.

“This is for you,” Violet whispered, her throat tightening as the words caught. “So you’ll always know — no matter where I am — we’re still connected. You keep this close, Jaz, and remember that I love you.”

Jasmine’s hand flew to the cool silver now resting against her chest, her small fingers curling protectively around it. Tears glazed her eyes, turning them into shimmering mirrors of Violet’s own. “But why?” she asked, her voice quivering. “Why give it to me now?”

Violet hesitated, her mind a storm of images — Emily Sullivan’s diary, the cryptic notes in Detective Glasson’s study, Ethan’s whispered warnings in the cemetery. Each revelation pressed against her ribs, demanding to be spoken. But looking into Jasmine’s innocent face, she knew she couldn’t share the truth — not this truth, not yet.

She smoothed her sister’s hair back, the strands fine and silken beneath her trembling hand. “Because I need you to be strong,” she said finally, her words carrying a gravity beyond her years. “Stronger than me, even. This camp… it might be harder than I thought. But if you’re wearing the locket, keeping it safe, then I’ll know I’ve still got you looking out for me. And that will give me the courage I need.”

Jasmine’s lip trembled, but she nodded fiercely, as if willing herself to believe. She clutched the locket with both hands, pressing it against her chest. “I’ll keep it safe, Vi. I swear. I won’t ever take it off.”

“I know you won’t,” Violet said, her smile breaking even as her eyes filled. She pulled her sister into her arms, holding her so tightly she could feel Jasmine’s heart thudding in rhythm with her own. The world seemed to hush, the air heavy with the unspoken — as though time itself knew to pause, to honour the vow being forged in that moment.

The room shrank to the space they occupied, two sisters locked together, each clinging as though the embrace might hold back the tides of fate. Violet breathed in the scent of her sister’s hair — soap and sunshine and something uniquely Jasmine — and pressed her cheek against the crown of her head.

Neither of them spoke again. Words would only have broken the spell, and both seemed to understand instinctively that this was a moment to be carried, not explained.

After what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all, Violet eased back from Jasmine’s embrace, her hands lingering on her sister’s shoulders. She mustered a smile, though it trembled at the edges. “Now,” she said gently, “let’s finish this packing, shall we? We don’t want to be late for the bus.”

The next half hour unfurled in a blur of movement and small rituals — jumpers folded and refolded, socks rolled into mismatched pairs, a hairbrush misplaced twice and triumphantly rediscovered. Laughter bubbled up between the sisters, sudden and bright, chasing away the heaviness of the earlier moment. Yet even in their giggles, there was an undercurrent of urgency, as though both sensed they were stealing something precious from time itself.

“Do you really need three books?” Jasmine teased, eyeing Violet’s carefully chosen paperbacks with mock disapproval.

“Books are necessary,” Violet retorted, zipping the rucksack with exaggerated flourish. “Unlike that ridiculous stuffed wombat you’re trying to sneak into the pile.”

They dissolved into another fit of laughter, the sound echoing off the walls of Violet’s room, walls that seemed suddenly strange and fragile. As Violet’s gaze swept across her sanctuary, every object glimmered with meaning. The dog-eared novels lined up like old friends, the Polaroids curling at the edges on her pinboard, the faded posters that had presided over countless sleepless nights — all of it felt like a record of who she had been, of the girl she still was. And yet, staring at them now, she felt a pang of something she couldn’t name. Change was coming, vast and irrevocable.

She pressed the rucksack closed with a final tug, her palm flat against the canvas as though sealing away not just clothes and supplies but all the questions, fears, and hopes she dared not voice.

From below, her mother’s voice floated up the hallway, warm and brisk, grounding the moment in its everyday rhythm. “Girls! Breakfast! Violet, you need to eat before you go!”

The words wrapped around Violet like a tether — the familiar summons of family life pulling her back from the edge of her thoughts, reminding her of the ordinary world she was still a part of.

The kitchen table was laid as though for a celebration. Golden slices of toast gleamed with butter, steam curled from a pot of porridge, and a bowl of fruit sat in the centre, the grapes still jewelled with droplets from their rinse. It was more than a breakfast; it was a send-off, a mother’s armour of abundance, as though she could ward off all possible hardship with food alone.

“Mum, it’s just a week at camp, not an Arctic expedition,” Violet teased, though her voice wavered at the edges. She spooned porridge into her bowl all the same, adding toast on the side, then plucking one of the grapes. If this was armour, she would not refuse it.

Her mother’s smile flickered — bright but fragile. “I know, love. But you can never be too careful. Who knows what they’ll feed you out there in Silverton?” She tried to make it sound like a joke, but the undertone was one of genuine worry.

Jasmine giggled, already halfway through a slice of toast dripping with jam. “Probably baked beans every day.” She grinned at Violet. “Bet you’ll miss Mum’s cooking by the second night.”

The moment sparked a ripple of laughter, but Violet caught the faint strain in her mother’s eyes, the slight quickness of her movements as she buttered her own toast. And when Violet glanced across the table, she noticed her father watching her over the rim of his newspaper. He wasn’t reading at all — not really. His eyes, shadowed and thoughtful, flicked up more often than they should, his paper lowering by degrees as though he were memorising her face.

The conversation ambled — camp activities, who would be sharing bunks, the chatter of town gossip about a neighbour’s new car. On the surface it was easy, light. But beneath it all was a tautness Violet couldn’t ignore.

She chewed slowly, swallowing against the knot in her throat. A part of her wanted to blurt everything — about Sally, about the diary, about Ethan, about the terrible undercurrents that now seemed to run beneath the soil of their town. But instead, she forced herself to smile, to keep up the pretence, because for these last moments she wanted them to believe everything was still simple, still safe.

Finally, as Violet was stacking the last of the plates beside the sink, her father folded his newspaper with a deliberate rustle and cleared his throat. “Violet,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. “A word before you go?”

Her mother gave him a brief, searching look, then busied herself at the counter. Jasmine swung her legs idly at the table, humming under her breath. Violet wiped her hands on a tea towel, her pulse suddenly quickening, and followed her father out onto the back porch.

The morning light was crisp and clean, flooding across the yard in long, pale shafts that turned the grass silver-tipped. Somewhere beyond the paling fence, a kookaburra cackled its raucous laugh, the sound rolling out into the vastness beyond Broken Hill.

Her father leaned against the railing, his hands gripping the timber. For a long moment he didn’t speak, his eyes scanning the horizon as though weighing something heavy and unspoken. When he did finally turn to her, his face was lined with an emotion Violet rarely saw: not anger, not sternness, but something closer to worry.

“Violet,” he began, his voice gravelled with use and restraint, “I know you’re growing up. Becoming your own person. And I’m proud of you — more than I ever say.” He stopped, jaw tightening, as if he had to force the words out. “But…”

The silence hung. The kookaburra called again, mocking, before falling quiet.

“Just be careful out there,” he finished, his tone gruff but edged with something more fragile. “Silverton… it’s not always the friendliest place. If anything feels off, anything at all, you come straight home. You hear me?”

Violet swallowed, a lump hard in her throat. “I will, Dad,” she whispered, her voice barely steady. “I promise.”

He drew her into his arms then, the embrace strong and unyielding. For an instant, Violet let herself melt against him, no longer the girl shouldering mysteries and conspiracies, but simply a daughter in her father’s protection. The scent of tobacco and sun-dried cotton clung to him, familiar and grounding.

When at last he released her, the moment felt too brief, too fragile to hold onto.

At the front door, rucksack on her shoulder, Violet paused and turned. Her mother stood with a tea towel in her hands, Jasmine clutching the locket at her chest, and her father behind them, silent but watchful.

“I’ll see you all soon,” Violet said, her voice pitched in a brightness she didn’t feel, a careful imitation of cheer. She lifted a hand in a wave, and Jasmine beamed back through damp eyes.

Then she stepped across the threshold into the warming morning air, the sound of the door clicking shut behind her. And with it came the heavy echo of Ethan’s words in the cemetery — warnings of forces tightening their net, of danger closer than she dared admit.