The mare tossed her head as if she understood every word, and Emma laughed.
“She’s very smart.”
“I can see that.”
They continued along the beach, walking briskly toward the tip of the island.
Abigail McKenna woke with a start, sat up, and remembered the dream—a recurring dream where she was sinking into quicksand and a band of wild horses stood in a circle all around her, heads down, watching her struggle. She begged them for help, but they galloped off to frolic in freshwater ponds. A beautiful black stallion neighed and nickered, bucked and clawed at the air with his powerful hooves, his long mane blowing in the wind. Meanwhile, Abigail sank deeper and deeper into the quicksand, up to her nose.
She woke drenched in sweat, panting. It was morning, and she was alone in the bed. What time was it? Past seven. Abigail cursed herself for sleeping late and prayed the captain wasn’t up and moving about in the kitchen, riffling through her cupboards for coffee.
She quickly dressed and flew down the stairs but found both the kitchen and sickroom empty. Philip’s jacket was gone from the hook on the wall, which was not unusual. He was probably outside, launching another ridiculous weather balloon. Perhaps the captain had gone with him to watch.
She pulled on her rubber boots, walked out the back door, and marched to the hut where Philip was alone, bent over a table, recording data.
“Where’s the captain?” she asked, looking around in disbelief.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The captain!” she shouted. “He’s not in the sickroom. Did you see him this morning?”
“No,” Philip replied vacuously.
“You didn’t check on him?”
“No.”
She swung around and stalked back to the house, but there was no point going inside because the captain wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d gone to John Clarkson’s house, because everyone seemed to think the superintendent’s residence was the center of the universe.
Abigail was out of breath by the time she pounded on John’s door. While she waited, she looked down at herself and became conscious of her unsightly appearance. She hadn’t brushed her teeth or her hair, or washed her face. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself to appear composed, but no one came to the door.
Finally, she stomped down the steps and looked around the station yard for signs of activity. Her gaze finally settled on the large Quonset hut where the staff men lived.
Abigail strode furiously toward it, working through what she would say when she knocked. But before she had a chance to resolve that question, the door flew open. She leaped back as four crewmen from theBelvedereburst out and sprinted toward the boat shed.
Joseph and his crew darted out, one by one, chasing after them. “Stop! Hold on there!”
Abigail backed out of the way. John Clarkson was last to exit the hut, and he moved slower than the younger, fitter men under his supervision.
Abigail followed and fell into a jog beside him. “What’s happening?”
“Don’t ask.”
TheBelvederecrew reached the shed and attempted to open the door, but it was locked. The others caught up with them, and a scuffle broke out.
Abigail stood motionless, shocked by the anarchy before her. A shot rang out. The sailors scuttled away from each other and held up their hands while John aimed a pistol at each one in turn.
“Settle down,” he ordered. “No one’s going anywhere. You’ll wait patiently for the supply ship to arrive.”
“I told you, I ain’t stayin’ a whole week!” one man shouted. “This ain’t nothin’ but a sandbar!”
“This island has been here for centuries,” John replied. “We’re all perfectly safe.”
“What about the skulls?” another man asked, pointing at the shed. “What sort of people keep a shrine like that?”
Abigail shook her head. She’d always rued that ghoulish collection of bones and never understood why John allowed it.
“It’s not a shrine,” he explained. “It’s a record of lost souls, and a reminder of why we’re here. To provide safe sanctuary.”
