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I stare at the sky going purple and gray above me and count the wisps of clouds. I glance toward where my frozen toes peek above the water and try to name the exact blue of my skin. I trace the patterns of the gulls circling near the shore, anything to keep my mind off Wig and Poke and what awaits me on the island.
What if my magic refuses to obey?
How will I rescue my friends? Or escape when I’m discovered?
Surely, on an island ringed by such powerful magic, someone will realize the truth about me. The one who laid the enchantments, at the very least, will see my strange hair and know me for what I am.
Despite my attempts to remain calm, by the time the boy reaches the shallows and sets me on my feet, I’ve worked myself into quite a state. As we lurch through the waves and stumble to the shore to collapse on a beach of gritty gray stones, I’m shaking all over and my stomach has gone rancid.
After a bit of heavy breathing and a hand run down his pale face, the boy turns to look at me.
And immediately looks away.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m f-f-fine,” I say, though in truth I’m close to tears. I can’t remember the last time I cried. After the first time, it takes a lot to bring me to this point.
“Good.” His hands come to the front of his shirt. He fumbles with the buttons, pushing them through stiff, soaking fabric with trembling hands. “Here now, take my shirt,” he says, forcing the words out through a shivery jaw.
He peels the clinging black fabric away from his chest and down his arms, revealing skin nearly as milky white as my own, smooth skin with firm muscle beneath and light blue veins that peek through his flesh at his throat, the curve of his shoulder, and the dip between his ribs and the hard planes of his stomach.
His bare skin is…fascinating.
I’ve seen people without clothes on before—lurking around windows late at night the way nightmares do, it’s hard to avoid a glimpse now and then—but never like this.
Never up close. So close that if I reached out, I could touch him. I could feel the tiny bumps breaking out on his arms, the thump of blood through those wormy veins, the patch of hair sprouting in the middle of his chest.
No, not the middle. The growth is uneven. There’s a little more on the left than on the right, so that the development is thicker over his heart. It’s strange. In nature, there is so often symmetry—or at least balance—but that isn’t the case with humans.
They are so curious.
Curious, but compelling. Especially this boy who pulled me from the sea.
Before I’ve consciously decided to indulge my fascination, I find myself touching him, just above his heart. His fur is softer than I thought it would be and his skin warmer. He’s still breathing fast from his swim, but when I touch him, his breath stops for a long second before resuming with a shudder.
I look up to find him staring at my face. I can’t guess what he’s thinking—I have little experience with human eyes—but whatever it is, it makes it hard to look away.
So, I don’t. I keep looking into his gray eyes with their stormy shards until they take on an almost mystical feel, until I imagine they are two tiny oceans with power and mystery concealed beneath the surface.
I would like to touch them, I think, though I know that’s ridiculous.
“A finger in the eye would hurt,” I whisper.
The boy nods and says, “Yeah. It would.” He cocks his head, his lips parting in a way that draws my attention to that blue-tinged part of him. “What’s your name?”
Foxglove, I start to say.
But human girls are not named after poisonous plants. Human girls have normal names like Sarah and Elizabeth and— “Clara,” I say. Something about the name has always appealed to me. It’s simple, but lovely.
“Clara,” he repeats before clearing his throat. “Here, Clara. Let me help you.” His voice is gruff, but his hands are gentle as he drapes his shirt around my shoulders.
The fabric is ice cold and sopping wet and smells of fish and salt. Wearing it is far worse than being naked, but I’d hate to refuse something so nicely offered. I force my arms through the sleeves and close a button or two before the shivering of my hands becomes a shake and I cross my arms to put a stop to it.
As soon as my skin is covered, the boy’s breath rushes out with a sound of relief.
“Come on, then,” he says, helping me to my feet. The tails of his shirt fall to my thighs; the arms swallow my hands so that I must push them up to find my fingers. “Let’s get you out of the cold and find you some real clothes before anyone sees you like this.”
