“Ahoy!” I call out, approaching the edge of the water. It is a cliff edge. But we don’t have cliffs on the island. The water gently laps below,though a few meters away, the storm continues to surge. “Ahoy, over here! Land! Land!”
I raise my arms and wave, grimacing at the pain in each palm. I scour the flat water, but there’s nothing. No one’s here. Either the ship disappeared, or it was never real.
Paranoia washes over me as cold as the storm’s wrath. I saw the ship, but I’ve also been seeing a woman for months whose open throat covered me in ash and viscera moments ago. Did Elle see the ship? I rack my mind, trying to remember.
I spot something in the water, interrupting my doubts. A hand.It has to be.Pale in the moonlight and submerged as quick as it appeared. I search for a portion of shore I might call to them from.
Then it’s already too late.
A rogue wave crashes up from the cliff’s edge, tenfold my height. It holds position for a second, less than a meter from my nose. A flash of red—the lighthouse! Elle’s done it!—illuminates its height like a raging inferno.
The ocean meets me here, two dancers suspended under the storm’s frozen moment of moonlight and calm.
Then the wave crests, collapses on top of me, and I’m swallowed into the drowning coast.
The ocean churns. Bubbles flood my vision as I’m thrown into the riptide. The surface was calm, but beneath it there’s a maelstrom of currents fighting for dominance. Is this why there was no debris above? It’s being dragged down, just like me.
I’m turned, pulled, pushed. Any direction could be air or ocean floor. I can’t hold my breath. My lungs are too tired. The urge to hyperventilate, though I know I’d only breathe in water and become another piece of jetsam, is overwhelming. Water fills my mouth. I’m gasping even though I know there’s no air.
The freezing ocean creeps into my feet and hands, numbing them. Ican’t tell if they’re flailing or still. At least I won’t feel it when I’m dashed against the black rocks.
I can’t form a last prayer. There’s only the regret, the guilt, the fear.
Will I be dragged across the ocean, too far out and down for Elle to ever find me?
Even in this abyss, this moment of my demise, I reach out for any sailor being churned by the waves. But I’m the water’s now. Though my vision is blurred and moments ago I couldn’t see through the dark, I see my hands wave in panic. The fingertips are dissolving. My fingernails are diffusing into the ocean like ink poured into water. I must be hallucinating from the hypoxia. Assembling death into a tangible disappearance.
My head pops up out of the water. I cough out in a painful burst and nearly dunk under again. I can’t move my arms to stay afloat. Yet I feel my pulse again. I’m alive. The thought rises above the chaos and relief. It forces me to squint into the night’s sea for hope.
There’s something only a few feet ahead of me, a solid shape against the moon-speckled waves. A survivor? Or a piece of the ship? Either way I need to get closer. I splutter out uselessly and only manage another half gulp of air before I’m submerged again.
How am I supposed to lug an adult, likely much bigger than I am, back to shore? I ran out so scared to miss my opportunity at rescue, I didn’t think to search for a buoy or a life jacket. The tiny breath has granted me just enough clarity to know I’m going to die of my own incompetence.
Two strong hands grab mine. Fingers intertwine. The figure jolts me with their grip, bringing sensation back that’s so electric, I nearly gasp another lungful of brine in shock. We both surface, gripping each other.
Two eyes peer into mine. Not Elle’s amber. Not Chamomile’s hazel. New. The moonlight casts them into a pale periwinkle. Inches from me. Black hair is plastered around a round face, nearly gray in the gloom.
I don’t remember descriptions of any angel like this. A girl is so muchbetter than wings and eyes.
I try to speak or move my arms. Thank her for finding me when I failed to reach her. Neither of us loosens our grip. Her face is close, and suddenly her lips are pressing against mine. Air fills my lungs again. This person—sailor, mermaid, spirit?—breathes life back into me.
The water turns to wind as she drags me out of the waves. The world slips away from me but not into oblivion. Into something safer.
13Elle
To Search
I don’t notice when I enter the room. Not while I recite the lie I’ll weave to explain why the light stopped working. I notice when a shock of lightning illuminates everything and I don’t hear the gasp of fear she always makes.
Liney isn’t here.
The bed is empty save for rumpled sheets. No one sits on the sagging chesterfield or dining chairs. Quiet fills the room as if I were underwater.
“Liney?” My voice pitches up, catching on her name. What was the last thing I said to her? Everything under the spiral’s influence is distant now, hazy as a dream.
There’s an acrid, sickly sweet smell. Ozone. Likely from the lightning, though something more familiar tinges it.
I turn finally to the kitchen and let out a strained gasp. Cupboards are open, plates smashed against the counters and littering the floor. Salt has sprayed out of a box usually placed far from the edge of the counter. A bread pan has landed in the sink.
