I trip, skidding against the rock like an ice sheet, then scramble until I’m finally close enough for the pulse of the red light to illuminate a puff of breath coming out of Liney’s mouth. She’s breathing. She’s saved.
I turn to the dark-haired savior. Not a sailor. Not even a man. A young woman, dressed in a fine, now torn, traveling dress. Her eyes flutter closed, but her breath stays steady.
A survivor of my wreck. She’s the first nonkin I’ve seen since my second deal. Of course it wouldn’t be an anonymous sailor who became my mark.
This girl has saved my sister and doomed herself on my shore.
Part 2A Descent
14Liney
To Smother
Ocean sloshes from one side of my skull to the other. My head lolls along with its motions.
The steady arms of my savior keep me anchored to the world. All I can do is, thankfully, breathe. My eyes refuse to open, but her floating hair framing her face in a dark halo seems etched behind my eyelids. Chamomile’s curls never moved. This woman’s hair was so full of life, I could’ve mistaken it for seagrass.
Who is she? Another mental conjuring? Can I weather that? Chamomile was an illusion. My body pressing into this woman’s as she carries me, this is real. A real that Chamomile barely managed even in her final moments of destruction.
There’s no wind on my face anymore. Did I lose consciousness between the surf and the lighthouse?
She stops but keeps holding me. Relief trickles out of one ear along with the water.
Two voices mix outside my sea brain, loud but indistinct. Thewoman’s fingers clutch my shoulder and squeeze around my knees. No. I know this grip.
Elle. I want to reach up and hug her, but my arms are folded in tight to my chest, like a baby bird freshly hatched.
A voice whispers, harsh. At me? It’s distant, like listening through a window. My ears must be blocked. I twitch my head to the side to clear it, but the motion makes my stomach spin. I focus on breathing instead.
A dragging thud, a few steps, and I’m settled down on the chesterfield. I force my eyes open despite their salt burn. I squint up as I’m settled into a comfortable position. Everything’s still blurry. My head pounds now that my drowning panic has subsided. Elle steps away, leaving me dreadfully alone.
I open my mouth, but my throat only strains, useless. The old cushions sink under my shaking arms when I try to sit up.
“Are you safe here?” someone whispers. It should be Elle. We’re on the island; we’re alone. No, we’re not. A lighter voice. Dark hair under moonlight.
A cloth is pressed into my hand. I bring it to my eyes and dab the ocean water out. I’ve rubbed too hard, though, and all I can see are smudges of peach skin, black hair, and maple wood behind. I jolt, a ridiculous reaction, yet my senses are set raw as a scalding burn.
Safe here? I’ve lain here a hundred times. I sew here. I snack on cheese here while Elle works hard into the night. She braids my hair here.
This girl’s asking if my sister is dangerous. She could be, no question. But is she a dangerto me? It’s a betrayal to consider it.
My sight slowly sharpens. The girl’s brows are thick and knit together. How far gone do I look? I should tell her I’m naturally this pale. That the bags under my eyes have more to do with a sickly childhood than my near drowning.
Am I safe with Elle? She was my sanctuary since before I could talk. She held me after nightmares and hoisted me on her shoulders to feellike I was running around the back garden. I could go to her for anything, until others intervened.
I once asked Elle the one question I couldn’t go to anyone else with when I turned fifteen. I’d crept into her room long after our parents had gone to bed. We hid under her covers. The candlelight flickered on the other side of her cotton sheets, casting soft shadows like a pond’s surface.
“What’s it supposed to feel like when you…” I false-started, tripping over my words with my heart racing.
Elle failed to hide a laugh. She was freshly engaged. I was as charmed as anyone else with Thomas. She seemed like a good source.
“When you like a boy?” she asked.
Blood drained from my face. I could’ve backed out, yet the prospect of turning from my one chance at learning was too dreadful. I could thank and damn my curiosity in equal measure. I shook my head and counted my own heartbeats in the thrumming against my temple. Even with Elle this was a stretch of trust. Like telling her I’d fought someone or snuck a bottle of rye from Father’s study. A bridge I wasn’t sure I could cross, yet already too far gone.
“When you like someone who isnota boy?” she ventured. Every syllable is a step on a tightrope, taut as the tension in our under-covers sanctum.
I nodded, tight-necked, following her lead.
