Bridget clutches her dress skirts. “Does thatoffendyou?”
I flinch. Is my confusion coming off as condescension? I can’t imagine what she’s withstood alone out there. But I need to know. “Of course not. But you truly were here, in the storm?”
The absurdity is palpable between us. As though I speak in riddles.
“This is my thanks for saving you?” She blinks and takes a step back. “Perhaps I shouldn’t trespass on your hospitality.”
My palms sweat, and I open my mouth before I know what to say. I offered no hospitality, only interrogated her. Perhaps I’m not so different from Elle, ready to close a door rather than offer a hand.
“I don’t mean to insult you,” I insist. “It’s just so surprising. I believed you a hallucination. You’d be so much more comfortable at the fire. I can put on some tea?”
Bridget’s shoulders relax with the invitation. She scurries past me, and each curl of her short hair bounces. It’s raven black, tickling at the nape of her neck. I’m so distracted I nearly don’t notice her step on my foot.
“Oh! Sorry, I—”
I interrupt her with a sweeping wave to continue inside. Contact, like her hands in mine during the shipwreck. She’s real. Nothing could be plainer.
Elle lied to me. Are there any corners left of our lives untouched by deceit? Why should I ever expect her to put the truth ahead of control?
“I’m not fully recovered,” I admit, closing the door behind her. “The past few days have been troubling, and not everything’s made sense. I believe you scared my sister. Not that it’s your fault!” I rush through my words. “I can’t promise my sister will stay upstairs long, but at least you can warm yourself.”
“Thank you.” The warmth in her voice melts the last of my fear. “Do you have a hand mirror?”
Bridget stations herself in front of the fire as I grab a small mirror in the drawer of my bedside table.
“You must be freezing.” I hold the mirror up for when she’s ready.
“Is it worse that I stopped feeling it?” She rubs her hands and holds them closer to the flame than I’d dare.
“Numbness?” I ask. Nerve damage could easily take root.
“Yes, though some tingling’s started,” she agrees, but her next words die when she sees her own face.
Silence, stillness, suspense. She stares at the mirror. Why the surprise? It’s not like she grew horns.
She reaches a delicate hand up and touches her cheeks, prodding them until they turn pink. Her head rolls from side to side until her neck lets out a sharp crack.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, trying not to stare too intently. Unsuccessfully.
“I haven’t eaten anything proper in days. I’ve been huddled in a cave every night. I should be in more pain than I am.”
“Shock?” I offer. She turns back to the fire, and I set down the mirror, opting to sit on the edge of the bed instead and fiddle with my fingers. “I certainly was, and you were in the water longer.”
She’s far too calm when she glances over, the oddest grin spreading across her lips. When was I last near someone who dealt with the unknown with a smile? It’s mesmerizing, intimidating, and nothing like anyone I’ve ever met. A noise bubbles up from Bridget’s chest. She throws her head back and laughs so hard I worry Elle might hear. It’s a free laugh. I can picture it in fields and pubs and open sea air.
I gulp. A year with only an imaginary companion that tried to kill me has left me tongue-tied around a normal girl.
“Have you eaten anything today? It’s nearly supper.”
“My last meal was on the ship, a couple of hours before the storm.” Bridget sighs, a smile of remembrance forming. “The cook made a lovely roast as a celebration for nearly reaching port ahead of schedule.”
My gut twists. Could I have saved the cook? Who else did I fail to rescue?
I count the nights in my head. “You’ve eaten nothing for the past three days?”
Bridget flops her head to the side and peers at me. “I suppose so. Queer, isn’t it? I know I’m starved, but I can barely feel it now.”
“Queer indeed,” I finally agree, fighting a smile despite the worrying implications of Bridget’s state. I can’t allow these overattached feelings to boil over in my chest again. Have I learned nothing? Chamomile was nice at first too. But Chamomile was never hungry. I head to the kitchen, catching the edge of the counter to steady my steps. I grab the first food I spot, a dried jerky stick from a pack that Elle likes to chew while cooking. I throw one over, and she rips off a chunk.
