Bridget sits on the blanket I gave her. She’s made a rudimentary table out of driftwood and rocks, where she’s placed my gifts.
“Ahoy,” I greet her, a hitch in my voice.
“Ahoy,” she echoes. I can’t believe her toothy smile is for me.
I can’t believe it’s only been a few hours. I hold my hands behind me, squeezing.
“I should’ve come sooner. I waited until supper. Elle said I could bring you back with me. Well, bring anyone I find.”
Bridget blows a long breath out and slumps back against the cavewall. She raises her arms, offering the hospitality of the cave. “You’re here now. And I’m starved after that tea.”
I lay out her meal of stale bread and a few peach slices I smuggled in my skirts. She laughs in delight at the fruit. That laugh is worth every moment of isolation on this island.
She asks me so many questions, curious about every detail though we barely scratch the surface. I try to ask a question back, but I’m barely through an answer before she’s ready for the next. Where did I grow up? What hobbies do I have? How much sugar do I take in my tea? What are my favorite foods? What’s the farthest I’ve ever been from home?
“Here,” I answer to the last question, sheepish. We’re a stone’s throw from the city in which I was born, grew up, and would’ve died.
She moves on to something I haven’t considered in a long time: my future.
“Surely we can find a place where you could be safe,” she says between popping peach slices in her mouth. As though it’s so simple. I could support my whole weight with her use ofwe. “I can cover you here. You’d be surprised how easy papers can be forged if you know what they look for. You could come back with me to Ireland or down to America once the fighting is over.”
It’s a wondrous idea, both beautiful and impossible. I entertain her notions of traveling across the continent to the Pacific, or high up in the Arctic, or deep into the southern jungles.
“I’ve met girls like you,” Bridget says, leaning back on one hand with a half grin. “Sheltered, upper crust. No idea what lies beyond your street. It’s a horrible thing to steal the world from someone.”
“And what have you found?” I want to gobble up every word she says. No one I’ve known had her worldliness. No woman, at least.
Bridget laughs, then considers which wonder to tell me. “Have you ever seen the northern lights?”
I shake my head.
“You must. I can’t do them justice. Imagine the night sky flowing with ribbons of light. They’re named after the Roman goddess of the dawn, Aurora. She flies across the sky every morning. Wouldn’t that be marvelous? To cross the pastel world as it wakes up.”
I picture her gliding, but in the ocean instead. Her figure swimming, bringing the dawn to the western coasts and onward across the Pacific. Surrounded by currents, whales, and creatures no one’s ever seen before.
“Where did you see them?” I ask.
Bridget launches into stories of the many names for dawn deities, the darkness of northern winter, and the wonder of Scandinavian forests. Places I’ve only heard of in a collection of Danish folktales Elle used to read to me.
“It made me believe in magic,” Bridget says dreamily. “You can’t see those lights dancing and not believe insomethingbigger than yourself.”
I’m leaning forward, each story another page written for the book in my heart. “How do you know all this?”
“My father was a cartographer.” Her voice lowers in both register and volume. “He used to travel to and from America with the newest maps of the continent. He told me stories.”
“Was?” I ask softly. For a moment I can’t imagine the pain of losing a parent. It’s a painful lump to swallow realizing that I can. I have.
“Was. His heart gave out. And my mother’s long since passed away. After she died, he started taking me with him on contracts, mainly around Europe. I’ve been on my own for about a year.”
I shift in my seat, too aware of my tongue in my mouth. Should I tell her of my own parents’ fate? Would she feel supported or overlooked? It’s too self-centered no matter the context it could give. “I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, I know.” She waves off my discomfort. “Sometimes I pretend they died in a great tragedy or heroics if someone’s prying. See how far they’ll entertain me.”
That mischief. My heart flutters at how much life one person canhold, even in the macabre. Something deeper than a heartbeat or blush pulls me to her.
“But not me?” My dry lips crack as I grin. I take a swig of water, hoping she didn’t notice.
“Not you,” she confirms. Like it’s our secret. Her eyes are alight, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and embrace her.
