“Careful over there,” I point to the still-wet wood boards.
“Elle isn’t tall enough for this either,” Bridget muses, running a hand over the dark fabric. “Whose is this?”
Is this how it feels to be with someone who thinks like you do?
“The last keeper’s.” I look around the tub. I have nothing dry to change into within arm’s reach. “Um, Bridget…”
This bubble of bliss we created is fragile. I want only to smell lavender off her skin, feel poetry from her lips, and watch her face alight with rapturous joy.
But it must no longer be in my nature to allow the cruelties of theworld to wash into the background. Violence is a weapon, but so is ignorance.
“Pass me that cloth, please. Let’s warm up, then talk.”
We dry off before the fire and rearrange the cushions of the chesterfield to sit on the floor, our backs against the front edge. She in the robe, me in a loose nightgown. Neither of us has hair long enough to need braiding. Bridget’s hangs down to her chin, already fluffing back up into a thundercloud. Mine’s short enough not to appear much different between wet and dry.
“Are you comfortable?” I ask.
“Do you have any wine? A port would be divine.”
Elle forbade me from the bottles in the storage room. But when I run upstairs for a bottle, there’s one missing. When did Elle take some for herself? I uncork the wine in the kitchen, barefoot and heady with lavender hope.
“A fine vintage,” I promise when I return to her side with two glasses.
“Truly?” she asks, brows raised in surprise.
I shrug, and she laughs. It’s like dreaming but so much better.
She drinks deep, a hearty gulp. I sip at mine as I was always taught, then realize how ridiculous that is and tip the rest into my mouth. It’s sweetly bitter. The lingering taste on my tongue reminds me of cherries.
“So.” I must focus before we are lost to the drink. “How do you feel?”
“She said she’d find someone to help me with the consequences of the shipwreck,” she says, looking away from me and into the fire. “But I don’t know what I’d be guilty of. Surviving? At least she’s proven I’m no demon. Small mercies.”
There was a time I would’ve believed this version of my sister. Savior, sacrifice reaper, sufferer for my sake. When I first saw those flaming eyes in the lightroom, didn’t I hope it was a sign of a miracle? A burning bush. But a miracle doesn’t hurt like this.
“Do you think she was telling you the truth?” I ask.
“I think she was desperate to keep me on the island. She thought we’d steal the boat, didn’t she? Bit of a conundrum for her. I don’t know what to make of it past that.”
Neither do I. I lean over, nudge her, let her wrap her arms around me. Because I can.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, leaning my cheek into her shoulder. “You did nothing to deserve this monstrous treatment, whatever my sister believes she’s doing. She’s unwell.”
“Unwell,” Bridget repeats, testing the word on her tongue. “It’s hard to see it that way, you know? When she had hands around my throat.”
It stings. I can’t dispute what I saw. She didn’t stop when Bridget struggled or screamed. Only when I told her to.
“It’s been just the two of us for so long,” I explain, though the words fall flat even to my own ears. “Before that, she was in the presence of monsters. Any opening for suspicion becomes a chasm of fear.”
“I won’t make you choose between us,” Bridget whispers. Unspoken words surround us.Not like she would.
A silence falls between us. My world is wool blankets, crackling wood, and pale skin.
The rest of the day passes in wine-drunk waves. We kiss, we dance, we wash the clothes that are intact enough to salvage. We stumble into each other, on purpose and by accident, and I’ve never felt as happy in this lighthouse as right now.
“You know I like to kiss you, right?” Bridget asks. She wraps her arms around me from behind. We’re both gazing out the kitchen window to the fiery setting sun.
A knot forms in my throat. “Of course.” Why is she asking that? Have I been doing it wrong? My cheeks echo the sun’s scarlet.
