Page 7 of Carousel

I will myself to be strong, and my heart to be still. Blink away the white light.

It seems to surround me instead.

I start again, working through the pain and the exhaustion and the heat and the light.

Once more. Once more.

After what feels like a thousand once mores, it happens. Water spouts from his lips and he rolls over, coughing forcefully. A miracle. A rybov, we would say, in Rhavnan. It means something wonderful. Something that may only ever happen in a lifetime, once.

I slump down, studying him from where I am. He has a stocky physique. Broad shoulders. A face of hard edges that ends in a smooth, straight jawline, and the black hair and deeply tan skin that mark him as being Rhavnan. They’re just like mine.

He’s a part of home, right here. In front of me.

I almost laugh out loud.

But then I remember where I am, and who I am. Having anything to do with a Rhavnan, let alone a Rhavnan soldier…

I’ve just saved an enemy. The worst kind of treason.

He stops coughing. Looks up, right at me.

His eyes are unusually dark for Rhavnan eyes. Mine are Hevallan – a light blue, almost grey – the only feature I inherited from my mother.

But his look like what the bottoms of oceans must look like.

For a moment, we just watch each other. Curiously, but cautiously. Like two dogs. My skin is itching oddly, like it wants to get right off me.

Then he rises quickly to his feet.

I try to move towards him. But it’s like I can’t. My thighs are planted in the sand.

“It’s all right,” I say, rushed. “I’m Rhavnan too.” I say the words in the language. They feel so forbidden, so foreign, that my voice comes out a whisper.

But he’s throwing his jacket off and patting himself down. His eyes look less like oceans depths now, and more like flint stones before they spark.

“Are you looking for something?” I ask.

Without his blazer, I can see even more of his body. The shirt I’d ripped open at his chest is wet. Clings to him. I can see the definition of every muscle.

Who is this man?

I watch as he finds a rubber ball connected with a cord to his belt, and prises it open with both hands.

A coldness creeps into my veins.

Because maybe I’ve made a mistake.

Maybe he hit his head in the fall or ingested too much water.

Maybe he’s not Rhavnan.

Maybe he is, but he’s a spy.

All I know is – and I know it now, in every fibre of my being – he’s dangerous.

I edge myself backwards. My heart is in my throat.

It’s too late.