Page 9 of Carousel

Not a single muscle moves in his face as he says, tersely, “Except the Queen wouldn’t make an exchange for just a nobody.”

A moment passes.

“Well, she did.”

“Mm,” is all he says.

The sound needles me.

“You know, I think the words you’re looking for – which you haven’t actually used yet – are ‘thank you for saving my life.’”

He tips his head a fraction. “Not necessarily.”

We hear it at the same time. Voices, above our heads.

He moves impossibly fast. In what must only be a few seconds, his gun is holstered. His blue blazer is buried in the sand. The ball is secured at his belt again. There’s a compass in his hand and a scrap of paper. And he’s heading west, keeping to the shadow of the cliff face.

I stare dumbfounded at his retreating back. Where is he going? That way isn’t safe.

Above me, the voices are growing.

I make another decision.

I pad after him, sprinting over the rough sand to seal the distance between us.

When I’m only a few feet behind him, I hiss, “You shouldn’t go that way. You’ll be seen. You’ll be killed. Stop. Stop!”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.

And then – because I’ve clearly decided to dedicate my day to bad ideas – I leap onto his back.

I’m not exactly sure what my plan was. I think I just wanted to get him to listen to me. Look at me, properly. Like a friend, rather than a foe.

Instead, we go down hard, tangled.

He curses under his breath, twists around and shoves me off, all in one clean movement. I hit the sand, and he appears over me, gripping my shoulders and straddling me. I struggle, but his weight keeps me pinned down.

I’m suddenly aware of everything about him. The fact his clothes and hair are still wet. The fact he’s clean-shaven. The fact his tanned skin is completely unmarked by scars or pox.

He smells of sweat and musk and seawater. It’s not an unpleasant smell.

The pain in my head, my old friend, is descending on me. I fight off white lights.

“Are you insane?” he spits, his face right over mine.

I can’t answer him, because more voices are travelling down to us from the top of the cliff. We look up. Keep silent.

But no one peers over the edge of the cliff. The voices ease off.

We’re safe.

With an exhale, he gets up off me. I find myself exhaling, too.

“You were dying,” I manage to say, sitting up. “I don’t know how you’re upright, let alone running. You need rest. And you need a plan. The watchers will be back any minute⁠—”

“I know that,” he mutters, brushing sand off his hands. “And I already have a plan.”

“What plan? You’re going west. If you’re planning to walk to Lartos, that will take you weeks.”