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“I don’t suppose so. There’s only so many places to go.”
Declan laughs, a husky sound that I feel echoed through me. The white cloud of his breath stains the dark. His assessing gaze slides to me. “You’re not cold, are you?”
I stuff my fists into the pockets of his jacket, a smooth, suede number which he said is insulated with wool. “Actually, a bit warm.”
He links his arm through mine then fishes my hand out of my pocket, lacing our fingers together. I give his a squeeze. “Your large hand makes mine feel child-like.”
He snorts, and I feign outrage when I understand the innuendo. I elbow him. “Scoundrel.”
He gives a low laugh.
I believe we’re going to the ponds, but I’m not certain. Also this way, north of the cottage, is Hidden Cove. He could have come upon that some time earlier, and now he’s taking me there with no thought to high tide. Silly interloper.
In the end, we crest the hill before the valley that contains the ponds—three crater lakes off to the right—and Hidden Cove—part of the craggy cliffside on the left—and he looks toward the ponds.
“You come out this way much at nighttime?”
“I rarely go out anywhere at night.” There are rules for such endeavors, though I don’t say that. It doesn’t matter for now.
“I found this little spot between the middle and the lower lake.” He’s whispering, like it’s a secret. That makes me smile.
The clouds move, spilling sheets of moonlight over us, and in that bright light, I notice his eyes—how they sparkle. His mouth is curved into an easy smile. The relief of seeing him this way is a warm rush.
“I adore this valley,” I say. “It’s so far from everything, and it’s lovely how the ponds reflect the starlight.”
We start down the slanting trail. On each side of it, tall grass bends in the breeze. I see the three ponds out before us and the ocean to the left, and I think of another trail, another time, a murmured story that my mum told me under the dark clouds as the grass bowed around us.
“Tell me again about the prince and princess…”
From some corner of my mind, one of St. Thomas Aquinas’s philosophies burbles up. Predestination. God knew and has always known all. He knew some of us would damn ourselves with our choices. It’s an idea I’ve known of for years, but I feel jolted by the idea now. Could it be I’m one of those? Have always been, and simply didn’t know it?
I reach for Declan’s hand and feel his eyes assess me as his palm meets mine. I want to tell him I don’t mind the consequences. More and more so, I suspect that I was born for this. I am one of the transgressors. How odd that after many years of pious living—or attempts at that—I would prefer to lean in to my wicked destiny. I feel a rush at the notion. At what it could mean for me, and the choice I later make.
“You okay?”
I nod, offering him a small smile, and we stop there on the trail, descended halfway into the valley. We kiss gently, cling to one another. I feel him inhale. Then his chin is propped atop my head.
“You feel so good.” It’s half groaned.
“You do.” My throat feels so choked, I can scarcely whisper.
We hurry the rest of the way to the ponds. They’re each about the length of a ship. The top one flows into the middle; that one flows into the lower; and the lowermost lake spills down the rock-strewn hillside to the sea.
Declan leads me around the lowermost pond to a place beside the middle where water spills downhill in veins that glint moon-white in the dark grass. The spot he found is somehow dry and slightly concave. He makes a nest of blankets there, and we lie down together. Then he pulls more from his pack and covers us.
The stars look clearer than ever I can recall. I lie against his chest, and his arm wraps around my back, and I watch him as he watches the sky.
“I summited Mount Kilimanjaro and a couple others,” he says quietly. “After high school.”
“Did you?”
He nods, staring at the sky. “One of the only other times I
’ve ever seen the sky look like this. Brings back memories.”
“I had no idea.”
He smiles, tight. Of course I didn’t.
