It’s not a forest—that isn’t the right word. But that’s how I’ve grown to think of the tall trees that grow straight into the air from the rocky soil beneath my feet. The ground is covered in moss, and it cushions my footsteps. I feel like the hunter for once. Not the hunted. I only wish this feeling could last.
Finally, the trees stop, and I step out from beneath their sheltering branches to look across the huge rocks that are covered by receding waves. The air is too cold. The sky is too overcast. And, most of all, the water is the wrong color. You wouldn’t think it possible. Water is water, after all. But instead of the cool blue of the Mediterranean I’m looking out at an ocean that’s as gray as the sky, and that’s how I know for sure how far we’ve come. It’s the one thing that gives me hope that maybe—just maybe—we’ve come far enough.
I’m careful on the rocks. They’re big and smooth, wet with the dew and the breaking waves. I leapfrog from one to another as I move down the shore. I close my eyes and think of fire, of sticky nights and the burning sun, and, most of all, another island and another time—another place on the other side of the world.
I can feel the fire as I plunge my hands into the icy water. Instantly, the cold burns and my skin goes numb. I wish I could submerge my whole body in the frigid depths. I wish I could turn off my mind, so I lean down and duck my head, feel the cold swallow me, jolting me awake. I stay under as long as I can, until my lungs burn and my eyes feel frozen shut. Then, with a cry, I hurl myself back, clawing against the rocks, pushing my wet hair from my face and drawing in deep, burning breaths.
There’s no one to hear me. There’s no one to see me—nothing but water stretching out to the horizon. There’s no dock. No boat. No witness to my crazy as I throw back my head and scream. Cold water drips from my hair onto my T-shirt, freezing me more with every drop, but I’m not numb yet, so it’s not enough. I want to wade out until I’m too cold to feel.
But then who would gather the kindling? I remember. I turn around and start up the rocks again, toward the trees.
Down the beach I can see the tall tree where the eagles have built their nest. They’ll mate for life, returning here day after day. This is our home now. And a part of me wants to stay here, cold and isolated forever.
That’s why I think it must be in my mind, the sound of the motor that carries on the wind. I stand on the rocks and look out through the fog. I can barely make out a shadow in the sky. I have a hard time breathing as I watch and listen to the sound of an engine getting closer and closer.
Then I bolt toward the tree line, hiding like the coward that I am. It’s a water plane, but it doesn’t get any lower. It doesn’t land in the water off our shore, and so I breathe deep and start back through the trees.
As I go along, I pick up wood and check the traps that Jamie’s set, looking for any small game that might stretch the supplies we brought from the mainland. I’m getting sick of fish.
My route takes me the long way around. The island is about the same size as the one off the shore of Valancia. I can walk the perimeter in less than two hours, and when I reach the far side, I climb steadily until I reach the highest ridge. The stone is solid beneath me, nothing but a steep cliff that has stood for ages against the battering ram of the sea.
I stand there for a long time, waiting.
And then I see it, bobbing on the waves: the plane.
It didn’t fly on, I realize now. It circled. And then it landed.
I don’t even realize I’ve dropped the wood that fills my arms until I hear it hit the rocks. I’m spinning, my feet slipping as I rush down the rocky ridge. I’ve got to tell Alexei. I have to help Jamie.
I have to run—I know it like I know I need to breathe. But then I freeze.
The woman wears a white suit, a fur stole around her neck. The breeze pushes her white hair back from her face, and she looks almost like an angel—like a ghost.
I’d give anything for this island to be haunted, but the woman on the rocks is flesh and blood. I’m certain of this as soon as the prime minister of Adria says, “Hello, Grace. You’ve been a very hard girl to find.”
This isn’t a dream, and I’m not sleeping. If anything, it’s a nightmare, the waking kind.
“What are you doing here?” I say. One piece of wood is still in my hands, I realize. I grip it like a bat, ready to swing, to fight, to get dirt all over the prime minister of Adria and her pretty white suit.
My pulse is pounding, and the roar of the waves has been drowned out by the pounding of my blood.
I want to scream for the boys, but maybe she doesn’t know they’re here. Maybe I can delay her—delay this. Maybe, just maybe, my brother might live to fight another day.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
Alexandra Petrovic studies me, then shakes her head, as if I’m so sweet and na?ve.
Just goes to show what she knows.
“Grace, we’ve been looking for you for weeks. We’ve all been very worried.”
“How did you find me?” I shout this time, but the PM merely smirks.
“We have our ways.”