27
The campsite is empty. She sees the tent flap is open and moves forward to fasten it. A note is pinned to its edge:
Elsa:
This is all my fault, but it’s going to be fine just fine. I found out from the boy that she is with the Germans, and I can make Pitcairn in one week and if I don’t meet them there it is only 3 more days to Tahiti. They must drop her off as soon as they find her. I can catch the south wind and it will be fine, Alice will be fine. I’ll bring her back to you. Do not worry. She will be fine.
Elsa runs down to the water, strains her eyes. The schooner is nowhere in sight. The dinghy is gone. She hikes up to the cliff above the beach, and looks out: still nothing, only the dark and endless sea. She crumples the note and tosses it down toward the water, but the wind hurls it back toward the shore until it skips along the rim of sand.
She begins to climb down, then stops and lets her body find the cold face of rock. She grabs the rough edges with her hands and leans all her weight forward. She taps her forehead against the hard wall, then again, harder, until it begins to soothe her.
“Alice,” she whispers.
Edward, alone in the boat, has gone west.
But the fleet steamed in the opposite direction, toward Chile, then to Argentina, where they plan to invade the Falkland Islands.
The boy has followed her, moves toward her now, shaking with alarm. She closes her eyes, continues to tap her head against rock, and feels, for the first time, his fingers clasp her hand.