I stare around at the headstones and uneven mounds of earth where extra graves have been dug. They’re marked with shells or small rocks and one even has a soaking wet felt doll.
I glance at Gideon. ‘These look recent.’
He shrugs. ‘We used to bury the kids, for a time, when there was a body left to bury.’
‘We?’
‘The group I was with. But the deaths got too frequent, so we started burning them instead.’
Jasper only mentioned three Canna groups: his own, Ruth’s and another. So Gideon’s must have been the one whose leader attacked Ruth.
‘How long were you on Canna before you went to Bletchley Park?’ I ask him.
‘I lost track of the time,’ he says quietly. ‘But I was just a boy when they sent me here.’
I hear the quiet peeping of nesting birds.
‘We should start walking,’ I say.
‘See the church?’ Gideon says. He points to the left, where an old stone church stands in the moonlight. ‘The Stepstones are on the other side of those hills.’ He gestures in the opposite direction. ‘We can’t cross them in the dark.’
‘You mean we’re supposed to wait here for Krasimir to pick us off one by one?’ Serena whispers.
‘Would you rather fall to your death?’ Gideon replies.
‘Quite frankly, yes.’
I shift uncomfortably in the wet grass, shivering. ‘We’ll go as soon as it’s light.’
Serena turns on her radio and soon, a monotone voice, listing off names, fills my ears.
‘Lucy Cartwright. James Fowler. Rebecca Swiftalon. Joshua Bennett.’
‘Missing rebels?’ I ask her quietly.
‘Dead rebels,’ she says. ‘This is the daily death toll. See why Hollingsworth thinks spirits need lifting?’
We lie still in the night, staring up at the countless stars.As the sounds of breathing slow, I wonder how any of them can sleep with Krasimir nearby. Atlas’s hand finds mine and I roll over so that I’m closer to him. The moon disappears behind a cloud, turning the darkness pitch black. I reach up to his face and trace the shape of his high cheekbones, his nose, his jaw prickling with stubble. Would I be able to recognise him blind, with nothing but touch? I don’t think I would, and it occurs to me that a month at Bletchley Park is not enough time to get to know a person. There are still so many questions I don’t know the answer to. Why he trained to be a priest. Why he became a rebel. Why he chose me.
Will he make the same choice this time round?
Is it selfish of me to want him to?
He catches my fingers. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to decipher who you are.’
‘I’m a code to be cracked too, am I?’ he says.
‘A true enigma,’ I reply.
He buries his face in my hair and I close my eyes. Screeches sound across the island as I try to work out my feelings for Atlas. Is this love? Or infatuation? Or do I merely crave someone to cling to beneath dragon-filled skies?
The cold morning air wakes me, creeping into the collar of my coat and stiffening my joints. Atlas is gone. I sit up and scan the graveyard until I see him in another field, sitting by a small stream. He’s staring up into the sky, seemingly lost in thought.
The first sunlight streams over the horizon as we climb into the hills with rumbling stomachs.
‘What were you doing out in the field by yourself this morning?’ I ask Atlas.
