I rouse to the odors of mildew and salt. To the steady slap of waves against a hull and a rolling motion that pitches the acid in my stomach until it threatens to come up. My bones feel bruised, my skin raw and my muscles sore. Like I died fighting.
I wade through the fog for the last thing I can remember. Julio’s face. A tiny vial.
“You’re sure this is what you want?”
“I’m sure.”
I swallow the sick feeling building at the back of my throat and curl in on myself, shivering under a thin blanket that smells strongly of spruce... and pine...
Winter.
My eyes fly open. I hold perfectly still, careful not to breathe. The room is semidark, barely flushed pink. The crumpled T-shirt in front ofme gives way to a chest that rises and falls, deep in sleep, and a cold, pale arm draped heavily around me.
My hand lunges for my knife and comes up empty. The dark head silhouetted against the cabin’s window snaps awake. I scrabble upright onto my knees, fists raised. My head smacks against the low ceiling, awakening a bruise.
A box. I was in a box.
I hold my head, listening for Poppy’s voice, my eyes slow to focus, not entirely sure where I am. OrwhenI am. Unable to remember exactly how I got here.
“Hey, it’s me,” says a low, familiar voice. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”
It’s Jack.
But it’s not Jack. There are no shadows under his eyes. No sickly flush to his skin. He’s sunlight on snow, like his portrait from his high school yearbook, the same one I secretly clipped and taped to my closet wall. His hands are up, like he’s afraid I might strike him. Or maybe so I won’t be afraidhe’llstrike me. I rub the bump on my head, confused. Everything feels flip-flopped. Turned upside down.
The horizon bobs in the small circular window behind Jack’s head, blue on blue, nothing upon nothing but waves and sea. The boat rocks and I fall back on my heels as it all comes crashing back to me.
“What month is it?”
“First week of September.”
“Where are we?” My throat’s parched, my mouth nearly too dry to speak.
“Just past the Canary Islands.” He keeps talking, slowly, softly, thewords beginning to ground me. “You slept through the worst of it. The trade winds will carry us most of the way across the Atlantic from here. We can lie low for a while—no radios, no fuel stops. Stay off Chronos’s radar.”
Us, he said. Soft guitar notes filter through the walls. And smells... palm leaves and wild grass. The sharpness of cinnamon and the snap of sour apple. “Julio and Amber. They’re here. Your plan... it worked.”
I clutch the front of my sweatshirt. I’m not wearing a bra. My hair is tangled and snarled and smells faintly of vomit. My head throbs, the bruise on it swelling to the size of a walnut. I draw the blanket up to cover myself—no, not a blanket. An old flannel pullover that must belong to Jack.
The low sun washes the room with dusky light. His cheeks are pink in the glow of it. “We didn’t... you know. I just... We held hands. That’s all,” he says, a little flustered. “I must have fallen asleep. How do you feel?”
How do I feel? I’m supposed to feel strong with him. Strongerthanhim. My skin’s clammy and my hands shake with stasis tremors. I turn away, not wanting him to smell me. Wishing he didn’t have to see me like this.
The boat rolls. My stomach pitches.
“Hey, sunshine! Welcome back.” Julio reaches inside the small cabin and ruffles my hair, making the bruise on my head scream. He wrinkles his nose. “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but you smell worse than usual. And you look like shit.”
I lurch from the bed feet-first, sending him sprawling backward out of the berth.
“You’re awake!” Poppy exclaims as I shove my way into the narrow hall, dive into a bathroom, and slam the door. Braced against it, I breathe shallowly in the tight space. The boat sways with the next wave and my stomach drops with it. I lurch for the tiny sink.
When the dry heaves pass, I cringe at my face in the mirror. Purple shadows ring my eyes, and there are dark hollows under my cheekbones. My roots have started to grow out, pale pink dye giving way to streaks of brown. I wash the sour taste from my mouth, grit my teeth through an icy shower, and rush to put on the warm clothes Poppy must have left on the shelf for me. Something jabs me through the pocket of my jeans. My hand closes around the reassuring weight of a small utility knife.
I crack the bathroom door. Voices argue upstairs. A pan clatters on a stove. I follow the scent of chicken broth into a long, narrow cabin with high portholes and sleek wooden walls. Julio, Jack, and Chill are seated around a table, talking. They cease their conversation and stare at me.
Chill shrinks into his padded orange life vest. For a moment, I wonder if I should be wearing one, too. But no one else seems to be as I look around the room. A long-haired boy I’ve never met before sits at the captain’s wheel. Not a Season; he smells like patchouli. Poppy stirs a pot on a stove in a small galley kitchen. On a sofa across from her, a fierce-looking Autumn with auburn braids watches Julio over the pages of a book. This must be Amber, coming into her season, judging by the smell of her. The tension between her and Julio is palpable, the scent of them so strong, it’s overpowering in the small room.
Jack clears his throat. “Everybody, this is Fleur. Fleur, this is... everybody.”
