I didn’t think my world could ever get smaller than the grounds of Devils Island, yet now it’s shrunk to this blanket, these goose feather pillows, and the halved sunlight that pours through the broken shutter. I trace the edge of the blanket with my fingers. Its beige wool is frayed, hinting at coming apart. Dust motes float above me. They’re in my lungs, resting in my hair, bumping against my half-open eyes.
Chamomile hasn’t reappeared. Not even while Elle has been outside,normally her perfect condition. Bridget hasn’t appeared, either. I often flick my eyes up to the window I saw her through. Nothing appears but the occasional wings of gulls.
I’m more alone than ever.
Elle is upstairs. She says she’s fixing the apparatus that feeds the oil into the light’s container. She offered me more soup but entertained none of my questions. Soup won’t cure my curiosity. It won’t cure this fever either. My future will be settled by luck. Did enough seawater enter my lungs to spread an infection? Will my fever break? Is my breathing shallow from lying down all day or from something worse?
My stomach groans. It’s late afternoon, another hour until Elle comes down from the tower. An opportunity to test my strength. If I can reach the kitchen on my own, I’ll show Elle. Perhaps I’ll be allowed to walk outside again.
I pull back the blankets and drag my legs to the edge of the bed. I stand, calves against the edge of the frame, wobbly but upright. Good.
There are fourteen strides from the bed to the kitchen counter. It takes me nearly thirty with two stooped-over breaks in between. I’ll do better when I show Elle.
There’s not much food in the cupboards. I need the storage room. The thought of climbing those cursed stairs is enough to make me lean against the counter. The same counter that I was pushed into. Or that I pushed myself into? My breath speeds up. The tips of my fingers numb. I concentrate to relax my shoulders, my neck, my chest. I can’t panic now and undo the good work the last few days of rest have done.
I find a jar of peaches under the sink. One of many snacks I like to sneak. Through most of my life, there was such emphasis on careful nutrition to regulate my condition. I kept any extra food secret. Not even the cook knew. I learned her schedule. It was easy to find the gaps in who was minding the pantry.
The lid is surprisingly easy to open. I find a fork and skewer a peachslice from the depths. I’m careful to eat over the sink to keep any peach juice from staining my nightdress. The skin retains a snap that’s messy but satisfying. The flesh is extra sweet from the preservative.
It helps. Standing on my own, eating with my own hands. Independence, however small. I forgot how it felt to be truly alone. I used to fear it. Was that why I created Chamomile? And Bridget? My mind’s final conjuring before death was a girl to kiss.
I place the jar back carefully under the sink. A little sugar clears my head. The frigid air outside could also help. A small dose. An inoculation of freedom.
I dress. It takes forever. Every raise of my knees or bend of my back finds new muscles that were tossed too hard in the sea. I set my hair into a messy braid.
Layered properly, I grab the lighthouse keeper’s coat from a hook beside the door and the boots beneath. They smell of brine, smoke, and secrets.
A moment outside is all I need. To see clouds or endless blue above. To feel the ceaseless wind. To catch a glimpse of the ocean tide and hold its gaze.
To show the island I’m not afraid. That I’m real.
I unlock the door, but it sticks as I pull. Has it always been this heavy? I imagine Elle hammering more wood planks to it or lining rocks against its surface.
I heave. The door flies open and nearly knocks me back with it.
On the stoop, hand raised to knock, stands the girl who saved my life.
I’m tempted to close the door. Test if this is a trick of the mind, as Elle promised. But what if I open it and she’s gone?
The shadow of the lighthouse covers her. I hadn’t noticed much of her past her face. She wears a dark dress of wool or heavy linen and a plaid traveling cloak that’s formed sharp, salt-crusted folds around her shoulders. How could she have survived these past days?
“You!” she exclaims in relief. “Is your sister here?” she adds, voice pitching up.
“She’s upstairs, miss.” I don’t like how rigid my tone is. As though we met on Barrington Street with society leering at our backs instead of nearly alone on an island. As though her kiss of air hadn’t saved my life. Yet this formality gives me a moment of absurd normalcy to process that, yes, she’s here in front of me, flesh and blood and dark curls blowing in the breeze. “She may come down soon but not at present.”
She nods. Her gaze shifts from me, to behind me, then back. “I don’t remember your name,” she admits sheepishly.
She would if I’d conjured her. Or is she pretending not to know? Then again, I don’t remember her name either.
“Caroline.” I attempt a terrible curtsy. I’m out of practice. “I’m sorry, and yours? You are truly here, yes?”
Her dark brows crease. I know the thought that thins her lips.Is this girl mad?“Bridget Coleman. You do remember me, don’t you? Before your sister kicked me out?”
My expression gives away my shock. Elle threw her to the cold, while telling me she wasn’t real? Why would she lie? Could it have been a misunderstanding? Perhaps she thought Bridget would return to the ship if it was not too badly damaged, or Elle offered her our rowboat? If she believed Bridget would take up the offer, did she want to save my feelings from the loss of a potential friend? There are so many possibilities that I’m ashamed to rush to the worst conclusion.
The corners of Bridget’s mouth twitch upward, and she looks to the thick clouds above. Her fingers on one hand are twitching, though I don’t think voluntarily.
How do I salvage this? “I’m sorry, Miss Coleman. You must need shelter. I mean, look at you.” I scan down to her dress, dulled and oddly folded from the salt water. She’s lucky she didn’t succumb to the elements.
