“Were you traveling alone?” I don’t want to overwhelm her, but there’s a bubbling in my chest I can’t keep down. We’re on the precipice of friendship.
“Yes. When I turned eighteen I was granted a small inheritance and left to figure out what to do next. I wished to continue my father’s work. I planned to sail to Halifax, then board whichever train could take me the farthest away from English society. To places more accepting of women interested in…” She pauses, biting her lip. Hers must be chapped too.
“Adventure?” I offer. My skin ripples with electricity.
“Places where a young woman’s potential isn’t wasted.”
Are we speaking of one topic or two? How deep can I dig into one without admitting to the other—if, indeed, there’s another? I take another sip of water instead.
We barely know each other, yet it’s clear as my reflection in the teacup. She wants to expand the edges of a map I’ve never dared to look at. She’s full of purpose, while I’ve never had any. I was the spare, the understudy called forward when Elle could no longer play the lead. Well, the lead’swife. How can a couple of conversations change me from directionless to steady as a compass’s needle? Though Bridget would never seriously consider bringing me along.
But I can’t help hoisting my hopes up high. Could I leave Elle after everything she’s done for me? Could Elle come with us? What would I do out in the world again? I wasn’t meant to leave a mark. I’m a laugh on the edge of a dance floor. Small. There’s no place for an asthmatic girl without skills or ambition in Bridget’s daring world.
“I’ve been trying to survey the island,” Bridget says, interrupting my introspection. She shows me a piece of driftwood she’s whittled to a smooth surface and marked with charcoal. It’s a mess of redrawn lines. “I keep getting it wrong. I’ll trace out a jut near the dock, the next time it’s gone. I can’t make sense of such drastic changes. Do you know what causes it?”
Bridget bounces one of her knees. She’s a creature of facts and maps, not the slipping sanity our island produces.
“The water can shift the sands,” I offer, though my doubt shows through like sea glass.
“That must be it.” She shakes her head, her frown’s crease deepening. “That reminds me, though. How did I survive? There were surely stronger swimmers on the ship.”
“Were there many passengers?”
“Few. Most were a level below me, likely crushed under the ship when it wrecked. It was more for cargo than travel. Mainly crew, some with contracts waiting at the dockyards.”
She looks down at her bread, only the hardest of the crust left. For whatever grief I felt at the loss, they were only the idea of people to me. Someone so bright and warm would get to know the people around her.
“A lot of sailors choose not to learn to swim.” I heard of lost sailors while eavesdropping outside my father’s study. Buyers discussed losing merchant ships to weather and rocks, with only the briefest mention of the souls also taken. “Better to drown quick than die of exposure.”
“Where are their bodies?” Bridget’s tone sharpens, and her knee stills. “There’s no trace of them. Driftwood makes its way to shore but not them? I know the harbor here is deep, but so close to an island?”
I freeze out of instinct. But she’s not glaring at me. She’s frustrated at no clear answer. Bridget lets out a sigh, and the moment passes, no explosion.
“If most of the crew was inside, they were likely trapped as well.” Iresist the urge to clam up. “Eventually the ship fell deep enough, and the currents took anyone who would’ve floated up otherwise.”
“That’s it? Just luck?” Her gaze searches mine, hungry for an answer that can fit into the rest of her world.
Whose luck: hers or mine? Is it egotistical to believe my prayers saved her?
“What do you remember?” I want to reach my hand out to hold hers. I fold it into a fist beside me on the blanket instead.
“I woke up, and the water was already knee-deep in my room. It was so cold that it hurt the soles of my feet when I stepped out of bed. We were sinking, the crew were shouting orders. I tried to get out, but it was pitch black. The wood was coming apart, splintering under pressure.” Bridget searches for words, moving her hands. “Like how firewood pops and breaks. But there was no fire. My ears popped and—no, you’re right. We were sinking. I squeezed out of my room’s porthole. The glass had smashed, and water was pouring in. I swam. Just focused onoutandup. I’m holding my breath, paddling. It’s pitch black. Then the chill’s pain starts to fade. That’s bad, right?”
I nod so she doesn’t need to finish the thought. A prickle runs through my back. We were both so close to death. We could’ve been any of those sailors, sunk deeper than any would dare search.
“That’s when I found you. I wasn’t looking for anyone, only for the surface. Then we collided.”
And then you kissed me.I want to interrogate her aboutthatpart of the night, even if it was resuscitation. I’m too cowardly to ask.
“Actually,” she continues, smirking, “your foot nearly found my face, you were kicking so hard.”
Her grin grows as my face heats.Thatwas her first impression of me? I could’ve broken her neck or worse. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“It probably knocked some sense into me.” She must notice me squinting away embarrassing tears because her expression shrinks froman expansive laugh to concern. “I’m sorry, bad joke. At least you helped me know which way was up.”
I press my lips together to stop from blubbering. It must be the stress Elle talked about. Even such a small, good-natured joke has me spiraling in guilt. I’ll scare her off.
“I’m not used to a good sense of humor.” I turn away to dab off the tears with the shoulder of my jacket.
