“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I lost control.”
I don’t say anything back, but there’s a crack in my newfound fear of her. She apologizes so rarely, I can’t deny that it makes a mark when she does.
She doesn’t linger after I let go. She hikes up her bags, heads outside, and closes the door.
A dark thought crosses my mind. If anything happens to Elle, she’s taken the lone rowboat. How would we survive alone? Our supplies could stretch only a few weeks with no way off the island. Elle’s need for control is stronger than her concern for my safety.
I pace the room, circling between counter and chesterfield. Every time I pass the latter, I glance down at the trapdoor. Something’s been pulling my attention in small moments, like that morning after the quiet dream.
“Sit with me,” Bridget calls, patting the couch cushion beside her. “Or sleep, please.”
I have another task first. When Elle’s away, it’s my one responsibility to crank the mechanism that rotates the light, the only element of keeping that doesn’t require going up the stairs. Twice a day, morning and night. She promised that the oil problem is fixed. The light has shone out to sea every night since.
The moment I’ve done the bare minimum of maintenance work, I come back and collapse in Bridget’s arms.
“I was so scared,” I choke out.
She squeezes back so hard we could merge. Waves crashing together.
“I know,” she murmurs against the dip where my neck meets my shoulder.
She’s warm and I’m whole, and this place is ours for this moment.
“How long until she’s back?” she asks when we finally break apart. She’s smiling again, that infectious grin that I can’t help but reflect.
“The journey into town takes a day, another day or two to buy supplies depending on what’s open. The way back is one or two days depending on the winds. Four days. At least. Let me run you a bath; it’ll help you relax.”
“Of the two of us, who stayed up all night staring at her sister like she’d sprout fangs?” Bridget asks, laughing, but I’m on a mission now.
She helps me carry the tin bathing tub out from the corner of the room and close to the fireplace. I set a large pot above the fire.
“Do you like lavender?” I watch the water for bubbles. It’ll take at least an hour to heat.
“Don’t go to all this trouble.” She smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine, really. At least while she’s gone.”
“Let me go to the trouble.” I can be stubborn for her benefit.
“Then yes.” The glint returns to her eyes, mirth and mischief. “I like lavender.”
I gather the ingredients and mix them into the warm water. The room fills with an herbal, powdery scent. It takes me back to walks at the morning market, lagging behind my mother and sniffing at the flower cart bursting with lavender stalks.
I mix a bowl of sugar, palm oil, and the zest of the last remaining orange—the one Elle asked me to swear on. I have no eggs for Bridget’s hair, but Elle’s been mixing an alternative since we cracked our last egg, a combination of tea and vinegar.
“What type of tea do you prefer?” I ask, rummaging through our small store in the kitchen. “I’m making a rinse, but I can brew some to drink as well. We have black, green, a few herbal teas…”
“Herbal would be nice.”
I shift a few bags and reveal a small red box in the back of the cupboard behind a large sack of black tea leaves. I reach but barely brush its tin surface with my fingertips.
“I can’t reach.” I laugh and look back at Bridget. “Do you think you could?”
She grins as she comes over. She reaches around me to hold my waist while she grabs the small box with ease. That hand on my waist doesn’t release as she tilts the box to examine it.
“Hibiscus. That works.” She shows me a small label with cursive writing. “Take a sniff.”
Bridget pops open the tin. Delicate, dried flower petals are crushed within, a mixture of oxblood, crimson, and pale pink. She breathes in.Her eyes bulge, and her loose smile warps into a disgusted scowl.
“What?” I ask, taking the tin as she shoves it into my hands.
