Page 4

We duck behind a trash barrel, then cut across a yard where an empty clothesline sways in the wind.

The sea wall looms dead ahead. Twenty feet of black stone. That’s what stands between us and the beach. It circles the entire island, a ring of dark rock, thick enough that three men could walk along its top. Tall enough that even the worst storm surges break against it and fall back.

The wall was built around Purgatory Island to keep the rest of the world safe from the exiled, but now it keeps us and our island safe from the tides. Without it, the waves would roll across the farmland, through the town, and over every building.

Sometimes during the worst storms, the water crests the top and pours over in sheets, flooding the lowest parts of the island. We spend those nights praying that the wall holds.

“It’s not too late to turn back,” I whisper.

No one knows the real reason it’s illegal to cross the wall. One day, people walked freely along the piers near the flesh markets. The next, the gates were locked, and guards were stationed at them, turning away everyone who tried. Some people said it was about controlling the food supply, keeping the catch centralized so King Zander could tax it. Others whispered that the ocean wasn’t safe anymore. Nobody knows the truth.

On Purgatory Island, the truth is whatever the king says it is.

“Come on,” he says.

He begins climbing first. His boots find the old maintenance grooves worn into the stone. His fingers grip the rough surface, and he hauls himself up easily.

I watch him for a beat too long: the way his shoulders move beneath his sweatshirt, the muscles in his forearms pulling taut with each grip, the intentional placement of each foot.

“Careful,” he murmurs from above as he sits on the top, glancing down at me.

I grab the first groove and climb, pressing my body close to the wall, trying not to look down. If I do, I’ll freeze in panic. Instead, I keep my eyes on Arlo’s steady gaze.

My boots slip once, and my stomach lurches, but Arlo is quick to grip my wrist, giving me enough time to find my footing. I dig in harder and keep going. Arlo keeps a firm grip on my cloak until I am close enough to haul up beside him.

Cold wind hits the moment my head clears the top. I pull myself up and sit on the wide lip of the wall next to Arlo, and the ocean opens before me. It’s low tide, thankfully, or the waves would be lapping against the stone.

Water stretches to the edge of the world in every direction, an endless churning expanse of darkness, broken only by whitecaps that appear and vanish in the span of a breath.

It’s been ten years since the flood that drowned the old world—a world that Arlo and I were never part of. We were always isolated on Purgatory Island, and growing up, the only ships we saw were to dump prisoners on our beaches.

We didn’t know about the death and destruction of the rising tides until the convoy of ships moved into the harbors. Men came and ravaged our island, slaughtering those who refused to obey their new laws and regulations.

It’s been ten years since their governments collapsed, and the kings rebuilt everything to maintain control. But even after all this time, the sight of the empty horizon still tightens something behind my ribs. What I would give to go back to a time when the ocean tides and tropical storms were all I had to worry about.

For a moment, we’re both sitting atop the wall, feet dangling, quietly watching the waves batter the docks in the distance.

“It’s scary, isn’t it. Not knowing what’s under all that water?” Arlo mumbles.

“No.” I sigh. “What’s under the water doesn’t scare me half as much as what we have to go home to.”

“Didn’t you hear the stories when you were little? The ones about the sailors who never came home?” He bumps my shoulder playfully.

“I did, but those are just stories, Arlo. Meant to keep the little ones who can’t swim out of the water. Stories that keep us all in our safe little cages.”

“Well, Crawly’s barn isn’t exactly a cage. Not like the king’s cages at the flesh market.”

“It’s all the same, Arlo,” I whisper, leaning my head against his broad shoulder. “I mean, just look. Miles of open space all around us, and I still feel so claustrophobic. The endless water. The empty horizon. The seawall. The gates circling Mr. Crawly’s farm. It’s all just different versions of the same cage.”

He tilts his head until it’s leaning against mine. “You want me to find a boat?”

His eagerness makes me smile. “It’s never going to be that simple,” I say. “Where would we go? Can you imagine sneaking two sick sisters over this wall?”

“No.” His voice is colder now, like he’s thinking too hard about things we can never have. Without warning, he drops down the other side, landing hard on his feet. “Your turn,” he calls up.

Swinging my legs over the edge, the wind shoves at my back, and I freeze. My fingers lock tight on the stone as my vision swims, and the drop yawns beneath me.

Heights. It’s always heights that get me.