Page 23

He twisted slightly, looking up. More darkness, dense as rock. It was impossible to gauge how much empty space vaulted above. He should sit up, stretch out his arms, try to determine the dimensions.

It mattered, the ratio of air to rock, of air to water.

They were still moving, the boat borne along with the current.

“You must have seen this cavern before.” Isobel’s voice, small in the darkness, brushed him with more warmth.

“I’ve seen it.” He tried to focus on her face, saw only shadow. “From Dearnrigg, and when we’re rowing past. It looks like a big hole in the rock. I didn’t realize it went back and back.”

“I didn’t either. That’s why I called it a cavern, not a tunnel. No one’s ever been inside.” She paused. “You’d have to be a wizard. That’s what I always imagined, a wizard going in and out. Someone who could shapeshift and fly. Even mermaids wouldn’t want to swim through all those rocks.”

“We made it through, though,” he said. “Somehow.”

“Stupid luck.”

“A little magic, perhaps.” He curved his lips and hoped the smile shaped his words, made them comforting. The smile faded in the silence. “This cavern . . . you can’t see it at high tide.”

For a moment she didn’t answer.

“Nae,” she agreed. “At high tide, it’s full.”

Of course. This knowledge had been hovering the whole time, a shadow among shadows.

The boat jolted against something—a rock outcropping to the port side. More water sloshed.

Isobel inhaled sharply. Her strong body was filled with breath—so fragile and precious.

“It’s filling up now.” He drew breath too—one of how many that remained?

The tide was carrying them deeper and deeper into a passage that within the hour would lie below the surface of the sea.

“Aye. If you’ve thought of something, now’s the time to share.”

“Perhaps we’ll come out the other side.”

At that moment, the prow struck solid rock.

He bolted up and lurched forward, reaching out his arms. Everywhere rock, wet and rough. He felt across its surface, the boat bobbing giddily beneath him.

“It’s the—” He turned, his shoulder banging Isobel’s. She’d also climbed forward to investigate.

The blow unsteadied her, and her rapidly shifted weight unsteadied the boat.

He caught her in his arms. Her wild honey scent filtered toward him. This tunnel had the odor of an old well long covered, cold and dank, sunless. Isobel smelled sweet and heathery, like a meadow under open sky. He drew more breath, greedily, took as much of that scent as he could into his lungs.

She was vibrating against him, shaking like a leaf.

He dropped onto a thwart, pulling her with him.

“We could swim,” he said.

“If Merlin turns you into a fish, perhaps.”

His arm still circled her.

She didn’t break his grasp.

“We can’t swim against the tide,” she added, unnecessarily. He knew it as well as she. Now, she jerked away, rose to standing. “We might not need to. I can’t feel anything overhead. Can you?”