I pace back and forth across the deck as a group of eight men with supplies rows toward the beach. Once they are close enough, they jump out and pull the boat onto shore, unload, and then disappear into the jungle. It seems like forever passes before they reemerge, waving with a signal that all is well. Finally two men push off and hop back into the boat, leaving the rest behind to start setting up a camp.
Mara, Belén, Storm, Hector, and I are in the second group to ferry over. As we settle in the boat, the tug on my Godstone is so insistent as to be nearly painful. To distract myself from the discomfort, I trail my fingers in the warm, clear water as we skim the bay. The fish astound me. I see brightest gold, flashes of red, even Godstone blue. I’m tempted to dive in for a swim.
Once we reach the shallows, I jump from the boat and splash through water, heedless of soaking my clothes. We drag the boat onto the sand, and I’m surprised when my legs waver, as if the land leaps and rolls like an ocean.
Hector notices my teetering and grins. “You’ll adjust to solid ground soon enough.”
The sailors who disembarked before us have begun setting up a haphazard camp. They’ve already lined a fire pit and erected one tent—but they’re doing it all wrong. I suppose that, as seamen, they’ve had few opportunities to organize encampments on land. On the other hand, I’ve had plenty.
“You there,” I call. “Haul the supplies farther into the trees. We need shelter from wind and surf. And you, would you move the fire pit, please? Find a spot where sparks won’t catch on dried palm fronds overhead.” I tap my fingers to my lips. If we’re to be here for weeks, then we need a latrine pit, far away from our water source. “Belén, do you see a good spot for digging a—”
“Latrine? Against the cliff face, there,” he says, pointing. “It’s downwind and far enough from the stream.”
“Yes, perfect.” I gesture toward a man I’ve seen in Felix’s confidence on several occasions. “Do you read and write?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Compile an inventory of all our supplies—fishing gear, foodstuffs, tools, material we could use for repair, everything you can think of.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
I eye the stream critically. The silt has created a small sandbar that protects it at low tide and keeps the mouth narrow. I mutter, mostly to myself, “We may have enough undamaged netting to stretch all the way across, which would take care of our fishing needs even if we come up short on other tackle.”
I look up to find Hector staring at me thoughtfully.
“Anything I haven’t thought of yet?” I ask him.
He closes the distance between us. My breath catches as he grasps my upper arm. In a low voice meant for my ears only, he says, “If you were like this, with this kind of confidence, this clarity of thought, while in Brisadulce, no one would dare challenge your rule.”
My heart sinks a little. He means it as encouragement more than criticism, and the thumb sweeping across my shoulder attests to how much he cares. But it stings because he’s right. A whole country is so much vaster, more complicated, more important, than a village of desert refugees or a temporary island camp. That’s why I’m here, after all. Because I need something more than just me to do a good job of it. I haven’t been enough.
“Perhaps I spoke out of turn,” Hector says. “But I truly believe you have it in you to be a great queen.”
I lift my chin. “Thank you for saying so.”
“I’ll get started on that latrine.” He turns to go.
“Hector, wait.”
He whirls. Sand clings to the bottom of his soaked breeches, and the moisture in the air has turned his hair into a mass of waves.
I say, “You have never said anything to me that is out of turn.”
He knows I’m speaking of a different moment entirely, for he allows himself a slow, satisfied smile that turns my insides to date pudding.
I add, “I expect honesty and truth from you always.”
He nods once, firmly. “And you shall have it.”
We end up making camp in a small clearing well back from shore, where the coconut palms are interspersed with rambling pink bougainvillea bushes and thick banyan trees with sprawling roots. Morning-glory vines wind up their trunks, dripping purple flowers. Their close cousins, the yellow night bloomers, twine in sync with them, and it’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins. But when evening falls, the morning glories will twist closed as the night bloomers unfurl, bathing our campsite in soft light.
After a late-afternoon meal of dried jerky, pistachios, and fresh mango, I announce that I will begin searching for the zafira first thing in the morning, while Felix’s men make repairs to the ship.