The Crown of Embers(104)

“You know which direction to go?” Hector asks.

“Oh, yes,” I say, pressing my fingertips to the Godstone. “It’s very . . . compelling.”

“I’d rather explore a bit first,” he says. “The island seems to be deserted, but I’d like to be sure.”

I sigh. Of course he would. “The day after tomorrow, then?”

“I think it would be best.”

I nod, but I avoid his gaze as I come to a decision.

The hurricane is not the only test I will face; I’m certain of it. Storm said it will get harder as I get closer, and I’ve put everyone else at risk enough as it is. We have lost two men overboard already. I could not bear to lose Mara or Belén. Or Hector.

I have demanded his honesty but not given him mine, for tomorrow I will deceive him. While he’s out exploring, I will slip away—alone.

When I finally dare glance at him, he is studying me through narrowed eyes.

Beside me, Mara wipes her fingers on her pants and says, with a mouth still full of mango, “I need a bath. And to wash my clothes. Maybe we could find a good place upstream?”

I’m glad for the excuse to turn away from Hector. “That sounds lovely. My boots still stink of sewer.”

“Belén and I will scout first,” Hector says. “We’ll need to sweep the area.”

Mara and I make no effort to disguise our shared eye roll.

We tell Captain Felix where we’re going, and then the four of us make our way upstream. It’s a rough hike through thick jungle and slippery mud. The farther inland we go, the rockier and steeper it gets, and I step carefully.

At last the stream widens into a pool, hemmed in by black boulders and curving palms. In the middle of the pool, just slightly off center, is a large bean-shaped rock with a flat top. “It’s perfect!” Mara exclaims.

While Hector and Belén scout around, we empty our packs and rinse everything—spare clothes, knives, water skins—of any leftover sewage. I even pull out my crown box. The wood is warped and streaked with salt, the cushion a soggy mess. But the Godstone crown is as pristine as ever. I dunk it in the pool, wipe it down carefully with my spare blouse, and then set it atop my pack to dry.

When they are out of sight, when we can’t even hear them rustling through the jungle, we pull out our bottles of lady’s shroud and quickly down the appropriate dose. Mara grins all the while, delighted with our little intrigue. But I feel awkward and strange. I’m still not sure what I’m going to do. And Hector feels far too important to be merely the object of two giggling girls playing at love.

But maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Perhaps by forcing smallness onto this thing that is so huge in my heart, I’ll be able to manage it.

They return and declare the area safe. “We’ll be within earshot,” Hector says as he and Belén retreat downstream.

“I just bet you will,” Mara mutters.

I look at her, startled. “You really think they would . . . peek?”

She sighs. “Just wishing. Neither of them would. Too honorable.” She waggles a finger at me. “But don’t think it hasn’t crossed their minds.”

I manage a wan smile in return. The thought of being so exposed fills me with a little excitement and a lot of dismay. I don’t despair of my body the way I used to. But it’s still worrying.

Being naked before Mara, however, is another matter; she’s my lady-in-waiting, after all. “Race you,” I say.

Together we struggle with the laces of our blouses, shuck our boots and our pants, and jump in. It’s deep, and when I break the surface, I gasp from the cold shock. But it’s clean and clear and wonderful, and soon Mara and I are splashing and laughing and forgetting to wash anything.

We swim for a long time before Mara finally grabs soap from her pack and we lather everything—our skin, our hair, our clothes. We hang the clothes to dry, then lie side by side on the flat rock, soaking up the warmth of late afternoon.

“Your scar,” I say. “It really is better.” It’s less angry, less puckered.

“Yours too,” she says, and then she laughs. “We’re an oddly matched pair, aren’t we?”

The sun is dipping behind the giant peaks and tree frogs are beginning to chorus by the time we swim to shore and don our still-damp clothes. We find Hector and Belén downstream a ways, and it’s obvious they did some washing up of their own, for they are scrubbed clean and smell faintly of soap.

“Sorry to keep you waiting so long,” I say to Hector as we begin the trek back. “We lost track of time.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says, but his voice is curt. I glance up to find his face has gone flinty cold.