The ride seems to take only a moment, my heart racing in my ears the whole time. When the ground levels out and Abraham brings the horse to a stop, the rebel camp is there, right in front of us and real. A steep hill slopes upward and away through the trees, while all about its base, where the land is flat, are campfires and tents. Farther out, to our right and partially hidden by trees, are clusters of stone buildings with patched-up walls. No doubt a village abandoned years ago, before the rebels came to reclaim it.
There are people everywhere, talking in groups, washing clothes in barrels that have been sawed in half, herding flocks of sheep past the place we’ve stopped. Tam could be here. Tam could be here.
“Find your father,” Abraham says, giving Marion a stern look. “If you’ve been in trouble, better he hear it from you straight off. I’ll get your friends settled.” He surveys us again and narrows his eyes. “And get them some new clothes as well.”
“We need to see Swain. Is he here?”
“He is, but I don’t know when he’ll see you.”
“Tell him it’s urgent.”
“I’ll do that,” Abraham says with a chuckle, and Marion looks stonily at him.
“Take care of them,” she says, jumping to the ground. She gestures to Des. “He’ll need medical attention. I’ll be back soon.”
“There’s a stream through the trees just over there,” Abraham says, taking care not to look at the exposed knees of most of the girls. We’re already beginning to draw stares from the people passing by. “You can get fresh clothes from the supply hut, there. Just tell them I sent you.”
He calls two other men over to help Des to whatever their version of a hospital is, and we walk as a tight group in the direction he indicated. Two men step into our path, their heads cocked curiously to the side.
“Our prayers are answered,” says one, brushing his hands off on his smelting chaps. “Food, shelter, work, and now the company we’ve been missing so much out here.”
His companion laughs loudly. “What more could a man ask for?”
Val hangs her head, grinding her teeth, but Phoebe just rolls her eyes. “Oh, look,” she says, pointing, “there’s a tree to screw yourself behind.” I laugh, slapping a hand over my mouth as the men’s expressions fill with offense. Phoebe marches us past before they can think of something to say.
When we do find the supply hut, the woman tending it looks suspiciously at our clothing. At least mine look normal, but she must suspect that the other girls are prostitutes come to join the revolution. I’m sick of wearing things that came from Curram, whatever they look like. I wonder what Marion’s family will think when they see her. I wonder what they’ll think when they hear her story.
“See if these work,” the woman says, handing out bundles of fabric after glancing at us a few times. “We don’t have much for choice here. They may not hold up well, but if you need anything else, just ask.” We thank her and shuffle outside.
My eyes roam here and there, distracted. Don’t get your hopes up, I tell myself, but everywhere I look, I hope for the familiar blond hair, the broad shoulders, and the confident grin that are always at the back of my thoughts. Every so often, I catch sight of a brown uniform and I start, but it’s never Tam. I’ll have time to search after, I scold myself, but my fingers itch to have him close again.
It’s not difficult to find the stream—it runs along the base of the hill where most of the camp is settled, just where the ground levels out and the trees become more dense. I make my way upstream from the others for privacy—the first time I’ve truly been alone and at ease in weeks—and undress.
I hardly recognize my body.
I run my hands over my ribs—one, two, three, four, sticking out like fingers—to my hips, my bony knees and wrists and elbows. I’ve been small all my life, and we never had much food. But I was never this thin. Are my cheeks sunken also? Do my eyes stand out? Do I look like that little girl from the warehouse, a lifetime ago? I try to remember what I saw of myself in the mirrors in Curram’s washroom and bedchamber, but all I can see is the skin-and-bones face I’m imagining for myself. And on my hand is the brand, as terrible as always.
I slip into the stream, which is cold despite the summer heat, and let the water rush inside my ears and block out the sounds of all my doubts and misgivings. My hair flows with the current, and when I resurface, I watch the birds above me flutter from one tree to the next.
When I’m clean, I dry myself off with my old dress and don the new clothes; the shift and underthings are soft from age, but clean. The dress fits me well; it’s made of light, creamy linen with sleeves that reach my elbows and delicate, faded embroidery throughout the neckline, bodice, and hem. It’s the sort of dress I always wanted for school: pretty, a little flouncy below the knees when I walk, the kind I hoped would make Tam notice me differently.
The thought hits me, unsettling. People I saw every day are now so far removed from me; I try to picture my classmates and the schoolrooms, but school is like a fuzzy dream. That was a different world. I was a different person.
The other girls are finishing dressing when I rejoin them. Our dresses vary from each other’s in style, color, and fit, but the strangest thing is seeing how the girls are changed. Caddy looks more confident in the simple beige dress that stands out so starkly against her dark skin, while Jewel looks unassuming in blue, less brash. Valentina’s eyes are the same kind eyes as always, but as she braids her wild orange-red hair tightly back to make it stay put, she looks more serious and grown-up than ever. Phoebe’s dress is the most worn of all, faded white cotton with pale blue-and-gray stripes that almost blend together. Her hair hangs in long, wet streaks down her shoulders, but somehow she looks beautiful, her eyes sharp and bright. Barefoot and bone-skinny like the rest of us, she looks truly free.
“You look so pretty, Isla,” Caddy says, coming toward me. “Could I…?” She gestures to my hair. Before I can respond, she eases me to sit on the ground and begins running her fingers through my wet hair, twisting pieces of it together into a complicated plait that almost reaches the bottom of my ribs. When she’s finished, she tears a thin strip of cloth from the hem of one of our discarded dresses and secures the braid. “Perfect,” she says, turning me around with a grin. “You look perfect.” I run my hands over the braid, wondering how long it will take for me to feel pretty again. The new clothes help. The bones almost poking through my skin do not.
The horse and cart are gone when we go back to find them, and Marion is nowhere to be seen. When we bring our old clothes to the supply hut, the woman directs us to the hospital, which turns out to be the remains of a small stone house with tents and tarps stretching off it as additional “wards.” Des is sitting on a cot and grimacing when we find him.
“Stuff hurts like hell,” he says, wincing whenever he moves.
“The salve will speed the healing along,” says a young woman passing by. She puts her hands on her hips and looks at the rest of us, suspicious. “You’re his friends?” We all nod. “Don’t let him do anything too strenuous. It’ll be a couple of weeks before that flesh will be fully healed, all right? He should probably stay here.” We nod again, and Des rolls his eyes. The girl only grins, shaking her head at him and moving along.
Val looks between them, frowning.
“I hope you’re not playing up your injuries to spend more time with pretty nurses,” I say, crossing my arms. Des shakes his head vehemently, and then winces again.
“You all look nice,” he says, maybe changing the subject on purpose. “New clothes?”
“You should find Marion,” Valentina says to me, not looking at Des. “I’ll find him some decent clothes.” She slips outside and I start to follow, but Des catches my hand.
“We’re not free yet,” he says, suddenly very serious. “Be careful.”
I nod and leave, my head aching. But we will be soon, I tell myself, though it feels more like a questio
n. As soon as we talk to Alistair Swain and he takes our side. And as soon as I find Tam, and everything is better. I twist the locket between my fingers, wishing the chain weren’t broken so it could hang about my neck again.
A cluster of brown uniforms catches my attention and I take off toward them, forgetting about Marion. “Excuse me,” I say when I get close, tapping the nearest soldier on the shoulder, suddenly nervous. The entire group turns. They’re all Tam’s age. Does Nicholas Carr look for the fresh and disposable? “I’m looking for a friend of mine. He enlisted recently and I was wondering if he might be here.” My cheeks flood with warmth; the question sounds ridiculous, now that I’ve said it out loud.
The young men glance at each other, waiting for me to continue, as Phoebe catches up to me.
“He got a name?” asks the soldier whose shoulder I tapped.
“Tam Lidwell,” I say, my confidence draining.
“Never heard of ’im,” replies the soldier, and I shake my head.
“Thank you,” I say.
One of the other soldiers pipes up. “You know what regiment he’s in? That’d make him easier to find.”
Was I a fool to think it could be this easy? Was I stupid to be so certain? My need for Tam is different now; I don’t feel broken without him, incapable. It’s his arm through mine that I want, his confidence that I can find a way to defeat Curram. Together we could do anything. He’d probably lead the charge if I let him.
“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Phoebe says, touching my arm. “Why should they know anything? We can ask someone at this fortress after we find Marion and she takes us there. Come on.”
It was a long shot, I tell myself. I’ll get real answers from someone who knows what they’re talking about. I’ll find him. I try to keep my head up as Caddy and Jewel reach us and we go in search of Marion. My eyes drift over every face, hoping against hope that I’ll bump into Tam somehow.
The fourth or fifth person we ask knows Marion and her family, and directs us across the camp to the farms and granaries. The houses here are still small, but at least they’re more permanent than the tents. The first children I’ve seen since we arrived chase each other around the smoldering remains of cook fires and the troughs where cows and goats are drinking in turns. Beyond all this, stretching past where the trees have been cleared, are long rectangles of land tilled into rows for planting or fenced off for keeping animals.
These people have built a whole world here in these woods, I think, wondering how long they expect the rebellion to last.
“Marion!” I hear someone shout, sounding angry, and I see her making her way toward us with her head held high, still wearing the short, childlike dress she arrived in. Someone is coming out of the house behind her, probably her father, still shouting her name, but she doesn’t turn around. “Come back this instant!” the man yells as she reaches us.
“Let’s go,” Marion says, swallowing, then setting her jaw. Her eyes look like she’s about to cry. “We can wait for Swain to see us at the fortress.” She brushes past us, and as we turn to follow, a woman comes out of the house as well, clinging to the man’s arm. She looks like a scared rabbit, eyes wide, hands trembling, tears streaming down her face. Marion doesn’t turn around, and none of us risk asking her what happened.
The way to what Marion calls the fortress is up the steep hill that stretches along one corner of the camp, and the climb leaves us winded. It’s not long before the muscles in my legs are screaming at me, tying themselves in knots and threatening to collapse. I blink sweat out of my eyes and glance up from my feet, for the first time seeing our destination: At the top of the hill, hidden until now by the trees, is a castle.
It must be a century old. The stone is gray and weather-beaten, no doubt by the harsh winds at the crest of the hill where the earth is treeless. Many of what might have been a dozen turrets have crumbled, and doors have been made here and there in the walls for easier entry. As we clear the trees, a salty breeze smacks me in the face, pulls at my hair, and swirls over the other side of the hill.
The ocean. Memories flood my mind. Pa took me to the ocean after Mum died. He bought me a piece of taffy off the puller and we climbed the rocks, and I went too fast for him. I had to keep doubling back, and he was always wiping his face and saying how the salt made his eyes water. But I knew he was crying because of Mum; I didn’t say anything so he wouldn’t feel worse. Then we sat on the sand and I told him all about the books I’d read that week, and neither of us mentioned how we felt.
It was the only time I went to the ocean, though Tam talked about making trips there often enough. There was always the salty river that slid alongside the city, taking the boats into and out of the open seas, but it was a whole day’s trip in the trolley to the actual seaside, and it cost as much as a day’s meals.
Have we really reached the sea? As this is obviously far from a port city, we must be farther up or down the coast, but still. The ocean. We’ve come so far.
Marion doesn’t pause once in her trek to the top. When we’ve reached the fortress, we pass under a rust-eaten gateway and then through a door beyond it that must have been beautifully carved before the harsh weather turned the wood soft and green.
It’s darker inside, and my feet pick up dust and cobwebs as I walk. There’s nothing to suggest this place isn’t still abandoned; the only sound as we make our way along one wide hallway after another is our ragged breathing. When we reach a large, hall-like room at the end of a corridor, Marion finally stops in front of a wide set of doors, each with a rusty coat of arms on it. There’s a man sitting at a desk outside, looking bored, but he frowns when he sees us.
“Would you tell Mister Swain that Marion Colter is here to see him with important information?” Marion says, and the man gives us a curious look, aimed mostly at her attire.
“Do you have an appointment, Marion Colter?”
She bristles at his condescending tone. “I live here. He’ll know my name if you tell him I need to see him.” The man does not appear convinced. “Look, he’ll know my father, Reuben Colter—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Colter, but you’ll have to return another time.”
“We need a moment, no more.” Marion sounds desperate as she glances around at us.
“And you’ll have that moment. Just not today.”
We came too far to be turned away right at Swain’s door. “Tomorrow, then,” I say. Everyone looks at me, including the secretary, who is growing more annoyed. “We’re not looking for a social call,” I go on. “We have time-sensitive information that Alistair Swain will want to hear. It concerns the safety of this camp.”
The man grinds his teeth, looking between me and Marion like he’s deciding whether it’s worth it to just give in. “Very well, tomorrow. Come in the morning and we’ll fit you in.” He smiles at us with pursed lips and Marion turns in a huff.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “It shouldn’t be this difficult, and I promise he’ll be interested in what we have to say. He doesn’t take injustice lightly. When we tell him what Curram’s really up to, and about the girls he buys, he’ll rally to our cause, I know he will.”
The light in Marion’s eyes increases my hope. Des has never met Alistair Swain. Just because Swain does business with Zachariah Curram does not mean he’s anything like him; maybe he’s simply been duped like so many others. Maybe Swain is using Curram, and Curram has no idea.
We’re halfway down the corridor when I tell the girls not to wait, and I double back.
The secretary looks exasperated when he sees me, so I hurry through my question. “I’m looking for a soldier here, a deserter,” I start, and he puts up a hand to stop me.
“Find Harlen. He’s in command. He’ll know your soldier.”
“And where’s he?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
When it�
�s clear he doesn’t mean to be more helpful, I thank him and return to the others, my heart racing. They’re waiting just outside the fortress, and Marion is explaining how Swain helped break wrongly accused convicts out of prisons to give them a chance at a new life with the rebellion.
“I’m going to look around here for a bit,” I say, earning questioning glances from the others. “Swain’s secretary said someone here might know where to find my friend. I’ll look for you later.” Phoebe gives me an encouraging nod, and they turn to make their way back down the hill.
Maybe this Harlen has an office in one of the rooms here, I think, turning down a new corridor and looking into each doorway I pass. Most of the rooms are empty and quiet; those that look lived in have only dusty furniture and the occasional remains of a fire in the hearth.
My footsteps echo grandly as I wander until I find a set of half-crumbled stairs covered in spiderwebs. I trail my fingers along the railing and they come away covered in dust. For a moment I’m grateful for the loneliness: everything in gray and white, even the old tapestries hanging on the wall so moth-eaten and dusty that I can’t tell what they picture. The floor is covered with crumbled pieces of stone and the occasional half-burned torch, and one door I come to is so rotted that it hangs crookedly on just one hinge.
I tentatively push open the door and step inside, only to find the walls are covered in shelves.
A library.
There are hardly a dozen books between all four walls, but I feel instantly at home. Some of the shelves have doors to protect the contents, but these have swung open and the glass in them has been smashed. How long has it been since someone set foot in this room?
There’s a wide window in the far wall with a bench beneath it, and beyond it, a view that catches my eye from all the way across the room: a thin piece of turf that breaks off suddenly, and then, far below, beyond where I can see from here, the ocean. Even through the dirty-orange glass of the old window, the view is awe-inspiring. To me, the sea has always meant that I’d reached my limit, though Tam said it held the greatest adventures of all.