Hushed

by Joanne Macgregor

  We’ve won. And victory, I can confirm, tastes sweet — sweeter even than proper, non-vegan chocolate.

  As Tiny steers us back to the Syrenka, the captain’s words ring in my ears.

  “Try again! What do you think this is — a game? We don’t give up after one failure. This is worth fighting for. Again, I say! Go, go, go!”

  Chapter 43

  The right voice

  Cape Town has never looked as beautiful to me as it does on the day before Valentine’s, when we sail through Table Bay towards the harbour, a month ahead of our original schedule. The rich, golden African sun bakes my skin and shimmers on the silver water. Cloud covers Table Mountain like a cloth, spilling over her sides and billowing down the steep ridges and stony bluffs of the Twelve Apostles.

  Somewhere on that dockside, my parents — and Zeb, too, I’m sure — will be waiting for me. I’ve charged my phone and have it ready in my pocket because there’s a call I want to make — a call I have to make — as soon as my feet touch the quay.

  I have my own interception mission to initiate. It will be a more delicate snaring operation than fouling a prop, but much more vital to my personal happiness. Plus, there’s a job I want in a brand-new environmental foundation, and I’m in a real rush to apply.

  This time, when I step onto solid ground, I regain my balance quickly. The ground sways only once or twice beneath my feet, and then I find my land legs, and I’m standing steady. I’m ready to walk through the welcoming crowd and over to where Zeb holds up a banner saying: Romy is a four-letter word for hero! and Mom and Dad and Nana are craning their necks to catch sight of me.

  Walking is easy, when you know where you’re headed.

  In minutes, I’m in their arms. Zeb’s face is split with a wide smile. He looks as proud as if he gave birth to me himself, as if my adventure had been all his idea.

  “I can see you’ve found your passion my dear sweet child!” Nana takes my face in her hands and squeezes my cheeks.

  Mom dabs at her eyes with a crumpled tissue and says over and over how glad she is to see me safe and sound, and in one piece. Dad congratulates me, his voice breaking with emotion.

  “I am so proud of you, Rosemary, so proud,” he says, and pats my back as if I’m choking.

  I’m not. My voice comes easily to me. “I love you guys, but give me a moment, okay?”

  I slip out of their arms, and I’m then free and walking away. Walking towards. Because all this time my gaze has been stretching beyond them, and now it’s fixed on a tall figure who stands on his own, apart from the crowd. He’s wearing his best non-mullet disguise — a fraying grey baseball cap turned backwards on his head, oversized sunglasses, his old, worn jeans and sneakers. His T-shirt sports the outline of a wild hog, with a logo curved over it which reads Rescue me!

  He’s trying to blend into the crowd, to look like just another animal-loving Syrenka supporter. But I’d know him anywhere.

  My feet stop a short distance away from him, and I stand and soak up the sight of him. He takes off his baseball cap, and rakes his long fingers through that thick, raven-black hair. Then he pulls off his glasses, and though he grins at me, I can see that his cobalt eyes are questioning — uncertain about how I’ll respond.

  But I’m ready. I’m sure.

  “I have a gift for you,” he says.

  “Another one?”

  “I think you’ll like it.” He fishes something small and shiny out of his back pocket and tosses it to me.

  I catch it in one hand and look down. It’s a metal nametag, engraved with six words: Romy Morgan, Rush to Save Foundation.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  “Oh yeah. Definitely.”

  “I thought you’d like it.” He gives me his best, lazy, sexy grin.

  A smile is curving over my own lips. It grows and grows, blossoming from the depths of me. I can’t move — the heat of his electric gaze welds me to the ground — but I don’t need to. He closes the distance between us in two slow strides and folds me into his arms. They’re the right arms.

  And he murmurs, “Romy, my Romy,” against my ear.

  My fingers are knotted in his hair, the right hair. And his lips, when they close over mine, are the right lips. And even as they draw my breath from me, they drive my soul back into me.

  “Come with me, Romy, and we’ll change the world,” he murmurs when we come up for breath. And his words are the right words. “Say you’ll be mine.”

  “Logan,” I say, and my voice is the right voice — strong and sure and my very own. “I already am.”

  ~ The End ~

  Glossary of South African terms

  Arum lily: a beautiful flower indigenous to southern Africa, more commonly known in the US as calla lilies.

  Biltong: strips of delicious dried, cured meat made from beef, game, or ostrich strongly flavoured with salt, pepper and coriander seeds.

  Bobotie: a Cape Malay dish of curried minced meat cooked with dried apricots, raisins and almonds, and topped with a savoury baked custard.

  Boot of a car: the trunk

  Braai: a South African social event where fish, chicken or meat is barbecued over hot coals.

  Bunny-chow: a local delicacy consisting of a hollowed-out half-loaf of bread filled with a spicy curry made from meat, beans or vegetables. It originated in the city of Durban and may have originally been the way nineteenth-century migrant Indian labourers brought their lunch to the sugar cane fields, in much the same way as English miners carried theirs in the form of Cornish pasties. Some say it started later as a quick take-out lunch for workers who, in those days of racial segregation, were not welcome to sit down in whites-only restaurants. There are many theories as to the origins of its odd name. One says that the snack was originally served in a Durban restaurant run by Banias (an Indian merchant caste). Whatever its history, today the bunny-chow is a popular snack across the length and breadth of South Africa. If you’re over here, be sure to try it — it’s delicious, and no rabbits are harmed in its production!

  Fynbos: natural shrubs and herbaceous heathland vegetation indigenous to the Western Cape.

  Gogga: an insect.

  Hooter: the horn of a car; to “hoot” is to honk the horn.

  Matric: the final year of high school, or a student in the final year. Equivalent to the US “senior.” In South Africa, school and university academic years run from January to the beginning of December. The longest vacation is over December and part of January — our summer.

  Milktart: a baked tart consisting of a pastry crust with a sweet custard filling, topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

  Slap chips: hot, fried chips, usually cut thicker than a French fry and cooked to be soft and floppy rather than crisp. (The word slap is Afrikaans for limp or soft.) Slap chips are traditionally served with a good dousing of vinegar, rather than ketchup.

  Tokoloshe: in Zulu mythology, a short, mischievous water sprite who can be summoned to cause harm to others and has a special penchant for biting off the toes of its victims!

  Veld: wild grasslands.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed reading Romy and Logan's story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

  If you loved this book, I’d really appreciate it if you’d leave a review, no matter how short, on Amazon or Goodreads. Every review is valuable in helping other readers discover the book.

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  - Joanne Macgregor

  Acknowledgements />
  My thanks to my editor, Chase Night, who helped me improve this book enormously, and to my fabulous beta-readers, Edyth Bulbring, Nicola Long and Emily Macgregor for their invaluable feedback. I deeply appreciate each one of you!

  Other young adult books by Joanne Macgregor

  Scarred

  Life leaves you scarred. Love can make you beautiful … She’s scarred, he’s angry, and life keeps bringing them together. Scarred is an intense, beautiful romance with a twist of dark humor.

  Recoil (The Recoil Trilogy, Book 1)

  When a skilled gamer gets recruited as a sniper in the war against a terrorist-produced pandemic, she discovers there’s more than one enemy and more than one war. The Game is real, and love is in the crosshairs.

  Refuse (The Recoil Trilogy, Book 2)

  Everyone wants Jinxy, except the one she loves. In a near-future USA decimated by an incurable plague and tightly controlled by a repressive government, teenagers with special skills are recruited and trained to fight in the war against terror. Now a rebellion is brewing.

  Rebel (The Recoil Trilogy, Book 3)

  Can you win a war without losing yourself? Sixteen-year-old online gamer Jinxy James has been trained as an expert sniper in the war against a terrorist-spread plague which has decimated the USA. Now she’s a wanted fugitive, on the run with a rebel splinter group, risking everything to save and protect her loved ones.