The Watch (The Red Series Book 1)

by Amanda Witt

  Afterwards we walked back down to the beach and surveyed our surroundings as best as we could by starlight. My legs felt funny after so long on the rocking waves; the ground kept either being farther away than expected or rising up to meet me faster than expected.

  We walked a good distance down the beach in both directions, long enough for the ground to feel firm under my feet again. But we saw no buildings, no lights shining out of the darkness, no boats, no sign of any inhabitants.

  “Great,” I said finally, feeling deflated. “A deserted island.”

  “Maybe not,” Farrell Dean said. “Maybe just this side is deserted. Sir Tom specifically said to go to the other side of the island. We’ll look around when the sun comes up. Until then, let’s get back to the boat and try to sleep.”

  We found our way back to the boat and sat down side by side on the damp floor, in the stern where there was more room. We ate some dried fruit and jerky.

  “Let’s finish the water,” Farrell Dean said. “We can dig in the morning for more.”

  I looked at him. “Did Sir Tom tell you how to do that?”

  “No. Old Louie told me, a long time ago. He said on a beach you could dig in the valley just after the first sand dune, and the hole would fill with fresh water. It shouldn’t be too deep, he said—just to your elbow or shoulder. And we have a spade.”

  Sir Tom had gotten us safely to this island, but I had to admit I was glad to be trusting Louie when it came to our water supply. It made me feel as if I hadn’t entirely left my friends behind. He’d be pleased if his stories and advice paid off; I’d be pleased if I got to tell him so.

  Once we’d finished the water we settled down to sleep. We had no dry clothes but we pulled the two blankets over us, stretching our legs under the middle bench, leaning together against the cold. I pulled my cap more firmly over my ears, but still I shivered. After a moment Farrell Dean shifted so that his arm was around me and my head rested on his shoulder.

  “I won’t tell Cline if you won’t,” he murmured.

  “As long as I’m not hurting your ribs,” I said, and he shook his head.

  My eyes already felt heavy. “Should we keep watch?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see any tracks on the sand,” Farrell Dean said. “Nothing to suggest animals or people have been around here recently. And we’re both exhausted.”

  I knew he was right; I wasn’t sure I could stay awake if I had to, and he hadn’t slept at all the night before.

  Farrell Dean shut his eyes. After so many hours on the sea it felt strange to be in a boat that was steady, unmoving, especially since I could hear the waves lapping against the sandy beach. With my eyes shut I felt dizzy, as if my body didn’t know whether it was moving or still.

  “I’m going to dream of waves,” I said, very quietly, in case Farrell Dean was already asleep.

  “Me too,” he said. Then, after a moment, “We might be warmer in the sand.”

  “But something might crawl on us.”

  He smiled without opening his eyes.

  The boat was small protection, I knew, but it was our only bulwark at the moment, and in a strange land something bounded and familiar. A little while before I’d been anxious to find people, but now, thinking about how vulnerable we’d be asleep, I almost hoped there were no people—strangers with strange ways who’d have to be cautiously approached, who might help us or might hurt us, who would know nothing of us, nothing of Optica, nothing of the only things I knew. I was bone weary, but I listened hard for a long time, alternately fighting back and indulging frightening thoughts. I never heard anything except the waves and the occasional hoot of an owl and, eventually, the deep steady breathing that told me Farrell Dean finally had fallen asleep. Somehow that made me feel safer. If he could sleep, it must be safe.

  “Star light, star bright, any star I see tonight,” I whispered, looking up at the vastness above us, at the bright beautiful stars beyond measure. “I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.”

  But then I couldn’t bring myself to voice a wish because the rules said I could only have one, and how could I ever decide which to choose?

  I wanted to wish that my old people, my friends in Optica, would somehow be rescued.

  I wanted to wish that Ezzie would be okay, that he would live and be whole and healthy, with no ill effects from the wardens or from the wild man’s claws.

  I wanted to wish that Judd would be safe without me there looking out for him, that he would forgive me for leaving him.

  I wanted to wish that Meritt had not been planning to betray me, but if I really trusted him, I wouldn’t need to wish for his loyalty.

  I wanted to wish that that Farrell Dean and I hadn’t irrevocably damaged our friendship. We’d struck an uneasy truce, it was true, but would that be enough to carry us through whatever lay ahead? I had said terrible things to him, and he had kept secrets from me. But I couldn’t wish for our friendship, not after Cline’s tirade. And I couldn’t spend my one wish on Farrell Dean and not on Meritt—Meritt, whom I’d left standing on a cliff while I drifted away. Against my will, yes; but it wasn’t against my will that Farrell Dean’s arm was around me now. Maybe it would have been more honorable, to freeze to death out of loyalty to Meritt, but I wasn’t convinced.

  What a tangle it all was.

  I wanted to wish Rafe back to life, but I could see Rafe shaking his head: even a star couldn’t grant that.

  Most of all, perhaps, I wanted to ask the stars whether I would always feel alone. A spectacle, a freak, an outsider. But that question was too pitiful to say aloud, even to a distant star.

  “Star light, star bright,” I murmured again, and then again and again, until sometime in the darkness of early morning I turned my face into the crook of Farrell Dean’s neck and fell asleep.

  * * * *

  I awoke to a bright shining sun and a girl’s voice.

  “Hello?” she said. “Are you shipwrecked? Are you injured? Do you need help?”

  I opened my eyes and tried to sit up, struggling to untangle myself from Farrell Dean’s legs, the blankets, the bench seat. He wasn’t helping me. He was sitting up, but he looked like he was paralyzed—staring, white-faced, shocked, as if he was gazing at something more terrifying than any Guardian, any wild man, any betrayal. In all the years I’d known Farrell Dean, he’d never once looked anything like this.

  Slowly I made myself turn to face whatever new horror had come.

  This is what I saw:

  I was standing outside the boat, on the sand. My flaming hair was loose, curling at the ends in the damp sea air, stirred by the gentle breeze. I was wearing a long tunic of blues and greens, thin rectangles and squares of beautiful colors all sewn together, colors like the sea, the sky, the grass.

  And I was staring back at me.

  Beside me in the boat Farrell Dean moved—reached over, fumbled at my head, pulled off my black cap. My long fiery hair fell loose across my shoulders and tumbled down my back, and the me on the sand grew wide-eyed. Her hand went to her lips, then reached toward me.

  “Valentina,” she said. “You’re alive.”

  THE END

  Other Books in the Red Series

  The Stolen

  The Watchmaker

  The Forgotten

  Visit the author’s website at AmandaWitt.com

  Acknowledgement and Dedication

  All four books in The Red Series were family endeavors. My three children offered constant encouragement and provided insightful feedback, and my husband—a professional writer and editor, and former creative writing professor—was an invaluable asset. I am thankful for their help, but I am thankful most of all to have them in my life.

  You are my sunshine.