‘You,’ he says to Cesare. ‘You’re to be taken to the Punishment Hut. And you too.’ He nods at the other prisoner, who is lolling forwards, barely conscious.
‘No!’ Con says. ‘He needs proper care.’ And although she won’t meet the guard’s eyes, although she’s clearly terrified at challenging him, I can see a glimpse of the Con I remember and my heart lifts.
The guard considers for a moment, straightens the collar of his uniform, then turns to Cesare. ‘You’re still coming with me.’
‘For what?’ I demand. ‘Why?’
I’ve only just finished bandaging Cesare’s fingers, and he cradles his hand. I notice the slight tremor in his arm, the high colour in his cheeks, the sheen on his forehead.
‘For inciting a riot and for striking a guard,’ the uniformed man replies.
Cesare shakes his head, ‘I did not –’
‘Enough of that,’ the guard says, pulling Cesare to his feet.
‘But you can’t take him!’ I say. ‘His hand . . . And I think he has the illness – he’s feverish. Listen to his cough.’
The guard eyes Cesare with contempt and turns away. ‘Looks like any other Eyetie to me,’ he says.
‘No!’ I reach out to grab at the guard, but Con is there next to me, holding me back.
‘Don’t, Dot,’ she says, her face tight with fear, just as it was in the days after the Royal Elm and the poor smothered man. I’d thought that her terror afterwards was for herself: disgust at what she had done. But now, looking at her wide eyes, her pleading expression, I realize that her fear is for me. She wants to protect me.
‘Don’t,’ she pleads again.
‘I have to!’ I struggle, but she doesn’t let go.
‘You’ll get hurt –’
I push her away. ‘Get off me!’ I snap.
‘But –’ She catches at my sleeve, and I feel a surge of frustration: why can’t she understand that I’m not the one who needs protecting now? That it’s Cesare who’s at risk?
She pulls fiercely on my arm and I shove her away, slapping my hands against her shoulder hard – harder than I mean to, propelling her backwards.
She stumbles, her foot catching on the legs of one of the beds. She cries out, steadies herself and stands upright, staring at me. I can’t look at her, can’t watch her rubbing her shoulder where I’d shoved her. My palms sting.
I turn away from her; I watch Cesare being led from the infirmary, the guard twisting his arm behind his back.
When I look back at Con, she is absolutely still, holding one hand to her cheek as if I’d slapped her full across the face.
I feel a twist of guilt and, to cover it, I make my tone vicious: ‘Don’t look at me like that. You were grabbing at me and trying to make me do exactly as you wanted. You’re always doing that. I’m tired of you hanging off me.’ It isn’t true, I think, but in that moment, with Cesare being dragged to the Punishment Hut, I don’t care.
I walk away from Con, without looking back, to scrub the bloodied clamps and bowls in the sink. Steam from the hot water rises in a cloud around my face, so that I don’t have to look at my sister, don’t have to see the shock on her face.
I almost turn around to say it: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you, to snap at you.
But I don’t. The water in the sink turns brownish red, then clear and clean. I rattle the metal implements to cover the sound of my breathing, the churning of my thoughts.
There is a gust of chill air and the door bangs, and when I turned around, Con has gone. I have no idea where.
I don’t know where she is going. One of the tombs? One of the caves – the bothy? Where will she go?
I don’t care, I think savagely.
The thought is strange – like the stomach-lurching moment of walking up a stairway and suddenly finding that one of the steps has crumbled away.
Bess has come back from the mess hut, bringing two sandwiches. She begins sweeping the floor; she avoids my gaze.
‘What has happened with the prisoners?’ I ask.
She keeps her eyes fixed on the brush. ‘There was a riot,’ she says quietly. ‘They’re refusing to work. They’re all on rations of bread and water and confined to their huts.’
‘But . . . you don’t think that prisoner . . .? They said he hit a guard.’
Bess shrugs, continues sweeping. A muscle twitches in her jaw and she won’t look at me. ‘Where’s your sister gone? It’s cold out. I think it might snow.’
I put my head out of the infirmary door, where the darkness is dropping, and call, but there is no reply. I sit on one of the beds and wait.
She doesn’t return.
I boil a pan of water, stirring some honey into it, and I divide it between two small bottles. I close my eyes, trying to sense where she might be.
Nothing.
After another hour of waiting and pacing, I tuck the bottles of honey and hot water into my pockets and walk out into the clenched air.
A thousand cold stars are stamped into the frozen sky. I look to the north for a glimpse of the Merrie Dancers – those fine ribbons of light that pulse through the sky in winter to remind us that the world around us is a living thing. The night is dark, still, unbreathing.
‘Con!’ I call. ‘Con!’
No answer. The prisoners’ huts are all in darkness too. I imagine the men inside, shivering, listening to my voice echoing again and again. Perhaps they will think it’s one of the spirits on this island. Perhaps the guards will imagine some transformed selkie, raising her voice to the wind, crying out for her lost mate.
I call again. Again.
No answer.
The door of the Punishment Hut is shut and a guard stands in front of it, his teeth chattering. From inside, I hear coughing.
Cesare.
The wind scrapes my cheeks and I
