He doesn’t move his hand from his gun. I take a deep breath and walk towards him, still smiling, still waving the hanky.
‘Cold night,’ I say.
‘You shouldn’t be out here.’ Close up, I can see how young he is – not much older than me. Perhaps his shivering isn’t just from the cold.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ I say.
‘I’m not frightened.’ His eyes are wide.
‘Of course. I wondered if I could see the prisoner. I’m a nurse here. He’s unwell.’
He shakes his head. ‘Can’t let you. That’s a dangerous man in there.’
‘He’s ill. I want to give him something.’
He tightens his grip on his gun. ‘I’ve got my orders.’
‘Please.’ I take a step towards him.
‘What’re you up to?’ The guard’s eyes flick over my face, and then away.
‘Nothing at all,’ I say. ‘I only want to check on the prisoner.’
‘I can’t allow that. And you can’t frighten me into it.’
‘Frighten you? How could I?’ I force my smile wider.
He licks his lips nervously.
‘You do a fine job with the prisoners,’ I say. ‘You must be very brave.’
He stands a little taller. ‘They don’t try anything on. Not with me.’
‘Of course not. It’s an important job you have, to make all these decisions about what happens to the prisoners. A great deal of responsibility for you.’
He shifts his weight and swallows. ‘Aye. Well.’
‘I just want to see the prisoner,’ I say. ‘He’s ill.’
‘You’re planning something.’
‘What could I do? I’m only a wee girl. And you’re here.’
He hesitates.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I’ll be ever so grateful.’
He shakes his head.
‘But he’s not well,’ I say. ‘What if he dies? Because of you. What will you say?’
He sighs. ‘Five minutes. No tricks. I’ve got my eye on you.’
It is pitch black inside. The guard goes in first and shouts, ‘On your feet!’
There is a clinking from the back of the hut and then the guard shines his torch on Cesare, who cowers and shields his eyes against the sudden light.
His skin is pale, and when he coughs his breathing has a sea-stone rattle.
‘Your cough!’ I exclaim. ‘Can I look at you?’
He spreads his hands; his chains clink. ‘I am prisoner. You can do anything.’
‘I must take your pulse, listen to your breathing,’ I say. ‘I have brought you some honey water. We used to have a hive, in Kirkwall, and I gathered the honey myself . . .’ I can hear myself gabbling and am glad of the near-darkness to hide the heat in my cheeks.
I hold out a bottle. His hands are cold – the bandaged one is grubby – and they tremble as he takes the lid from the bottle and sips at the liquid. I put the other bottle on the ground next to him.
‘For later.’
‘Thank you.’ In the dim light from the torch, his eyes are black.
‘I need to take your pulse.’
‘No tricks now!’ the guard warns.
Cesare watches me while I hold his wrist, but the flutter of his pulse is too faint. I unbutton the top of his shirt, my fingers half numb with cold and fear. He stays absolutely still, barely breathing as I press my fingers into his neck. His skin is warm and rough; his pulse gallops under my fingertips. I count the rapid rise and fall of his breath.
He doesn’t take his eyes from mine.
‘I won’t let them keep you in here,’ I murmur.
He blinks, then coughs.
‘Time’s up,’ the guard says, and ducks out into the night.
As I turn to follow, Cesare grasps my wrist and pulls me close. My stomach jolts.
Cesare whispers, his words hot and fast in my ear. ‘I do not hurt MacLeod. There is no riot. But they say I lie. You must help me.’
Then Cesare releases me and I stand rubbing at my wrists, still feeling the warmth of his breath. He coughs again, his expression pleading.
I walk back to the infirmary with the feeling of his fingers on my wrist still, his words in my ear.
Help me.
I’d forgotten about Con, but there she is, waiting in the infirmary. She is sitting on one of the beds, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and pulls me in close. ‘I just want to keep you safe.’
I nod. I don’t ask her where she went. I don’t apologize.
Help me.
The infirmary lights are dimmed: all the men are sleeping. Con’s hands are freezing. She leads me behind the curtain to our section of the room and, without speaking, we climb into the little bed. I turn my back on her. The sheets are cold and my head aches. I can hear her breathing in the darkness.
She bumps her hip against mine. ‘You’re taking up too much room.’
I pretend to smile.
She reaches for my hand. ‘Take blood and breath and skin and bone.’
‘Take all between these seven stones.’
When we were children, we used to mourn for all the dead fishermen who disappeared in the storms. We’d sneak down onto the beach and say the old rhyme.
We had been warned never to lie down between the point of high and low tide: it was the place that was neither land nor sea, so it belonged to the devil. But we’d heard that you could lie on that piece of sand and place seven stones at seven points on your body and recite the words, and the sea would give back whatever it had stolen. In exchange, it would take part of your soul. It seemed a fair trade to us: our souls in return for all the lives that had been lost.
We had laid the stones on our head, heart, hands, feet and groin and we had chanted the rhyme together:
Take blood and breath and flesh and bone.
Take all between these seven stones.
Now, in the
