Blackmoore(71)

“What are you most afraid of?”

I glanced at him, but his head was tipped back, like mine, and his gaze was focused on the dark night sky.

“Is this for our bargain?”

He sent me a sharp look, his brow furrowed. “Does everything be-tween us have to be about that bargain?”

“No,” I said, smiling at his response, glad that he cared still.

I thought about his question, and then I stood and walked around the tower, listening to the haunting cries of the rooks, feeling the wind, and smelling the ocean. This was a wild place. All of my careful constraints had come undone here in just a matter of days. I felt untethered and unraveled and wild as the gale blowing my hair into dark tangles. This night signaled the end of our bargain, and therefore the beginning of my 216



escape, and in this moment of things coming undone, I wanted to confide in Henry. I wanted to confide everything.

“I am afraid of India,” I finally confessed.

Henry stood and came toward me. He looked confused. “I thought India was your dream. Your ideal.”

“Yes. I have thought that. But what if it’s not? What if I feel just as . . . restless . . . and—and caged and unhappy there as I do here? What if it doesn’t fix anything? What if I have gone to all of this trouble for something awful?” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to stop the trem-bling that had overtaken me. Hearing myself speak this truth shook me.

“Truly, it frightens me to think that all of my dreaming will end in disappointment. And the thought of being disappointed in India makes me feel completely helpless. As if I am incapable of truly being happy. As if my ambition will be my curse. My dreams will turn into my condemnation.”

I ran my fingers through my loose hair. And more words tumbled out, as if once I started talking about my fears, I could not stop myself.

“And what will I do after I have seen India? I am not yet twenty years old, Henry! What will I live for? What if life does not hold anything signifi-cant for me, and I waste my days with this restlessness plaguing me, and it’s all for . . . nothing?”

Henry’s gaze on me was dark and troubled, and he thought about my words for a long moment before sighing and saying, “Truthfully, I would spend all my breath trying to convince you that you have made the wrong choice, if I could. I hate the thought of that journey—the danger of the voyage, the unknown threats of that country. But I would not rob you of your dreams.” He shrugged. “So, if India is not your heart’s desire, at least you will know. At least you will never have the regret, the wonder of what would have happened had you simply dared . . .” His gaze locked on mine.

Dared. The word snagged on my thoughts. I remembered what Henry had told me the other night, about why he had gone swimming in the ocean. That he wanted to do something daring. And suddenly, I very 217



J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n much wanted to do something daring. I wanted to face something truly fearsome and walk away from it alive. The dark birds rose from the tower next to ours. I tipped my head back and watched them soar. And then I knew what I wanted to do.

I reached for the wall with one hand and held the other one out to Henry. “Give me your hand.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I am in earnest. Give me your hand.”

He held it out to me, as if it were a gift. I grasped it and tried to climb up on top of the stone wall while holding onto him. He tugged me back to the ground. “Wait. What are you doing?”

“Something daring. Like you. Only I am going to fly.”

I smiled at him, my heart quick with nervousness, and he looked as if he would refuse me. But finally he said, shaking his head, “This is madness.”

He released my hand and moved closer. His hands slid around my waist. I gripped the folds of his jacket. His grip tightened, and then I was in the air, with Henry lifting me high, and suddenly there was stone beneath my feet. I wavered in the air, bent over, trying to hold onto his jacket.

“Let go, Kate,” he said, a laugh and a warning in his voice. “You have to let go of me.”

I did as he said and stood upright, and he moved his hands, one at a time, from my waist to my left arm. My right arm was outstretched, over the open air. I stood upon the wall of the tower, the stones beneath my feet, Henry’s hand wrapped tightly around my wrist, while I gripped his wrist.

“Are you ready?”

I nodded. The rooks called in the tower next to ours.

“Don’t let go of me,” he warned.

“I won’t.” My heart pumped with fear.

“Watch your skirts and look straight ahead. Not down at your feet.”

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I gripped Henry’s wrist even tighter.

He took a step forward.

I stepped forward too, and then Henry took another step, and another step, until I was walking on the wall, high above the trees and the ocean and right next to the starlight.

A laugh burst from me. I felt light-headed with both exhilaration and fear.

“Faster?” Henry asked.

“Yes.” He walked faster, never lessening his grip, and we went around the circular tower once, twice, faster and faster, until he was running, and so was I, and it was the most frightening and the most exhilarating thing I could imagine, running like that, around and around, with the wind in my hair and the birds all around and Henry—strong, secure Henry— holding me tight. Then he yelled, “Now jump!”