Uncharted(60)

“Beck?” I whisper, fear coursing through me.

“I’m here.”

I feel his hand lace with mine, squeezing to offer reassurance. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the dark. I can make out only the most basic of shapes — Beck’s silhouette, the closest wall, my own hand five inches in front of my face. The rest of the world is a mere shadow.

Thunder rattles the thick stone around us a scant instant after a flash of lightning splits the sky. The wind whistles louder than a banshee scream. I hear an unfamiliar rumbling sound and for an instant, I fear the rocks are caving in around us. I quickly realize it’s merely the sound of heavy rainfall, pummeling the roof above in an incessant onslaught.

The storm is here.

Sinking to the frigid stone ground, we hold each other in the dark as the wind howls ever louder, feeling desperately fragile in the face of mother nature’s wrath.

“I love you,” I whisper, the first time I’ve ever said the words aloud.

“I know,” he returns, kissing me blindly.





Chapter Seventeen





S Y M P H O N Y





After three hours, the storm shows no signs of letting up. Huddled together for warmth, we shiver in the shadowy cave, frozen to the bone as the minutes tick by without any source of light or heat. The damp stone walls act as an icebox. I blow on my fingertips, flexing them to keep the blood circulating.

A few more hours of this, and hypothermia will set in.

“It’ll pass soon,” Beck assures me periodically. I can’t help noticing he sounds a shade less confident every time he says it.

Robbed of my sight, I explore the contents of my backpack by touch. The fringed, flat-edges of the coloring book pages. The waxy tips of the crayons. The saw-toothed metal of my toiletry bag’s zipper. The toothpick-thin wood of our two remaining waterproof matches.

Two.

Not nearly enough to keep the cave awash in light for hours on end. The paper coloring book would do well enough for starting a fire, but without driftwood kindling or dry leaves to keep it burning… we’d be back at square one within a matter of minutes. Marooned in the dark once more.

“Unless…” I murmur under my breath.

“What?” Beck asks.

“I think I have an idea.”

I remove the contents of my backpack one by one. My numb fingers tingle as I grip the crayon box. Pulling a color out at random, I pass it to Beck.

“Hold this for a moment.”

His voice is wry. “Violet, as much as I’d love to color with you, this doesn’t seem like an opportune moment to explore our creativity—”

“Do shut up.”

He laughs in the dark.

Gripping one of the matchsticks between my fingers, I make sure I’ve got a steady hold on the side of the box before I strike. There’s a flash as the friction causes the tip to catch. I squint against the sudden brightness as the smell of sulphur drifts up into my nostrils. Before the match can fizzle out, I hold it to the tip of the crayon in Beck’s hand. It takes a moment to light, but eventually the waxy paper wrapping flares with heat and begins to burn like a taper candle.

Beck shoots me an amused look as I gently take the flaming magenta stick from his grip. Tilting it at an angle, I let a few drops of melted wax fall to the stone floor, then press the flat end of the crayon into the pink puddle. After a few seconds, the wax dries and I pull my hand away, pleased when our makeshift flame remains upright.

“Did you know?” I ask, grinning broadly. “Crayons make perfect emergency candles.”

He grins back at me. For the first time in hours, I can clearly make out his chiseled features in the flickering light. The view lifts my spirits immediately.

“Each one burns for about thirty minutes, if I remember correctly. And considering I invested in the jumbo pack…” I look down at the container. There are at least a hundred crayons of all shades stacked in neat rows. “We should be good for a while.”

We grab a few more and position them strategically around the space, until there’s enough light to see by. I can’t stop smiling as I watch the tiny lights burning merrily. It’s true what they say — everything really is more romantic by candlelight.

Even a cave.

“Where’d you learn that trick?” Beck asks, sprawling against the flattest wall with his feet outstretched. “Summers at sailing camp?”

My head shakes as sudden sadness flares through me. “My mom taught me, actually.”

“You miss her.”

“I do.” The lump in my throat makes it difficult to breathe. “She’s — she was — my best friend.”

“She still is.”

I settle against his side, craving heat and contact. My head hits his shoulder as his arm slides around my waist.

“Past tense feels appropriate,” I say, when I’ve found the strength to keep my voice somewhat steady. “She thinks I’m dead.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Maybe.” I sigh and close my eyes. “But I just feel so guilty. She must be going through hell, back home.”

“That, I can believe.” His head comes down to rest against mine. “If I lost you, I’d be in hell too. You may not know this about yourself, Violet Anderson, but you’re not the kind of person people simply move on from. You’re rather… unforgettable.”