Seadog's cave is pretty much what you'd expect from a cave that was abandoned some hundred years ago. I won't even bother to describe the empty sadness of the place.

It's depressing but I suppose it's shelter.

We need shelter.

"Your palace, madame. What do you think?" Lachie rubs his palms together, visibly eager to make the best of things. My feelings toward this attitude remain ambiguous. His attempts to make light of the situation are maddening but ... I guess I like being mad? I withhold my answer for a while to see what he comes up with next.

"Why don't I cosy up the place while you search for something to eat? It's getting dark soon," he says with one eye at the sky.

You gotta admire how effortlessly he went from obeying his queen one day to ordering me about the next. A man's prerogative, I suppose, but this too, gives me something to oppose. Our little tug of war, petty as it might be, gives my otherwise spiraling mind some direction. It makes me come alive.

Funny, cocky man didn't even notice the dozens of snails I've been gathering in my skirts along the way. I scatter them to the floor like a goddess would bestow her boon to a mortal and while staring him dead in the eye, I start pulling from my waistband, one by one, the considerable collection of sticks we'll need to start a fire.

In your face, jester.

I don't need you to tell me what to do.

There's even a crab from when our trail came close to bordering the sea and I quickly crush it under my boot as it tries to scurry away. "I hope you know how to cook, Lachie Greer."

He scratches the back of his neck and smiles.

These lopsided grins are growing on me.

They can mean anything and nothing but usually they proceed an action I don't expect.

This time, he puts down his cloak and shows me the pot and ladle hanging from his belt. A travel bag is slung across his chest and he hoists it over his head with all the dramatics of a stage performance. Triumphantly, he fishes out some bread and cheese before tossing the bag into my stomach. "There's a hairbrush in there somewhere. I reckon you need it."

Awful man.

While Lachie gets a fire going, I retreat to the cave's wall to inspect the travel bag. I shake my head when I see the contents of the first tin I pull out. Lachie's face paint. What an odd thing to pack. But there's also a knife, a hand axe, a hairbrush, and soap.

Soap!

I want to kiss him.

Just kidding.

Not in a million years.

At the bottom of the bag is a set of blankets, clean stockings, breeches, a chemise, and a doublet. I glance down at the disaster that is my dress. Somehow, even the shift underneath feels damp. I sample the wool of Lachie's garments between my fingertips. They're so dry, warm, clean.

I suppress a sigh. I never imagined I could yearn for such simple things. How has it come to this?

"You can wear them if you want." Lachie's voice startles me. I hadn't noticed him watching.

Did I hear that correctly? Is he offering me his clothes? That's very different from a hairbrush. We can't share a chemise or a pair of breeches. Only one of us can wear it. "I can't." I stammer, "They're yours. You'll need them."

"Not tonight, I don't. I can sleep like this. My cloak kept everything dry. If I had known they wouldn't allow you to pack anything, I would've brought more, but we'll figure out how to wash and dry your things tomorrow."

"Thank you." I'm not sure he heard it because he already returned to his fire and my voice came out more brittle than I wanted, but I feel it, this sudden, big thing blooming from within my chest and outgrowing the smallest part of myself, this unsettling emotion ... gratitude.

I bury my face in the warm wool but remind myself not to sully it with tears. Just a few breaths and swallows will have to do to compose myself. I breathe. I swallow. I get up and change.

In combination with the bread and cheese, the snails make for a fulfilling dinner. The crab is chef's kiss and the fire is warm. When our bellies are silenced, Lachie feeds the chicks. They're both covered in their own poop, as is the pouch that is their current home. Cursing and muttering, Lachie tries to clean the worst of it while I gather more wood to keep the fire going throughout the night.

We make our blanket beds on the cold, hard stone. I'm so exhausted that the moment I think I'll never be able to sleep in these conditions, my body proves me wrong.

I wake up to a familiar screech.

Outside the cave, the sun is higher up in the sky than I expected. I can't believe we slept this long but Lachie continues to enjoy his slumber, all huddled up in his blanket. Only the messy top of his head is showing.

Another screech calls for my attention.

Chop off my head if that isn't a peregrine's call.

I hurry out of the cave and peer up at the sky that is a soft shade of grey today. From a bundle of clouds, the raptor appears.

It is a peregrine.

Its majestic flight takes my breath away, the way it glides on the wind, circling the island, wings spread wide. It seems to be searching for prey, or could it ... can it be searching for me?

I shield my eyes from the sun to have a better look at the bird. The distinct moustache and the pattern of streaks on its underbelly cause a flutter in my belly. It can't. Can it be? I mustn't delude myself but just the same, I have to try.

Back in the cave, I quickly locate my bundle of clothes. With more hope than certainty, I tear a band of brocade from my dress and pull my whistle from under Lachie's chemise, thankful that I haven't swayed from carrying it on my person all these years. First my mother and then a series of governesses tried to dissuade me. Once I was queen, my chamberlain deeply disapproved but it was the one eccentricity I stubbornly indulged in.

While wrapping the brocade around my wrist and hand, I rush out of the cave and into a nearby clearing. With a hammering heart, I blow the whistle. The flight pattern of the bird changes immediately, a good sign. I blow again.

The bird dives down.

Tears push from my eyes.

It's her.

I know it's her.

Bracing for impact, I raise my forearm like a landing branch and hope the brocade band will be enough to shield my skin from her talons. Leather gloves would've been more suited, but it's better than nothing. Easy now, I tell myself. The steadier I keep my arm, the more gentle she can land, so all my focus has to be on her movement and my breathing.

She's so beautiful, so perfect, and when she makes the smoothest possible landing on my wrist, I want to cry from sheer joy.

Isabeau, my favorite peregrine.

I kiss the feathers on top of her head and she pushes back against my lips.

I don't know how she found me. I don't know who set her free, but she's here, and I can't wait to show off her hunting skills to Lachie.

WC 1280 words
TWC 6977 words