He froze in the trail, coming face-to-face with an immense spider. Bigger than his hand, it sprawled eerily among the geometric patterns knitted in its web. He bent beneath it and tossed a loose warning back to Ian. Seconds later, Ian bellowed a curse.
Grant hurried back to see Ian's head entangled in the web, the dusty brown spider attached. Ian scrabbled backward, the web and spider wafting after him. Yelling, batting, retreating, he barreled through a copse of low trees directly into more webs, a cluster of them glinting in the sun. He gave a harsh cry, arms flailing like a windmill, harvesting each one as though on purpose. Finally, he toppled over, covered in web, swatting spasmodically. Grant reached him and brushed the spiders free.
"Christ, Grant," he said, sounding baffled. "Why didn't you tell me there was a spider?"
"It was over half a foot long--I didn't think you could miss it. Besides, you've made it past everything else in the trail."
"Everything else? I didn't see anything else!" Lips thinned, Ian clutched the earth at his sides. "I've had it with this antediluvian muddle! I tell you right now. I'm done and you can go to--"
Grant slid his machete free and raised it high. Ian's eyes grew wide. "I take it back! I'm not complaining!" But Grant had already swung the blade, slicing through a leaf near Ian's hip.
There, on the ground, just beside Ian's splayed fingers, was a footprint.
"How'd the morning go?" Cammy asked when Tori strolled in. Strips of spiky palm fronds littered the floor around her. One green sliver had caught in her hair and protruded upright.
"The sailors got a taste of island life," Tori said with a grin. It faded when she saw Cammy was weaving a broad-brimmed hat, most likely for her. She hid a grimace at the bright feathers scattered all over the floor, soon to be hat plumage. Cammy was enjoying herself, but a milliner she was not.
"And the big one? How'd he react?"
"Sadly, we'll never know. He didn't eat."
"A lunatic drunk who doesn't eat?"
Tori chuckled. "I think he's actually the captain. He left to go bathe."
One red eyebrow cocked. "Bathe?"
Curse it! Sorting the feathers by color grew very important. "He left in that direction," she said airily.
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, very well," Tori said, lifting her face. "I followed him to the falls and watched him."
Cammy's eyes grew bright. "Did he undress completely?"
Tori folded her lips in and nodded, blushing anew.
Cammy sighed, resting her chin in her palm. "Was he handsome?"
Tori paused, wondering how to convey how heart-stopping she'd found his huge, rugged body. "The most handsome man I've seen in years."
"In years? Well, aren't you the amusing one today?" Cammy stabbed a bright yellow feather into the finished hat. "Spying on naked men agrees with you."
Tori flashed her a quelling look, then crossed to the fire pit. She dug up an ember and added tinder she'd gathered during the day. Kneeling, she blew against the twigs, feeding in larger branches, and soon a fire crackled to life. "Are you hungry?"
Cammy laid the hat aside and sat down on a driftwood log near the fire. "Unceasingly, no," she said, anxiously stretching to the warmth. "Am I ever? I've forgotten everything about appetite except how to spell it." She frowned. "And that might be gone as well." Biting her lip, she reached down to draw letters in the dirt.
Tori pasted on an excited smile. "Well, you're going to want to eat tonight. I've found a good supply of taro."
Cammy looked up with a grimace. "Taro. Delightful."
Tori sighed as she placed a halved taro and a butterflied fish on their makeshift grill, forcing her mind away from visions of tarts, milk, shepherd's pie, and rain-wet apples straight from the tree.
The footprint led them to a previously hidden trail winding up a steep grade. When they climbed it to a clearing on a small projection of land, Grant's breath whistled out. Her camp, her shelter was here. He turned in a circle taking in every detail.
Two handwoven hammocks stretched between palms and swayed in the breeze. A fire hearth dotted the middle of the clearing, with rocks and driftwood logs bordering it. The structure was strategically wedged into the aerial roots of an extensive banyan tree, with walls made of sail connected to a reinforced bamboo frame. A square of densely woven palm made up the aslant roof, and a porch with rails coiled in jasmine fronted it. This was permanent. A home.
"Look at that," Ian breathed. "We can be sure some men made it off the ship."
"For once, I agree with you." Grant slid his pack to the ground on his way to the ladder. "Guard the trail," he ordered, leveling a finger at him. "Don't let anyone get past you."
"Anything for the cause," Ian answered, and promptly sank into one of the hammocks.
Grant climbed tentatively on the hollow bamboo rungs, but they held. He pulled back the canvas door flap and leaned over to enter....
"Did you hear something?" Tori asked, glancing around in every direction.
"No, but then your ears are better than mine." Cammy tried on the hat and looked in their one fragment of mirror.
"I thought I heard footsteps."
"I don't see how. No one could ever slip up on us here."
Tori relaxed and lay back on her pallet, using her bent arm as a pillow. "You're right. We've taken every precaution."
"But did we have to take this one?" Cammy grumbled.
Tori picked up a feather and idly ran the tip up and down her nose. "A fox continually moves her den."
Cammy pursed her lips at the moist cave walls looming around them. "I thought there'd be more satisfaction in outfoxing him."
Empty.
She was gone again, elusive as ever. Grant shut his eyes for a long moment, getting his irritation under control, then opened them to find books littering the room, stacked in every corner, and all well read. He flipped open one that was decaying slower than the others. Many of the pages were marked, and copious notes filled the margins.
A pearlescent comb atop a rough-hewn table caught his attention. He crossed, noticing the floor had no give, even under his weight. When he picked up the carved comb and ran his finger over its smoothness, he noticed a single strand of hair. It glowed white and gold in the flickering sunlight.
A basket of folded linens occupied one corner, a stolid trunk another. He bent to the trunk's lid and opened it, the rusting hinges resisting. Inside were more books, and among them he found a weighty journal bound with a strip of linen.
A journal by Victoria Anne Dearbourne, 1850
Though it was the worst invasion of privacy, Grant gently opened it, hoping to garner some insight into who had survived and how. As he read the beginning pages, he strove for detachment--he had a job to do--but for once in his life, he wasn't successful. He scrubbed a hand over his face, recoiling from the knowledge of what had happened to this family. It was worse than he'd imagined. Grant had had only one real tragedy in his life, and yet this young girl had borne one after another. When she questioned if she was to lose two parents, something in his chest tightened.
The journal also confirmed his suspicion that her father hadn't made it off the ship. Dearbourne not only had been a renowned scholar, he'd had a reputation as a man of honor. That he'd stay behind was no surprise. So no men had made it here? He skimmed through and read about Victoria planning the shelter. She'd done this?
He flipped back to near the beginning.
When we returned from the brush with water and fruit, laughing, celebrating our find, we found Mother lying as though asleep. But for the first time since we'd come here, the features on her beautiful face weren't tightened with pain.
"Victoria, your mother's passed on," Miss Scott told me. Mother was at rest where nothing could ever frighten her or hurt her again. Though I could never tell Miss Scott, on that day, I longed to go with her.
He closed the pages softly, flushing as though he'd been spying on someone. Yet that feeling didn't stop him from tucking
the journal into the back of his trouser waist before climbing down the ladder.
Victoria wasn't here alone. Unless Miss Scott had died too, there were two women on this island.
When Ian noticed Grant was back on the ground, he asked, "What's it like inside?"
Grant didn't want to admit it was damned impressive. Seeing the shelter anew, he marveled that Victoria had designed it. He studied how the banyan's roots enveloped the structure and had begun absorbing the platform, making it that much more sturdy. He noted old knife scars on the wood around the joists and realized she'd cut wedges out to fit the baseboards.
Amazing. She'd known exactly how much to cut without killing the root. It was an ingenious idea--letting nature do her work. The attention to detail was remarkable.
"It's durable," Grant answered, and didn't elaborate. He snatched up his bag and stowed the brittle journal inside.