I finally stood tall, battered by rain and trembling all over, and let myself believe I’d survived. I was scraped and bleeding, but the cuts weren’t deep. My legs were wobbly, but I could walk. I had only one boot but nearly all my senses. I had lost my master, my ship, and even my fiddle, but I was alive.

Where was I?

The iguanas told me this was still the Galapagos at least. Ahead was one almighty summit, a bigger volcano than any I’d seen. Some of the islands had thick forests covering the higher ground, but the plains of black volcanic rock leading up to this one sprouted greenery as sparse as the feathers on a vulture’s head. I hadn’t been here before, I felt sure of it.

I crouched, hugging my knees, and tried to think. We’d been on the west coast of Albemarle this morning, but with the gusts of the storm I had no way of knowing which direction I’d been washed. I tried to picture the map of the archipelago, but my mind was whirling. I could have hit one of the other shores of Albemarle or been washed up on another island entirely. This place seemed by far the most wild and godforsaken of the Galapagos Islands we had visited, and the driving rain was making it even less welcoming.

The relief I’d felt at being washed ashore was fading fast.

I crouched on the black rocks, shivering—with fear and shock as much as cold—until my teeth chattered.

I pictured Mr. Darwin’s face when I last saw him—pale as a ghost, gripping the rope, terror widening his eyes. If only I’d gotten to him before he fell overboard … I should have seen it coming. Even if my master was hauled back and the rowboat made it—could the Beagle itself have been wrecked in the storm?

What if my master were to lose his life so young and only partway through his voyage? All his observations and measurements, all his ideas lost …

I put my hand to my chest and waited for my thumping heart to slow. Letting my thoughts run this way would do no good at all. When my da was teaching me the fiddle, he’d say, “If you hit a bad note, son, breathe. Walk that breath all the way upstairs to the attic, then right the way back down to the cellar. Not too fast, mind, step by step. Breathe, and pretend like it’s the best performance of your life. You keep right on playing and stay bricky.”

That had always been our word, mine and Da’s. Bricky meant brave but it was more than that, it was about … spirit. My da looked for the good in life and never dwelled on the bad.

That’s what I had to do now. I pulled in a breath slowly, step by step and back out again, and felt calmer. I uncurled and stood up straight.