Before she could choke, she lost consciousness.

Chapter Seventeen

Alice felt like a fuse had been lit deep in the pit of her stomach, and that one day soon all of this emotion and pain and confusion would cause an explosion that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to contain. In an attempt to distract herself from the violent pain bubbling inside her, she turned her thoughts to her companion, who was slumped against the wall. She looked exhausted. What could she possibly do all day to make her this tired?

The girl’s hair hung in a curtain just above her shoulders. Even in the flickering torchlight, Alice could see that her hair was thick as treacle and a warm chocolate-brown colour. It wasn’t straight as the horizon like Alice’s own hair, but it wasn’t quite curly either. It fell in waves past her jaw and the light from the torches made it shimmer, the flecks of red within it glowing like dying embers. She had high, strong cheekbones and large eyes that gave her a fierce intensity when she spoke. She also had a silvery, jagged scar that creeped over her left eyebrow and ended at the top of her cheekbone. It looked like an old wound, but a brutal one.

From what Alice could gather, this was a girl with a generous heart and a penchant for trouble. Why else would she be risking everything to help Alice? Sitting in her company, even in silence, Alice felt herself exhale a little of the tension she’d been holding on to. But she was still angry – bitterly, painfully angry. The girl’s kindness in this damp and terrifying place was like a thin bandage over an amputation; it could barely stop the bleeding.

The girl looked up, still half asleep, and their eyes met. Alice’s stomach gave an involuntary lurch and she was suddenly paranoid that the girl had noticed her staring.

‘Who are you?’ Alice asked, her voice a little more venomous than she had intended.

The girl smiled. ‘I’m Grace. I don’t know if that’s my real name, but it’s the one I chose. My brother and I were washed ashore not far from a grotty little fishing village years ago, when we were just a couple of kids. I had sustained a pretty serious head injury’—she gestured to her scar—‘so I recall absolutely nothing before we moved into the lighthouse that we made our home. He said we had to find new names, names that would help us blend in if anyone came asking questions. I couldn’t remember our names anyway, so I became Grace.

‘It took us ages to choose… We just rifled through a bunch of old books hidden away in the lighthouse’s library until we found some that we liked. I chose a book about a swashbuckling pirate queen called Grace, and it stuck. My brother used to laugh, as I’m probably the least graceful person you could meet.’ Grace paused to clear her throat. Her voice had taken on a gravelly quality, as though she were fighting against a lump in her throat. ‘Sorry, I haven’t thought about him for a while. It’s easier to block out the memories than to face what you’ve lost – you’ll learn that. But hiding from grief makes the dagger of pain that much sharper when you do face it.’