Heath wouldn’t have noticed the trap—the subtle variations in the ground, the way leaves and grass lay scattered over crisscrossed branches. Not with his terrible vision. He’d likely walked right over the trap and it snapped under his weight.
It could have been worse, Bree thought.
Horrible, but true. The spear could have impaled his stomach, vital organs. But it only got his leg.
“We have to pull it out,” Sparrow said.
“But the bleeding,” Chelsea argued.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Lock,” Bree muttered. Her voice was so soft, so uncertain, it came out a whisper. “Lock, I am so sorry.”
He kept his eyes on Heath, one hand clutched around his brother’s small fingers, the other brushing sweaty hair from his eyes. They looked so alike despite the difference in years, difference in fathers, even. They’d inherited everything from Chelsea. The same green eyes, as brilliant as seaweed. Same dark, shaggy hair.
“Lock,” Bree said again, more firmly this time.
Ness wheeled on her. “This island’s got fish. And plenty of birds and rodents and even a few rabbits. Nothing needs a trap that size.”
So Lock had already spoken of the trap in Bree’s absence, explained the origin of the spike. There was no other explanation for why Ness would know of it.
“It was an accident,” Bree insisted.
“All you’ve managed to do is hunt our own people!”
“Ness, quit it,” Lock said.
“Heath’s speared straight through the leg on account of—”
“It’s not her fault!” he snapped.
Chelsea and Sparrow hovered around Heath, muttering over how they should remove the spike, control the bleeding. Sparrow’s eldest son, Cricket, appeared with bandages in hand. He was barely Heath’s age, and yet he could patch up wounds nearly as well as Sparrow.
Ness kept a hand on Lock’s shoulder. Heath continued gasping for air.
“What can I do?” Bree asked, feeling completely useless. Feeling horrible.
No one answered.
Sparrow took the spike in her grasp. Cricket stood ready with clean rags.
“I’ll do anything,” Bree said. “Just tell me what—”
“You can leave,” Lock said. “And you, Ness.” The pain poured off him like a tangible thing, flooding the hut. The skin around his eyes crinkled. The corners of his lips turned down.
“But I should be here,” Bree insisted. “Heath’s like a brother to me, and—”
Lock jumped to his feet. “Are you trying to make me furious?”
She took a step away.
“Don’t act like he’s your brother, Bree. Don’t for a second act like you know how I feel.”
Retorts raged in her head. If it were any other situation she’d tell him to pull his head out of his ass, to apologize to her right that instant. That’s how they were, Lock and Bree, always honest, always keeping the other in line.
But he didn’t mean it, those words. Bree knew he didn’t. He was distraught. And Heath . . . If Heath . . .
“Lock . . .”
“Go,” he snarled. “Go destroy that trap before someone else gets hurt from our stupid games.”
Bree turned and fled. The crowd had overheard everything and they were a flurry around her. Her trap, they whispered. She’s responsible. As if Lock had never helped Bree construct it. As if she had pushed Heath into the pit with her own two hands.
A scream ripped the afternoon. The spike had been pulled.
“Will he make it?” Maggie asked, grabbing Bree’s wrist. “How bad is it?”
“If you have a decent bone in your body, you’ll clear out and go home.” She shook her arm free, then turned on the rest of the villagers. “That goes for all of you! Give them space.”
As Bree broke into a run, tearing for the thick trees, the crowd’s murmurs tailed her.
She’s one to talk . . . her fault . . . mad as Mia.
THREE
BREE RAN UNTIL SHE REACHED the trap, then dropped to her knees beside the snapped boughs. Heath had been barely two steps onto the covering. The rest of the trap looked untouched; grass and leaves unruffled, a good portion of the spiked belly still hidden from view.
What had he been doing out this far, halfway to Crest? He’d made this trip only once before, at least that Bree knew of. A few months back, Lock hit a lucky break fishing and was pulling out catch faster than Bree could throw her spear. Being around him had been unbearable, and she’d left to check her inland snares, happy for some time alone. Heath had tagged along. Bree gave him her spare knife and taught him how to skin and gut rabbit. He was good at it, his blade precise. Amazing how coordinated he was with things he could see.
“How come you don’t call Ma ‘Ma’?” he’d asked, pulling the hide off a rabbit with a quick snap of his wrists.
“She’s not my mother.”
“I know. But she acts like it.”
Bree wiped her blade clean on her pant leg. She was grateful to have grown up with what felt like family, but it didn’t make Chelsea her mother. As far as she was concerned, the woman had never been outwardly maternal. What sort of mother doesn’t prepare a girl for what’s coming as she approaches womanhood? Bree had thought she was dying that first day she bled. It was Ness who’d explained things to her. Ness, two years older than Bree, not Chelsea.
“How old was I again?” Heath had asked. “When your ma died and you came to live with us?”
“You were still a toddler—had just turned two—and you were fat.” He’d shot her a skeptical look. “I know it’s impossible to imagine, but you were. You had so many chins I thought you were neckless.”
He giggled. “Now I’m a string bean.”
Just like every other kid in Saltwater. A diet of fish and greens took care of baby fat quickly. And even when boys started filling out again—like Lock—the muscles were lean ropes. Bree was filling out, too. Not as curvy as Ness and some of the older girls, but she wasn’t all sharp hip bones and ribs anymore, either. Another thing Chelsea had never prepared her for.
“Well no matter what you think of Ma, I think of you as my sister,” Heath said.
Had Lock declared the same thing, the disappointment would have been overwhelming. But with Heath, everything was easy. Bree had smiled, because it was exactly what she wanted—for him to look at her that way. To be a sibling and a shield, a sister dedicated to keeping him safe.
And today she’d ruined everything.
Her stupid trap. Stupid fables.
Bree slid into the pit and grabbed the nearest spike. She heaved, pulled, but even after sitting unattended for several years, it was well secured. She resorted to kicking, and eventually knocked the spike free. Then she moved on to the others, toppling them each in turn, until the belly of the trap was filled with uprooted spikes and Bree was gasping for air. She brushed sweat from her eyes and looked up, only then realizing her mistake. She was surrounded by steep dirt walls, with no means of getting out. Bree jumped, trying to grab the woven branches supporting the overhead foliage, and came up empty. She was short, small. Always had been. Not that it mattered. If she managed to grab anything, it would likely snap from her weight.
Bree slumped to the floor. Maybe no one would come for her. Maybe she’d starve to death in the base of her own trap. It would be a fitting punishment.
Damn, she was stupid.
It was much later, when her stomach was growling, that she heard footsteps. The crunch of twiggy brush, the swish of feet through grass.
“Bree?” Lock came into view a moment later, peering down at her. “What the—? Come on. It’s time to eat.” He looked drained, like he’d run to Crest and back. Dark circles bloomed beneath his eyes.