𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐚 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦 • To You, From The Pacific Winds 🌬

VI

              After a little berating by Miss Peregrine about keeping discretion, the rest of the older children made our way out, down some stone steps and into a wagon. Emma chauffeured up front with me facing her side and holding the whip, the both of us agreeing to be silent as the rest chattered.

              Oxwich must be raining now, or overcast at best. It always was, never mind night or day. All of its remotely appealing qualities remained permanently blot out by heavy downpour and noxious ozone.

              But just a strait's width away, the Cairnholm skies shone a brilliant azure, crowded with towering, ever-white clouds. The air was a perfume of wildflowers, sea salt and wet soil. Wherever you went, you could see the seashores, glossy and white, a mirror lining the horizons. The waters were a being of its own, its tides and ebbs like the breathing of the island. It was difficult to believe that this sea was the same silent, grey one I'd swim in with Pa.

              As we rode, I became more and more aware of Emma peering at me out of the corner of her eyes. It was painfully deliberate. For the life of me, I didn't know what I was doing wrong. There was no sauce on my face, none on my blouse. I triple checked.

          I hated the feeling. That one offhand gesture was enough to reduce me into a finger-fiddling butt, just because of how we were at the time. I did all but meet those ghostly eyes -- trace watershed hoof trails, count stray pebbles on the dirt path...

              "How scared were you of the reset?" she finally said.

              "No, er, sorry, haven't seen it yet. I fell asleep," I said guiltily, "I'll watch it tonight if I can."

              "Oh no, it's alright," she said, "You know, perhaps..."

              She just went silent.

              "Perhaps?" I prodded after a while.

              The girl just laughed and shoved me, perplexingly. The others in the back protested as the wagon's trail went askew.