If only it could quench the fires still feasting on her soul.
One time, when they were children, Beth and Mabena had followed the boys into one of the sea caves without their knowing it. It had been a grand adventure—at first. But trying to stay out of sight meant that they put themselves in a rather risky position. The tide had turned, and the cave had begun to fill up, and while the boys scampered easily out, Beth and Benna had found themselves stuck, their escape route already flooded.
It was the first time she remembered the excitement of an adventure turning so drastically to terror. Seeing that dark water surge and crash on the rocks, knowing the waves would pound her into them just as easily. Though usually Beth wasn’t one to scream and cry, she’d done it then. At the top of her lungs. And praise God, Oliver had heard her. He, Enyon, and Cador had come back and helped them escape.
But there was no Oliver here now, nor Enyon, nor even the despicable Cador Wearne, whom she’d sworn never to speak to again after he broke Mabena’s heart two years ago. She’d happily forgive him if his face appeared in the space above her now.
And the hole was filling. Not as quickly as a sea cave at high tide, but steadily. The water that had been an inch deep when she landed in this pit was two inches deep now, as the rain collected here from the runoff of the hill. It had seeped up under her coat, into her boots. She was soaked, and the shivers had already begun, despite the air temperature being summer-rain warm.
Father God, Lord of all, help me. Please, God. Help me.
She’d tried wriggling, praying the growing mud would give her enough room and lubrication to pull free, but without luck. All she’d managed to do was get wetter and muddier and make pain throb its way up her side.
Then the slab of granite had shifted—in the wrong direction. When it slipped that fraction of an inch closer to the ground, pinning her all the tighter, she’d gotten the message. No more wriggling.
Rain pounded on her coat, deafening in its threat. Fear pounded in her heart, numbing in its certainty.
She could die here. Because of her own stupidity, her own impulsive choices. Because she’d listened to that ever-alluring call for adventure.
And now what? How long would it take a local from St. Agnes to find her? It could be days, if the rain kept up. A week. She’d be dead by then.
And Mamm-wynn would just be sitting at home, staring out the window and worrying the edge of her shawl, that vague look Ollie had described in her eyes as she waited for Beth to come home.
“Don’t tarry too long or fly too far, little rosefinch.” When, when would she learn to heed her grandmother’s warnings?
She might not ever have the chance to heed them again. Nor to see Oliver smiling at her. She—heaven help her—she might not live to see her brother’s wedding. And what would that do to Ollie, to lose yet another sibling, another family member to what would look like a freak accident? At a time when he ought to be filled with nothing but joy?
It wasn’t fair to him, nor to Mamm-wynn. Please, God . . . She didn’t know if she was praying for her own salvation or for His mercy for their sakes. Both.
And Sheridan. Her eyes slid shut. What potential lay undiscovered there? She’d only just begun to appreciate his sense of humor. The joy he found in everything. Only just begun to crave his stories. What if she never saw him smile again or heard his laugh tangled up with hers? What if he never again got to offer one of his ridiculously flirtatious comments?
What if she never had the chance to kiss him?
Her fingers curled into the mud, nostrils flaring. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. It wouldn’t solve anything, and for all she knew it would make things worse—send her more quickly into shock or something. She had to think. There must be an answer. There was always an answer. She could get out of this.
Except this wasn’t a matter of being faster or hiding better than her friends. She wasn’t strong enough to lift this slab of granite, and that was all there was to it. Her only hope was in the Lord, that He would send someone to—
“Beth?”
For a second, she thought it must be her imagination, her own desperation making her hear one of the voices she most craved. Because there was no other reason for her brother to be calling for her.
“Beth!”
But Sheridan’s voice joined Ollie’s, and her heart galloped. “Here! Over here! Carefully—a granite slab has fallen on me and pinned me!”
Footsteps joined the pounding of the rain, and a minute later three faces, all equally horrified, appeared above her.
Her brother looked positively fierce. “We’ll get you out. We saw a camp. Perhaps there’s something there to help.”
“Scofield’s.” She reached a muddy, shaking hand as high as she could. “Be careful—I assume he’s gone with the Naiad, but he could circle back.”
Sheridan shook his head. “We saw the sails vanishing. He’s not here. But he was?” His brows crashed down, and the look of doubt slid down his face as ferociously as the rain, even as he eased himself carefully into the pit.
Oliver vanished again. “He must have something. I’ll be back directly.”
She let her hand fall. “I didn’t realize it until I’d come. I saw something in one of the letters this morning and wanted to see . . . I was so close on St. Mary’s already, so . . . I shouldn’t have come. I’m so sorry.” The tears she’d managed to hold off a minute ago clogged her throat now.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. The pressure in her chest just made her ribs ache and her limbs feel even weaker.
Sheridan crouched down in the mud beside her and took her muddy hand in his. “It’s all right.” It wasn’t, he surely knew it wasn’t. But still his voice soothed her like honey. “We’ll get you out of here. That is—Telly! What are you doing? Helping Oliver?”
The lack of response seemed answer enough. Sheridan offered a tight smile. “See there? Between the two of them, I daresay . . . well, they’ll find something. And if they don’t, I’ll lever this off you myself, Atlas style. You’ll be very impressed. Begging me to give you a second chance, you know, when you see my inhuman strength.”
A laugh tangled up in her tears and choked her. “You’re so ridiculous.” And what she wouldn’t give for a few decades to listen to his absurdity. She held his hand as tightly as she could. “I don’t want to die here, Sheridan.”
“You won’t.” His face went as fierce as Oliver’s had been. “I swear it.” His attention then moved around the pit, no doubt taking in more in a glance than she could in an hour. “Tell me what happened. With Scofield.”
She did, briefly, though her teeth chattered a few times during the telling. Sheridan never let go of her hand, nor did he stop sending his gaze over every line of the place. No doubt taking in the stones, guessing at what each one’s placement meant to the Druids who carved them and set them here. Probably a burial site.
But not hers. Please, God.
When he reached over to the base of the slab that was pinning her, though, her panic ratcheted up again. “No! Don’t touch it, it could slip more!”
“I’m not. But . . .” He frowned and poked at something she couldn’t see. “He’d dug out around the base of this stone. No reason for him to have done that. I mean—well, unless he meant for it to fall.”