“Actually, it would help if you talk me through your work as an artist,” he said, turning the wheel to the right, shifting the long white glare of the moon across the helm. “Do you just do murals or do you do traditional art? Paintings and so on?”
I told him that when I’d gone to art school, I was in love with Degas and Balthus, and my dream was to have an exhibition of my paintings in some upscale gallery in London, or even the Tate Modern. Until I realized how na?ve that idea was and radically scaled down my goals. Back then I was obsessed with wolves, mostly because I had a second cousin who was in the newspapers for her attempts to reintroduce wolves to England. I’m not a natural realist painter—I didn’t really try to paint wolves, but large abstract canvases full of color and anarchy.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You still paint wolves?”
I shook my head. “No, no. And it wasn’t so much the wolves that had my interest but the idea of . . . wildness.”
“Shame,” he said. “Scotland used to be full of wolves. Even Lòn Haven.”
“I could add them,” I said brightly. “It would be good to incorporate some of the older natural elements. Good idea.”
The lights of the island were growing steadily smaller, the line of the horizon drawing closer. “Perhaps you could show me a little of the coastline of Lòn Haven,” I said carefully. “It would be useful to see the Longing from the ocean.”
He thought about that, and for a long moment I held my breath.
“Of course,” he said.
But instead of turning the boat back to shore, he flipped a switch, and I felt the boat shudder to a stop.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
His head was bowed, and the mood had shifted again. “To be honest, I just thought you might remember,” he said.
“Remember?” I said, holding my cup tight. “Remember what?”
He looked up. His eyes were dark. “Who you are.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He moved a hand to touch me, and I flinched.
“Do you realize how long I’ve waited to find you? How far I’ve traveled to find you?”
I eyed the keys on the control panel in the cockpit, the helm between us.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, forcing a smile on my face. “But I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“I’ve been searching for years and years,” he said in a low voice. “I thought if I had the Longing painted with the runes, it would help me find you. And instead of leading me to you, it brought you back to me.” He took my hand in his and clasped it tight, and I didn’t dare pull it away. I saw his eyes were wet with tears. “I always knew you’d come back,” he whispered. “I always knew it, Amy.”
Terror crept upon me. “Amy?”
He is mad. Absolutely stark raving.
And dangerous.
He removed something from a strap on his ankle. A small, sharp knife.
“Remember this?” he said, and I let out a cry. He frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
I took a full step back in the direction of the room where my girls were playing. The sight of them brought my courage back, sending adrenaline through me. “My name isn’t Amy,” I said.
I’ll bolt us in the room until he turns us around. I have to protect them.
He shook his head with a smile, dismissing everything I’d said. “The runes must have wiped your memories. It’ll all come back to you eventually.”