Part 18 (2/2)

”There's something-come look.” His voice shakes-his gaze is fixed straight ahead.

I turn toward the hills, expecting an animal, other survivors, even a rescue craft. What I see instead is electrifying.

Before our eyes springs up a wave of flowers, the purple blooms from that first night on the plains, when Tarver tried to distract me from the fact that I was going mad. Just like the tiny purple blossom hidden in his journal. The narrow corridor of blooms extends as we watch, winding this way and that through the hills, toward the hazy green of the forest in the distance.

Beside me, Tarver is shaking. I can feel the dizziness myself, my skin tingling, itching, hot and cold all at once. ”It's not real.” I gasp, blinking my eyes hard and opening them again. The flowers are still there. ”It's just a vision.”

”The canteen-they made that, didn't they?”

I swallow. The flower was something they made for me, and just for me-to tell him would be to explain what it meant to me, in that moment of utter darkness. That it reminded me why I was returning to that s.h.i.+pwreck of the dead. That there's only one person in the galaxy I could've done it for. But I can't say those things to him, not yet.

The row of blossoms continues, the flowers growing thicker and brighter by the moment, until the entire corridor of the valley is s.h.i.+ning with purple in the sunlight, leading toward the forest. It's a narrow, concentrated band, looking for all the world like a winding river of purple-or a road.

I gasp. ”Tarver! They're-leading us. That's what they've been trying to-” But my voice sticks in my throat, my heart pounding.

He tears his eyes away from the flowers in order to look up at me. ”Trying to what? What're you talking about?”

”The people I saw-they were pointing. The voice I heard was leading us away from the forest, toward the plain. Even your parents' house, the garden path led away-toward this spot. And now these flowers...I don't know, maybe I'm trying too hard to find sense in all of this.”

”You think they're showing us the way.” He turns back to face the hills. ”Toward what?”

We stand, staring at the path before us, so clear and bright. All I want is to go find out if they're real, if they're as solid as the flower in his journal. If all of this is some dream in which the laws of physics don't exist.

”Lilac!” Tarver's voice is urgent, snapping me out of my daze. ”Look!”

I blink, trying to catch my breath as he leans close to me. His cheek brushes mine, rough with faint stubble, as he brings his line of sight alongside my own. So close, I can smell him, feel the electric tingle where we touch.

This is no dream.

”Look along my arm, where I'm pointing.” He stretches one arm out, toward the trees. ”There's something there. See that glint?”

It's all I can do not to turn my face toward his, the way a plant grows toward the light. I draw in a deep breath and force myself to focus. I don't see it immediately, and my eyes strain along the strip of forest bordering the hills at its western edge.

And then, as sudden as a lightning strike, I do see it. A tiny glint of reflected sunlight, winking at me from the tree line.

”Wreckage,” I whisper, staring at it, trying not to believe it's what I think it is. ”It's a piece of the s.h.i.+p that landed there. Another crashed escape pod.”

Tarver slowly lets his arm fall, but doesn't s.h.i.+ft away again. He's staring at the thing too. ”I don't think so.” His voice is quiet too, barely audible over the wind. ”It's tough to tell, but I think the trees around it are cleared, uniform.”

I realize I'm holding my breath.

”I think it's a building.”

There's no fuel for a fire out among the rolling hills, and it's bitterly cold, but I don't care. Tarver estimated a two-day journey to reach the edge of the forest, and as the sun set in front of us on the first day I could see the trees along the horizon, in the distance. The sea of flowers vanished into mist as we climbed back down the wreckage, but we know now where we're being led. To what end, or what purpose, we can't hope to guess, but if it's a building-and it's real-it might be the key to our rescue.

”Hot water!” I say cheerfully, eating cold, plain pasta with my fingers. I've never had anything so delicious.

”A roof,” Tarver replies, munching at his own handful of the pasta I cooked before we left. The kitchen storerooms on the wreck were my best find-after the sick bay, anyway.

I glance over at him, the last of the light lending his still-pale face some false color. We're camped in the lee of a hill, as much out of the wind as we can be. Still, it'll be a cold night, even together.

”A bed,” is my retort. ”A real one.”

”You win,” he says, downing the last of his share of the pasta and leaning back on his elbows. He's still moving slowly, carefully. But he looks better, for all his trouble walking today. ”I can't top that.”

I hurry to finish the rest of my dinner and scoot over to where he reclines on the blanket, eager for his warmth and company. He folds his good arm around me, easy, comfortable. I don't think the old Lilac would've thought he smelled very good, but I turn my head toward him anyway, cheek rubbing against the material of his T-s.h.i.+rt.

We're quiet for a while, perhaps each of us imagining what might wait for us in the building Tarver saw on the horizon. His face has changed, a spark of hope where there had only been grim determination. How long has he been living with the belief that no rescue was coming? It's obvious that ever since we reached the Icarus, he's been aiming only for survival. Not for rescue.

Now there's a good chance we'll be able to signal for help. No remote outpost building would be without some method of communication.

I s.h.i.+ft, pulling myself in more tightly. He inhales deeply, the rise and fall of his chest s.h.i.+fting my face where it's pressed against him.

”How long do you think we've been here?”

”Counting the time I was sick?” Tarver pauses, doing a quick mental calculation. ”Sixteen days, I think.”

So long? It knocks the wind out of me. Two weeks and counting. It feels like only two days and like a lifetime. ”It was my birthday,” I find myself saying, in a strange voice. ”I turned seventeen a few days ago.” The day you came back to me from your fever. But I can't bring myself to say that out loud.

Tarver's breath catches, then releases. ”Happy birthday, Miss LaRoux.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I've become a year older while stranded on this planet. I swallow.

Perhaps sensing the s.h.i.+ft in my mood, Tarver lifts his bandaged hand to trail his fingertips along my arm. I suspect the movement hurts him, but if it does, he makes no complaint.

I clear my throat. ”What would be the first thing you'd do when we get rescued? A real meal? Call your family?” I smile against him, plucking at his T-s.h.i.+rt in distaste. ”Take a shower?”

”My family,” he says immediately. ”Then they'll probably hose me down and interrogate me for a few weeks. The military will, I mean. Not my parents.”

”Gosh.” Now I'm trying to banish the mental image of someone hosing Tarver down. At least I'm not thinking about my birthday anymore. ”I hope n.o.body tries that with me.”

That earns me a laugh, my head jumping a little as Tarver's body quakes beneath my cheek. ”I doubt anyone will try any such thing with you. It's pretty much just soldiers and criminals who get the high-pressure hose.”

Even in the realm of imagination, we're already separated. Him, in his interrogations and debriefings-me, presumably taken somewhere for coddling and polis.h.i.+ng. My heart twinges painfully, its beat rapid and strong against Tarver's ribs.

It's not that I don't want to be rescued. I do. I want to see my father again-and more than that, I want Tarver to find his family again, keep them from losing another son. But I had begun to imagine a life here, with him and me. A hungry, cold, barely-surviving-each-week kind of life-but a life together.

Before I can stop myself, the words come tumbling out. ”What about me?”

”What about you?” Tarver echoes, one shoulder moving in a shrug. ”Your family will scoop you up and quiz you on whether I compromised your virtue and whisk you off to strap you into one of those extraordinary dresses, and it'll be like this never happened.”

My mouth is dry, my tongue heavy. Why doesn't he understand what I'm asking? If we're to be rescued, I don't want it to happen before we figure out whatever's happening here between us. I may not have many more opportunities.

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