Page 152 of The Rebel and the Rose
In the water, she was weightless. Painless. Half numb by the time she broke the surface. Sera was a good swimmer – quick ina current and confident in the dark, thanks to summer nights spent in Ploughman’s Lake, and river-swimming with Pippin.
Using front stroke, she let the current carry her downriver. She scanned the surface as she swam, grateful when the clouds fractured around the moon, letting it light up the river.
Thank you, Saint Maurius.
Or whatever saint of old was listening to her prayers.
A glimpse of something up ahead made her jerk to the left. Moving closer, she spotted the arrow shaft protruding from Ransom’s chest. He was floating on his back.
Not swimming.
Not moving.
Fear shoved her under the surface, where she swam as fast as a merrow, surfacing just behind him. She threaded her arm around his upper chest, careful not to disturb his wound.
‘I’ve got you,’ she said, swallowing a mouthful of water.
Ransom was silent in her arms. Too cold. Too still. A flash of moonlight revealed his pallid face, and the blood seeping through his lips.
No. He was not dead.
She was going to save him.
They had made a promise to each other. She was going to keep it.
She floated on her back, propping him against her as the current carried them towards the mouth of the river. The South Sea glistened up ahead, where the Verne broke off into a series of narrow tributaries that reached towards the ocean, like splayed fingers.
The current slowed as the river splintered. Sera swam for theclosest sandbank, crossing the narrowing inlet with renewed determination. When the water shallowed enough for her to climb out, she pulled herself up onto the sand, dragging Ransom with her.
Stars swam in her vision as she laboured for breath, but she didn’t dare break her focus. Not while the man she loved was half dead in her arms.
No, not dead.
He can’t be dead.
She laid him on his back, the river lapping at her feet as she clambered over him. The arrow in his chest was like a knife to her own. His eyes were closed, his face so pale she hardly recognized him.
‘Ransom?’ she said, trying not to cry. ‘Can you hear me?’
Nothing.
She turned him on his side. He gave a small wet cough. A stream of water trickled out. It was tinged with blood. There was blood on his clothes, too. She ripped open his shirt and nearly wept at the sight of the wound in his chest.
Too near his heart.
Was it too late to pray to Saint Alisa?
‘Bastian?’ The name was a plea, a broken whisper.
His eyelids fluttered but never opened. His breath was shallow. He was dying. She could feel it. She couldseeit. All that blood still pouring out of him. There must be so little of it left inside.
Panicking, Sera prised the arrow free, covering the wound with her whole hand. She pressed down hard, willing the last of his blood to stay in his body, begging his heart to keep pumping. She could feel it giving out under her palm.
‘Please, Bastian.’ She brought her forehead to his, her wet hair falling around them like a curtain. ‘You have to live. I need you to live.’
His heart lurched, surrendering a slow thud.
‘You promised.’ She was crying now, her tears falling on his cheeks, trickling into his mouth. ‘You promised we would be together.’
