Finder's Shore by Anna Mackenzie Page A

when he reaches the sand. Partway down I hear a curse. Nothing more.
    When the rope goes slack, I check the knot then lower myself over the edge. My knees and elbows snag as I shimmy down, but concern for Ronan keeps me moving, and it’s easier, at least, than climbing.
    I reach the little bay sooner than I expect. My legs feel wobbly with relief. “Ronan?”
    “Here.” He sits with his back against the dinghy, his hand cradled against him. “I lost the bandage.”
    Stretching into the dinghy I rummage in my pack for the med kit. Spray drifts into my face on a gust of wind. The sea sounds wilder than before, though it could be my imagination. I hunker down beside him.
    The gash on Ronan’s palm leaks blood in a slow tide. I press a pad against it, assessing the speed with which it darkens. “It needs stitching.” The wound is gritted with sand and gravel. “I can’t do it in this light.” I dab at the cut. The blood that stains my fingers appears black in the moonlight.
    I press a second pad against it and bandage it in place, then knot a sling and slip it over Ronan’s head. “Keep it elevated,” I tell him, “and try not to get it wet.”
    There seems little hope of that.
    Side by side we shove the dinghy down the sand. At my insistence Ronan clambers in while I push us out into the waves. The water that sloshes around my thighs is cold, slapping up against the boat’s flank and rebounding against me so that I’m soaked to my waist by the time I struggle onboard.
    I reach for the oars. I learned a little about boats when Dev and I made our escape from Dunnett, but even so it’s a battle getting us out of the cove. The wind beyond the sheltering buttresses of the cliff is sharp, angling in from the south, bringing with it the breath of rain. The boat bucks with the swell, my stomach lurching with it.
    “Can you find the compass?” I ask Ronan. 
    He reaches for his pack. As I settle myself to rowing, I wonder how much blood he’s lost.
    Slowly, slowly, the headland rises behind us, the cove a pale glimmer. “Veer to your right,” Ronan tells me. I do as I’m bid.
    “Here.” He hands me a bag of dried apple, brine-tainted and soggy, and a flask of water. I pause to drink, the oars lying in my lap like broken wings.
    Behind us the island broods, waves wrinkling away towards it. I flex my arms and tug at my sodden clothing where it’s begun to chafe my skin. “How long will it take us to reach them, do you think?”
    Ronan’s face is smudged by shadows. “A while yet. They won’t risk coming close with this wind. But as long as we hold the bearing, they’ll find us.”
    My shoulders ache, but only a little more than the rest of me. Blisters are rising on my palms. The boat pitches beneath me. “Move over.”
    Shuffling across to give him room, I reach for his hand. The bandage is stained dark but it’s not freshly moist. I shake my head. “You’ll start it bleeding again.”
    “Not if we take an oar each.”
    A wave sweeps us sideways and we scrabble for the oars, floundering as we try to find a joint rhythm. Once our strokes settle we make faster progress than I was managing alone.
    There’s no sense of time other than the slow shrinking of the island behind us, captured in glimpses as the clouds tatter before the wind. Each time I check our bearing, we’ve been swept north, our battle to hold our course growing more difficult with every hour. I send a silent plea to Dev and Lara to find us, and soon.
    With the rising wind, spray begins to spin off the tops of the swell, battering against us cold as hail. There’s nothing we can do but hunch against it.
    The night has begun to thin when Ronan slumps forward, folded around his injured hand. “Sorry, Ness.” His voice is hoarse. “I need to rest.” I can feel him shivering.
    “Me too.”
    It’s only as a skiff of rain soaks us that I remember the sailcloth. Fumbling beneath the seat I drag it out. It’s crusty and damp but I drape