Maggie's Door by Patricia Reilly Giff Page B

the basket game. Nory turned back to Garvey. “I have nothing to help your friend, but I will come anyway.”
    He nodded. “I haven’t known what to do. I thank you, miss. I really do.”
    She followed him along the deck and down a long flight of steps. “Where are we going?”
    “I’m hiding him. He’s in a small area, a closet without light. The water oozes and barrels shift, but there is nowhere else.”
    A stowaway, then. She had heard of people like that, brave boys who sneaked aboard ships without money, without tickets.
    “It is the cook’s apprentice,” Garvey said.
    “Why . . . ?” she began, but there was no finishing. In front of her was darkness so deep she couldn’t see Garvey, she couldn’t see her own hand.
    She reached out to hold on to his sleeve and followed him down the long passageway.

TWENTY-TWO
    SEAN
    He had been asleep a long time. But if he had slept that long, why did he ache so?
    And then he remembered, or thought he remembered, the cook waiting outside the book man’s cabin, waiting for him, marching him back to the galley without a word; the cook’s hand heavy on his arm, his own heart beating, beating.
    And then in the galley . . .
    He didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to think of Nory wearing a red ribbon in her hair, Nory at Patrick’s Well on the cliff top, Nory singing, twirling, calling herself Queen Maeve.
    Thirsty. So thirsty.
    A hot day once in Maidin Bay. He and Nory had leaned over Lord Cunningham’s stream, drinking the icy water, splashing it on their faces.
    If only he had a sip of water now. If only he could spill water over his head, over his arm.
    In the galley the cook had hoisted a large pot of water from the stove. “Wastrel,” he’d screamed. “Useless.”
    Sean had seen it coming, wondering how hot it was. He had raised his arms to cover his head, seeing Garvey jump out of the way. But it wasn’t the pot of water the cook poured over the top of his head and over his shoulders that had scalded him. That water was hot but not boiling. But he couldn’t catch his breath and he thought of the currach and the day he’d almost drowned in the green water of the sea.
    He had fallen back against the stove. He heard the hissing as one arm hit the red-hot top; he heard the sound his own voice made. Then the cook was gone, and Garvey was pulling bits of his sleeve away from his skin.
    And somehow he was in this place and he could hear the drip of the water and the
shush-shush
sound of the waves against the side of the boat.
    If only he could drink some of the water.
    He saw the lantern swinging over his head, just a point of light in the darkness, back and forth, back and forth.
    “Ah, Nory,” he whispered. “Let us go up to Patrick’s Well.”
    She didn’t answer, of course; she wasn’t there. She was home in Maidin Bay. But he heard the sound of crying then, a terrible crying that went on and on. Someone was leaning over him. The voice sounded like Nory’s and the feel of the hand on his face was like hers, but he just couldn’t open his eyes, and he slept again.

TWENTY-THREE
    NORY
    What is the matter with you? There are things to be done.
That was what Anna would have said.
    Nory drew a breath. There was so much to wonder at: how he had been burned, what he was doing on this ship and why she hadn’t seen him, but most of all how she could save him.
    The small candlelight flickered across his face and she knew she would save him. She thought it with the same fierceness she had felt when she had walked that long distance with Patch, each step burning and her foot leaking blood.
    Beeswax and mutton fat boiled together.
    Why should that work?
    She thought of the beehive on the edge of Anna’s field; she thought of the combs they had broken off to eat, hard and sweet. The wax would harden into the mutton fat. It would cover a wound to give it time to heal.
    That made sense to her.
    But there was no beeswax here, no mutton for fat. What