The Isis Knot by Hanna Martine Page A

likely—created tiny hidden spaces and shadows. Perfect.
    In case Amherst was watching—and she had the distinct impression he was—she jumped off the porch and headed west out of town, as though she were walking back to Viv’s, then doubled back around a stable to approach the brothel from the rear.
    She waited until a barrage of lightning strikes ended, then slipped onto the brothel’s porch under cover of rain and darkness. The barrels rocked as she squeezed between them, finding a larger, drier space in the middle. She pushed her way back to the wall and removed her hat. The bag of rum bottles sagged heavily against her hip, and the air inside her hiding place smelled of old alcohol rubbed into wood.
    Hunger pinched her stomach. Cramps tightened her legs. Her past—all the ugly parts she now remembered—weighed on her soul. A wet chill settled inside her. Her skin was a shell, and fear and isolation clawed around inside.
    And then suddenly it all melted away.
    A slow warmth started in her heart. Just a speck at first, but it grew and grew, shoving away all the bad feelings as it swept through her body. It erased the fear and pain and confusion. She felt light and full of hope. Butterflies of impending excitement fluttered in her belly…which scared her even more.
    What the hell was going on?
    Underneath the gold cuff, her skin began to tingle. The tingle escalated to an itch. She pushed up her sleeve to stare at the knotted symbol. It hadn’t done that before.
    The porch floorboard jiggled beneath her ass. She froze, eyes wide and peering into the darkness. The floorboards moved again.
    Someone was on the porch. Coming toward her.
    Everything went quiet. Even the sound of the rain dropped away.
    One of the barrels that made up her dry secret cave was pushed aside and a man crawled into the open space. Right in front of her. Hands gripping the wood, knees out to either side, his crouch was tight, almost feline. Coarse pale stubble covered his cheeks and chin and neck, and wet tangles of blond hair plastered to the sides of his face. Lightning flashed again and she saw…
    Him .
    His eyes were small but intense orbs of deep blue. “ You .”
    His whisper echoed in every droplet of rain, coming back to her a thousand times a second.
    A light brightened his eyes—a light other than what flashed in the sky. He smiled hesitantly, and something bloomed inside her. Something warm and welcome.
    “I saw you,” he said, breathless, and his accent was rich and lovely, “out in the bush the day my ship arrived. Do you remember?”
    Where was her voice? Inside she was joyous and relieved to have found this man, but the enormity of this coincidence rendered her speechless. She nodded.
    His smile faltered. “You were lying in the back of that wagon. You looked scared. I thought…I thought you might be hurt. Were you?”
    “No.”
    He sighed. “Good. Good.” But then he looked a little confused, which she didn’t understand.
    Water dripped heavily from his chin-length hair and ran down his tightly bunched forearms and scarred knuckles. Deep lines carved their way around his eyes, suggesting a hard life or an age older than hers. Or both. She couldn’t look away from him, not even if one of those bolts of lightning struck two feet away.
    “Who are you?” He leaned a little closer, searching her face. “What’s your name?”
    All the lessons her mother had given—about not showing your hand, and concealing your true identity, and not trusting anyone but yourself—washed away in the driving rain. Something deep, deep inside her was telling her to listen to this man.
    “Sera,” she said.
    “Sera. I’m—”
    “William.” The letters she’d scratched into the dirt back at Viv’s floated across her vision.
    His lips parted as he stared. “Yes.”
    Why didn’t he look more shocked? She sure as hell was. “What are you doing here?”
    “Your accent…” His eyes narrowed, assessing. “I can’t place