Treasured Lies by Kendall Talbot Page B

his head. Confused.
    Helen turned her palm over and squeezed Archer’s hand. She looked up at him. ‘I know there were three ships. The Flying Seahorse was one of them.’
    Alessandro clapped his hands together and rubbed vigorously. ‘ Te l’avevo detto .’
    Archer had no idea what Alessandro said, but by the look on his face he was obviously gloating. ‘Do you know anything else about these ships, Mum?’
    She slowly shook her head and looked confused by the question. But to Archer’s amazement, she started clawing back from whatever world she was tempted to slip into. Her eyes brightened and she looked around the table as if seeing them all for the first time. Her awareness increased and she even tucked a slip of hair behind her ear, something he hadn’t seen her do since he was a kid. When she looked up at him again, Archer was taken back to a time in his childhood when his mother was perfectly normal. He held his breath as he waited for her to speak.
    She blinked several times as if working the words into sentences. ‘Everything is in the shed.’
    â€˜Shed?’ It was Archer’s turn for confusion. ‘What shed?’

Chapter 12
    Nox couldn’t stand the monotony any more. Every day was an agonising repeat of the day before. A rooster, so loud it had to be right outside the door, kick-started the twins into gear each morning. They’d roll out of bed, climb down the ladder and without so much as a glance in his direction they’d disappear outside. After a series of noises he couldn’t decipher, they’d return with a bowl of food. It was only out of near starvation that Nox actually ate it. With the consistency of dense porridge and the appearance of soggy cardboard, it was anything but appealing. The taste, too, was as bland as cardboard.
    Fully aware that he needed to eat for sustenance, he literally had to force down each mouthful with the one and only rationed cup of water he received each morning. But as the days rolled on, he became stronger and movement resulted in a bearable amount of pain. Finally he was able to climb off the wooden bench he was forced to use as a bed by himself. Now, he could sit at their makeshift table to eat. But even as he sat right there with them, the men made little attempt to communicate with him. It was as if he’d been in their company his whole life and they had absolutely nothing important to discuss. Not that he could communicate with them even if he wanted to. On the several occasions he had tried, he couldn’t understand a single word they uttered. Even in their company, the isolation was as crippling as his injuries.
    Nox knew their routine. It was like clockwork. After the rooster and the tumble out of bed came the outside work. Then there was breakfast, if you could call the brown slop they served food. Next they’d disappear again and during the course of the day he would see little of them. They’d venture back inside to cart in firewood for the pot belly stove or to drape dried fish over a series of ropes that hung from the rafters. Late in the day, as the sunlight through the cracks in the walls grew to long spears of light, they’d play a board game and drink their alcoholic brew until one or both of them passed out. Some days, the only change in their routine would be when they took out bundles of tattered clothes. They would return them days later, clean. Or so he assumed by the faint soapy smell that lingered in the room.
    There were certain noises that were almost constant. The wind. It came in brilliant gales that forced through the gaps in the walls with a howl or a whistle. Sometimes he thought he heard waves crashing against the shore. But there was also a strange popping or clicking noise that he’d given up trying to figure out. When there was silence, which happened on the odd occasion, Nox wondered where in the hell he could be that would produce such complete