32. Briss

Until we reached the lakes shale shore, it's tiny waves lapping gently, I couldn’t believe we had a chance of making it out. The wooden boat I travelled here with, just over twelve feet long, had a small propeller engine attached to the back. Painted blue, with a white bench across the middle, it was severely basic, but it would do.

I hauled the rucksack in and pushed Zena out onto the water. When I was convinced we hadn’t been followed, I waded out, climbed in, and fired up the whirring little propeller.

The black, cloud-filled sky matched the inky water beneath, her rainbow eyes the only thing in my vision, and I finally allowed myself to relax. We’re safe. For now, anyway. I sat at the rear of the boat on the tiny little wooden rest, my hand on the propeller, guiding us towards the centre of the lake. Zena consulted the compass on the broad middle bench, although her eyes kept lifting to meet mine.

She’s coming back into herself. It wasn’t the wounds or the skinny, bedraggled lo