Island of Icarus

By Christine Danse

Field Journal of Jonathan Orms, 1893

En route to polite exile in the Galapagos Islands (field work, to quote the dean of my university), I have found myself marooned on a deserted tropical paradise. Deserted, that is, except for my savior, a mysterious American called Marcus. He is an inventor—and the proof of his greatness is the marvelous new clockwork arm he has created to replace the unsightly one that was ruined in my shipboard mishap.

Marcus has a truly brilliant mind and the gentlest hands, which cause me to quiver in an unfamiliar but rather pleasant way. Surely it is only my craving for human companionship that draws me to this man, nothing more? He says a ship will pass this way in a few months, but I am welcome to stay as long as I like. The thought of leaving Marcus becomes more untenable with each passing day, though staying would be fatal to my career…

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Dedication

To my dear friend, Dena Celeste, the strongest person I know. Yes, you really are awesome. Many glomps to you!

Acknowledgments

A huge thanks to Nick, Dena, Rhianna, and my awesome editor, Alissa. Your inspiration and input have been invaluable.

Contents

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

About the Author

Chapter One

In the summer of 1893, the dean of the university came to me. It had been a long semester. Only a season had gone by since an unfortunate accident had taken my right arm. At that time, memories of the lady I would have married still ghosted my thoughts.

I was taking the afternoon to organize my belongings in my office. Though I’d been in that office for a year, I still had boxes of books, curios, and practical supplies stacked against the wall. I was fretting over where to place my rather large collection of mounted insects when a light knock diverted my attention. The door was open, as I customarily left it, and the knock was only a courtesy. I turned to find the dean standing there, a sort of sympathetic smile on his face. The office was a right mess, and I stood like a survivor amongst rubble.

“Luther, how are you?” I greeted him with a sheepish smile.

“Jonathan,” he returned. He seemed to take in the room. “I see you’re redecorating.”

“It’s been a year,” I said by way of explanation. “It’s about time I finally moved my things out of boxes.” I placed the case of scarab beetles—gorgeous multi-colored specimens—on a shelf and turned to him. “Can I help you?”

“I was thinking we could grab a bit of lunch. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Of course,” I said, setting aside the rag I’d been using to wipe the cases. I’d a bit of a kink in my neck from standing with my head bowed for so long and found myself eager to escape the labor, self-imposed as it was. I combed my hair back, settled the hat on my head and drew a long glove over my right arm. Though it was impossible to conceal the bulk of the mechanical prosthetic, nor the shape of the brace that secured it in place over my upper arm and shoulder, the glove gave me a modicum of privacy in public.

We strolled companionably to the pub across the street, a local haunt of students and professors, and lounged over drinks and light fare. At length, our polite discourse about the weather, students, and the food came to an end. Luther’s face settled into an expression of pensiveness.

“Jon, have you ever given thought to traveling abroad?” he asked, somewhat abruptly.

“Of course,” I said.

“Serious thought.”

“Well, yes. I can’t imagine who hasn’t. I have thought of touring the Americas or the Far East. And it isn’t as if I have— Well, it’s not like I have family to tie me here. I suppose I never got around to seriously planning a holiday.”

The furrow of his eyebrows deepened. “What would you say to a trip to the Galapagos? Darwin’s old stomping grounds.”

I imagine my eyebrows jumped up like rabbits. “Oh! Well, with classes starting soon I can’t afford to take holiday…”

“It wouldn’t be a holiday,” he said. “Rather, field work abroad. Under the employ of the university, of course.”

My stomach tightened. “Well! I couldn’t— For how long?”

“A year, maybe two. You might find that you quite like it.”

I fell silent to ruminate. Luther sat quiet and tense, awaiting a response. “This isn’t an offer, is it?” I looked up at him. “That is to say, I don’t have a choice, do I?”

He shook his head slowly. “Jonathan— We think it might be good if you retired from the public view. For a little while, at least.”

“It’s my right arm,” I said, a resigned understanding settling into my voice and manner. I looked down at the appendage and flexed the hand slowly. For clockwork, it responded well. I could even mimic my old handwriting, to an extent. However, the mechanisms were bulky, which made the appendage almost three times the girth of my left arm. The fingers were fat, much stiffer and less dexterous than organic ones. The arm also had the unfortunate habit of failing at inopportune times. It had died on me more than once during a lecture. It was high maintenance, unreliable, and it constantly made noise as the gears turned and clicked. Of course, I was grateful I had anything to call an arm at all.

“Well, yes, your arm,” said Luther, ever honest. “But it’s more than that,” he continued. “You haven’t been the same man. The same professor. Jon, the students are worried about you. I’m worried about you. I think it might do you some good to get away from London and…society. Get back in touch with yourself. A man needs a little adventure in his life. And a break.”

I looked away. My throat was closing. Cara’s leaving had left me oversensitive. I said, “Luther, I need this position. I need the students. I need my colleagues. I need my office and my lodgings and my housekeeper. I need them to hold me together. It’s something to live for. A reason to roll out of bed in the morning. The last thing I need is a remote island with nothing but my thoughts for company.”

“Just give it a try,” he urged. “It’s been more than three months, Jon, and you haven’t changed. Get out of London, away from all your ghosts here. The ship leaves in a week. Once you get there, if you don’t like it, another ship will be by in just a month. You have but to climb back on board and head straight back to England. But try it. Please. I ask as a friend.”

How could I say no? I accepted under the express agreement that I could return when I willed. So, I found myself packing all of the things I had just finished unpacking and storing everything away in my home. The housekeeper agreed to visit once a day to feed the cat and to see that the old place didn’t fall apart while I was away. I could only imagine it gnawed to sawdust by vermin during my absence. My old fat cat, Ferrous, had stopped worrying himself with such nonsense as chasing rats years ago.

Chapter Two

The week went by like a dream. Every morning I woke up and took tea. I went to my office, which was all but bare now, and studied the Galapagos and Darwin’s book exhaustively until I returned home once again to sleep and start the cycle all over again. In the evenings I often sat with my pipe and the paper. More than once I found myself staring into the fire, wondering at the gentle amenities of civilization that would soon be lost to me. I tried to imagine myself weeks henceforth in a crude little hut surrounded by the most grotesque creatures in God’s creation, but the thought was just too unreal.

Boarding the ship, too, was surreal. It was shortly after dawn when she set sail, too early for anyone to see me off. It was just as well. The morning was chill and damp, and I wanted to settle into my quarters below deck. The enormity of the adventure ahead of me did not register as I ascended onto the ship, nor when she was set loose, nor when the British coast faded from view. Perhaps I was too busy gathering my sea legs to think about it.

Sailors are a superstitious lot. If I could have hid the whirring machine that had become my right arm, I would have, but it was impossible. I suffered more than one rude stare. When I could, I kept to myself, out of sight. To pass the time, I wrote incessantly in my journal.

The weeks passed in a blur. I cannot relay how miserable that trip was, how lean and thirsty I was, how alone with my thoughts. A couple of years prior, before the French completion of the Panama Canal, the trip would have been almost infeasible—perhaps a year or more to travel where we did in three months. How Darwin spent five years aboard The Beagle, I do not know.

I stirred from my den during our passage through the narrow canal to watch the land and trees slide by. Though The Commitment was by no means a large ship, the passage was still a squeeze. An eerie, tense silence fell over the crew. When we reached open ocean once more, the release of tension was palpable. Voices raised in relieved chatter, the sails went up, and I retired downstairs to my quarters once again.

The islands of the Galapagos were not far now, a couple of weeks at most. When we were several days past the canal, a storm arrived. It came upon us like an angry god of the ocean and tossed us until I was sure the boat would be smashed into splinters. Until then we had been lucky with the weather, and—despite my agonizing—the voyage had moved rather swiftly. The small storms we had weathered until that point had been like children stirring in their sleep—nothing like the violent disturbance that seized us off the coast of South America.

I spent most of the storm in the relative safety and dryness of my cabin. The boat pitched violently in the clutches of the squalling winds and bucking waves. All of my things rolled about like dice in a cup—and so did I. Books, pots, maps, specimens, clothing, me. I staggered back and forth in my quarters as if I was in the throes of drink, and I began to feel as sick as a drunkard, too. I began to think I would be safer on deck than in this rolling prison. On all fours, I crawled up the steps. It was all I could do to keep from being thrown from them. With a Herculean effort, I forced the door open against the firm pressure of the wind. Stinging rain pummeled my skin.

Once I stepped from the door, the wind snatched it closed with a bang and then dragged me swiftly across the deck. From there, the details are hazy. Everything blurred together like a smeared chalk painting. The wind pulled me this way and that, and my arms windmilled frantically. The boat pitched and I fell the rest of the way toward the railing, which I hit with great force and clutched desperately. I believe I lost the contents of my stomach.

I heard what may have been a shout ring out, and then the wind grabbed me up again as the boat dipped. A swell swept me off my feet. While the grip of my mechanical hand was stronger than that of my natural one, I might as well have not been holding on at all. The ocean was suddenly all around me. By the grace of God, I surfaced before I took a breath. I caught one last glimpse of the ship before the storm took her away from me, and me from her. It was the last I saw of the The Commitment and her crew.

Chapter Three

The ocean tossed and tugged me mercilessly. How I came to land, I cannot remember. How many minutes or hours I tumbled like driftwood, I cannot fathom.

The next I can recall, all was silent, and dark and dry. I was cocooned in soft warmth. There was a curious feeling of lack, and then I realized I was absolutely still. No gentle rocking nor lively rolling of waves. Absolute stillness, and clean linens and my own breath, soft and steady.

At length I stirred. Every muscle complained, and my left leg ached madly, but I took heart that everything moved—shoulders, legs, toes, fingers, neck. My left hand slid across the mattress over the linens, fingers splaying. But my right arm… My heart sank. If it hadn’t been destroyed by the water already, the remaining salt would surely deteriorate it. My right elbow felt like a club was attached to it, and it was sore at the place where the metal met flesh. I did feel the press of the prosthetic’s harness around my upper arm. This meant that the prosthetic itself was still attached, never mind the condition it was in.

And where was I? Had this all been some nightmare?

I caught an unfamiliar floral fragrance. This certainly was not home. I began to turn in bed. My eyelids, stuck together and now unused to being open, struggled apart. Soft yellow light.

“Slowly, friend,” said a voice. Male, flat accent. American.

He only startled me into moving faster. My eyes came all the way open and I saw the owner of the voice, a pleasant-seeming gentleman with straight, honest features. He sat near the bedside, watching me. A fringe of dark blond hair framed his face as he leaned forward with his arms propped on his knees. The posture suggested he had been waiting there for some time.

I realized that under the linens I was naked. I knitted my eyebrows and struggled to find my voice. When I did, it was rusted and not at all mine. “Clothes?”

“I had to cut them from you,” he said. “You were unconscious when I pulled you from the water. I needed to inspect you for injuries. I bathed you, as well.”

A pang of embarrassment helped bring me back to myself. The memory of the trip and the storm came back to me. “There was a storm. I fell overboard.”

“You’ve been unconscious for three days. It’s truly a miracle you are alive.”

“Water,” I croaked.

He stooped where he sat and a moment later he slid his hand under my head and brought a cup to my lips. I groped for it with my good hand. As I did, I choked, and water sprayed across my benefactor and the bed. Instantly he had me up, clapping me on the back.

“You have to swallow, man!” he cried.

“I think I’ve forgotten how,” I said raggedly between coughs. When I’d calmed down, I glanced at him. “I’m terribly sorry.”

He chuckled and dabbed himself with a handkerchief. “It’s all right. Now that you’re sitting up, take this and drink it slowly. I can’t have my guest choking to death on a small glass of water after fishing him from the ocean.”

I managed to appreciate the irony and grinned wanly in reply. I did as he told me. As I finished, my eyes came to rest on my right arm, which I now realized was bandaged to the elbow. I swallowed and steeled myself. “My arm?”

A flush of excitement seemed to come over the man. He licked his lips. “I’m sorry to inform you it was badly damaged by your experience.” I closed my eyes at the news. “However if you believe you can handle a bit more of a shock right now, you can unwrap it. I think you won’t be disappointed.”

He took the cup from me and watched with anticipation as I unwrapped the muslin from my arm. As I did so, a picture show flashed through my mind. I imagined that my arm was mangled, or repaired but unsightly, or replaced with a wooden peg. My chest tightened with the same dread I’d felt when the surgeon had first revealed my mechanical arm to me more than half a year ago.

The last of the wrappings slithered from my arm, and I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what I found: sleek polished brass, a slim hand, five slender digits tipped with steel. A new arm. A new arm, better than the last.

“What do you think?” asked my host, looking anxious.

“I…” I lifted the arm and slowly flexed my new fingers. They responded to me easily and curled naturally, fluidly. “You did this?”

“Well, yes,” he said, almost sheepishly. “I took the liberty of first dismantling the original. It was some impressive engineering. I improved upon it.”

“Improved. Yes.” I lifted my hands in front of me and flipped them back and forth, wonderingly. For the first time in over three months, my arms were the same size and shape, and both were equally responsive. I found myself mesmerized by the turning of a miniature gear just below the bend of the elbow.

“How does it feel?” he asked eagerly.

“It feels wonderful.” I gripped my left hand with my right. The hand was strong, but it was a controlled strength—unlike that of the previous arm, which frequently crushed objects at random.

My host leaned toward me with obvious excitement. “Now that you’re awake, I can have you perform a battery of tests for me. Strength, flexibility, dexterity, precision, accuracy. Once properly calibrated, it should work as well as a natural arm. Well, better, actually.” Hastily, he added, “Once you are clothed and comfortable, that is.”

“Yes, please,” I said, rather gratefully. I flexed the hand again, and shook my head in wonderment. “How did you do this?”

“Join me for dinner this evening, and I will tell you all about it.” He smiled, rose, and left me alone with a clean, worn set of clothing and a basin of water.

Chapter Four

Alone, I sat up slowly and dangled from the side of the bed, a much more difficult task than I had anticipated. Every muscle protested, and my body’s responses felt rusty. I gasped aloud from the pain and clutched my smarting ribs as the world spun and the floor threatened to heave up and meet me. I sat like that for some time, long after the dizziness had abated. I was in no hurry to discover the extent of my injuries.

Eventually, I pulled the sheet from my body, and with much trepidation, explored my trunk and limbs for signs of injury. A bulky bandage covered my left lower leg. Underneath this bandage lay the source of considerable pain. Save for that leg—and a scattering of bruises and scratches all over my body—I was remarkably whole. I wondered if the inside of my body had remained as unscathed, for I felt as if I had been trampled by a herd of cattle. Every breath pained me. A fractured rib seemed the likeliest culprit.

For some minutes, I sat and looked at my new prosthetic arm. The clockwork was largely hidden behind plates of brass and steel, making it seem somehow more whole and less vulgar. The plates had been pounded out flat and shaped with a hammer, then polished to a shine, all with obvious care and skill. It was practically a piece of art, this arm—functional art. I barely heard a sound as I curled each finger, wonderingly, one by one. I grabbed the air and made a fist, waved it in front of my face and flexed it, and touched the skin of my face with the slender, cold fingertips. Truly a marvel.

Gingerly, I donned the clothing that had been left for me. A simple shirt, one size too large, and a pair of pants that I strained forward to fold at the cuff. Both were thin and soft from age and use. The basin of water had been left on a stand against the wall several feet away. Standing to reach it was a feat in itself. I went slowly, clutching onto furniture, and splashed water over my face. Four days worth of beard rasped under my fingertips. When I felt stronger, my first task would be to beg a razor from my host and groom myself back to the image of civility.

The room was a strange combination of elegance and improvisation. The walls were of a dark wood planking, and the whole place smelled like the cabin of a ship—that peculiar, pleasant scent of wood treated by salty air. The lacquered wooden table across the room was accompanied by mismatched chairs—both upholstered—and the walls were decorated with an eclectic collection of paintings and cross-stitched pictures.

An oil lamp burned on the table, casting buttery light across the room. I spied only one window, and that was just above the bed. When I drew aside the thick curtain, I discovered that it was, in fact, the porthole from a ship. Through it, I spied a rich, green landscape that was completely unfamiliar to me. The sun hung very low on the horizon.

Laid out on a large bench were several dissected birds whose wings had been splayed open. They seemed to belong to one of the thick-billed finch species described by Darwin. Great skill and care had been taken in dissecting them. Individual wing muscles had been separated and painstakingly pinned to the board onto which the birds had been temporarily mounted. One pair of wings had been stripped of every muscle down to the bones, yet every jet-colored flight feather remained intact and spread for display. Some of the anatomy had been labeled, as if this mount was being prepared for daguerreotypy. Next to this macabre display, grouped together on the remaining bench space, was a scattering of tarnished mechanical parts. With a start, I realized that these belonged to my previous arm—in fact, they were my previous arm.

The low sound of birds chirping drew my attention to a gilded bird cage above the table. At first, I had thought it only decorative, but I looked toward it and discerned movement. Upon further inspection, I found two finches hopping about inside. They were common yellow finches, but had a glittering wing plumage that I had never seen before. Curiosity piqued, I took the lamp and held it up to the bars. To my surprise, the feathers of their wings were actually delicate slivers of metal foil. The entire wings were mechanical—miniature prosthetics so sophisticated that their movement seemed entirely natural. They furled, unfurled, and fluttered exactly like real wings. I noted at once that they were not steam powered, and I did not see any signs of clockwork. How, then, did they work?

Curiosity compounded upon curiosity. I set down the lamp and quietly opened the door, intent on finding answers from my mysterious host.

Chapter Five

The living area I entered was hardly larger than the room behind me and continued the theme of makeshift, yet pleasing, decor. A dark, artfully inlaid table was the centerpiece of the room. Teetering on the floor at its farthest end were piles of books, papers, and crates, as if someone had hastily cleared the table of work. Given the nautical nature of the dwelling, I surmised that the little cabin had been built from the remains of a ship. I spied two other doors leading from this main room, each of a different size, style, and kind of wood. And tucked into one corner of the room was a cast iron stove that looked like it rather belonged in a galley, fat and black with its pipe poking haphazardly through the ceiling.

The smell of wood smoke was pungent in the air, though I spied that the stove in the corner was dark and cool. It did not remain a mystery for long, for at that moment the door across from me opened and in walked my host, carrying a long, charred spit. Two fowl were skewered on this, cooked golden and crisp. With him came a stronger smell of smoke and the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat.

“Ah,” he said when he saw me. “You’re up! How do you feel?”

“Like a freight train ran me over,” I said, honestly, with a wry smile. I struggled to control a waterfall of saliva.

He responded with a sympathetic smile. “Are you hungry?”

“Quite,” I said, quickly and with a flood of relief, then just as quickly bit my tongue at my frankness.

He only chuckled. With a wave of his hand he bade me to take a seat, then took one of the birds to a small table near the stove and chopped it apart with quick strokes. As he plied the knife, my gaze rested on the pulse of his triceps, then traveled down to the curve of his toned calves. I mused that he must be a quick runner and fast with his hands.

We supped on the fresh fowl. Though it was unfamiliar to me, I found it quite agreeable, especially as it was the first meal I’d had in over three days. Only when I was finished did I realize that I had forgotten myself. Juices covered my hands and mouth. I looked apologetically to my host, who pleasantly pretended not to notice.

“Thank you,” I said, once I had wiped my mouth and hands. “I see that you can cook, as well as craft prosthetics. Oh! My name is Jonathan.”

“And I am Marcus. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ll admit I was beginning to worry for you. It was beginning to seem like you would never wake, so it pleases me to see you up—and with such a healthy appetite.” His smile was kind. He took a polite bite of his fowl, and then continued. “You asked how I fixed your arm. I am a mech surgeon. I received my education in Maryland and practiced there for five years. However, the clumsiness of the technology frustrated me, and so I left my practice to study experimental new technology.”

“I saw the finches,” I said.

His eyes lit up, and he continued excitedly. “Ah! I am proud of them. They are a new technology using Tessla’s wireless electricity. It’s a pity they can’t fly, though. A—Well, that’s a different subject altogether,” he said, seeming to catch himself. “Your arm is a different sort of technology. An advanced clockwork system, something I have been developing for another project of mine. The electricity would not work unless you had an independent supply of power, which is feasible, but not practical in the least bit.” He paused only a second before continuing. “I will admit you are my first human subject with this new technology. You were rather a Godsend, really. There aren’t many people—much less optimal subjects—around here. Of course, I would have asked your permission,” he added. “However, you were in no shape to answer, and the prosthetic you had needed to go, lest you lose the whole arm. It seemed a pity to leave you without a replacement. So, here you are. And there it is. I wasn’t jesting about those tests, by the way. When you are feeling up to it, I would like to test and tweak the arm. I have a feeling that what you are experiencing now is only half of what the arm is capable of.”

I reeled from this onslaught of information. “Are we in the Galapagos?”

“No. We are on a small island north of them. Is that where you were headed?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was to catalogue fauna. I’m a biologist.”

“Wonderful! Wonderful. Well, it looks like you undershot your destination. Ships pass this way every few months. You should be able to find passage aboard one. Of course, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

I was struck by the sincerity of his offer. Relaxed now with a full stomach, I finally took full notice of him in the lamp light. He was of a medium height and build, compact, with sloping shoulders. The worn, loose white shirt he wore only accentuated their solid musculature. His dark blond hair was bleached to a golden hue that bespoke many hours in the sun, and it framed a high forehead and triangular jaw. The lamplight pooled in his hazel irises and made them appear almost green. Those deep-set eyes and the straight brows just above them gave him something of a brooding look, even when he smiled.

I felt a fluttering in my stomach. I had felt it before in the presence of other distinguished men, and always dismissed it as nervousness. I considered myself merely a standard specimen of the male sex, and as for intelligence, I was content with remaining a grunt of the academic world, so to speak. I was no great theorist myself, no Darwin in the making. I was simply a man with an education, a sense of curiosity, and enough grasp of the English language to communicate what I discovered. Certainly no great surgeon or mechanical engineer.

I cleared my throat. “Well, I am not sure how you learned to cook, but that was very good.”

He smiled at me as if I had made a joke. “Necessity breeds ingenuity.”

My pain, briefly forgotten in my frenzy of hunger, returned suddenly with a vengeance. Sheepishly, I excused myself.

Chapter Six

I awoke the next morning feeling remarkably refreshed, and found my host absent. Not wishing to abuse his trust, I sat quietly at the dining table and flipped through one of the displaced books, a well-worn volume regarding the anatomy of flight. At intervals I stepped outside to survey the landscape from the doorstep. The foliage was lush and verdant, quite unlike anything I’d ever seen. Without walking more than a foot from the door, I could already distinguish at least three different species of ferns beneath a crowding of green trees and coconut palms. A path leading from the door that disappeared around the little house. I noticed a cooking pit several yards away and recalled last night’s roasted fowl.

It was late in the morning when Marcus returned. I was sitting at the table reading a passage on the implausibility of a bee’s flight when he came through the door, flushed from the sun and heat. The blond hair was tousled and his eyes were bright, as if they had captured some of the sunlight. He shouldered a wicker bag to the ground, and I saw gnarled pieces of driftwood.

“Well, hello!” he puffed, slightly out of breath. He piled the driftwood beside the stove with quick, economic movements. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” I said. “Much better. Thank you.” I pressed a hand lightly against my ribs where they still smarted whenever I took a deep or quick breath. And there, too, was that fluttering in my stomach again, probably triggered by guilt for having been found reading a book from his personal collection. Or perhaps I was awed and overwhelmed by the elemental force with which he blew into the room, all sweat and lean muscle. It jarred my image of him as a gentleman surgeon and engineer. Here was something wilder.

From a satchel at his waist, he produced two handfuls of eggs and an assortment of exotic fruits. This became breakfast. “As you can imagine, I don’t entertain many guests,” he said as we finished. “Typically I subsist on a diet that mainly consists of discovery and distraction. Say, would you like a small tour outside? Are you feeling well enough?”

“Yes, on both accounts,” I said, relieved to find some other outlet for my nervous energy and attention. “I am anxious to see just how many new species of fern I will be able to discover and describe. This accident may prove to be a blessing in disguise,” I added, with a timid grin.

“That’s the spirit!”

He led me down a narrow path through a thick, vibrant forest. Perhaps it was good that I did not have my notebook and watercolors with me, for I stopped every few feet to gawk at some new flower or fern, and would have spent hours detailing them.

“Oh, the Galapagos are just lizard-infested rocks compared to this island,” Marcus assured me, patient with and amused by my frequent, excited stops. “You won’t find these rainforests there.” He walked with sure, long strides, apparently confident with the environment and himself.

Quite abruptly the thick cover of trees and foliage cleared away, and I found myself standing on a curving stretch of beach. The sun was just at its zenith, and I began to understand how my host had earned his swarthy complexion. The beach seemed to sit back in a relatively small, protected alcove. To either side of us, the coast rose into dramatic sea cliffs. Over these, tumbles of lush forest nearly spilled down into the water. It was a breathtaking scene.

I walked in a slow circle, noting ocean, beach, forest, and a swell of mountains. Marcus paused, allowing me a long minute to take it all in. Perhaps he had once had a similar reaction. “It must be volcanic,” I said of the island. “And not terribly old, at that.”

He nodded. “Yes, I drew the same conclusion. I will show you samples of rock, sometime. It is black and porous. And the mountains are magnificent. There are forests up there, in those clouds. I have walked the circumference of this island, but I’ve never made it up one of those peaks. One of these days. Soon. Very soon.”

A large dark shape marred the otherwise perfect white stretch of beach. It was a makeshift wooden platform, and on it stood several barrels and cords of driftwood. I also spied an assortment of poles and a scattering of detritus that was drying under the sun. “You’re a salvager,” I said.

“I make by with what I find, yes,” he said. “I was shipwrecked myself, you see.” I must have seemed surprised, for he said, “I didn’t end up on this island by design. Like you, I was marooned. The entire ship went down. I drifted onto this shore with pieces of the ship. I spent months salvaging that wreck. It covered not only this beach, but all of the island’s northern shore.”

“And you’ve remained?” I asked, surprised.

“Like you, I was on my way to study in the Galapagos. Besides prosthetics, I have an avid interest in birds. Honestly, I needed a break from society. Here, I have birds and solitude in plenty. I’ve seen no reason not to stay.”

His words struck an odd chord with me. We shared a significant glance, perhaps recognizing something familiar in each other.

From the beach, Marcus led me back under the cover of the trees, inland to a crystalline river that he used for cleaning and, upstream, for drinking. It ran fresh and fast, fed by the large amounts of rain that the island received. Downstream, the river ran into a small, shallow lake that he used as a bathing hole. It was fringed with ferns and protected from the sun by thick foliage.

By the time we had returned to the cabin, not far from the river, the equatorial heat had baked me into a stupor. Marcus fed me leftover fowl and bid me to nap. At first I protested, but he kindly insisted. I was abashed to find myself quickly drifting asleep.

Chapter Seven

For the second time that day, I awoke to find my host absent. However, the other door in the living room now stood open, and at the sound of the bedroom door closing behind me, Marcus appeared in its threshold. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“Much,” I admitted, though pain lanced through my ribs when I spoke.

He may have noticed my wince, for he said, “Come join me and have a seat. Let me look at that bandage, and perhaps, if you are feeling up to it, I can examine your arm.”

I followed him into a study with a beautiful mahogany desk in one corner and a wall almost filled with books. “You salvaged…all of these?”

“Oh, no. Certainly not. I was fortunate to capture the attention of a ship several months after my shipwreck. We developed a sort of trade agreement. Fruit, smoked meats, animals, and my marvelous creations in return for books, the occasional canned delicacy, pipe tobacco, and parts.”

A devilish question came to me. What did the man do for female companionship? But that was certainly no proper thought for an English gentleman. “You are very industrious,” I murmured politely.

“I keep myself busy enough. What else am I to do?” He drew me to an armchair at the far end of the small room and bade me to sit in it while he took the ottoman. I felt a fluttering of nervousness as he scooted close and took my leg in his hands. I held my breath as he unwrapped it.

Marcus peeled the thick dressing away slowly to reveal a laceration that ran the length of my calf. My stomach twisted at the sight of it. Bits of tender new skin stuck to the dressing where it had dried against the wound, and fresh red blood welled up and ran in trickles down my shin and the curve of my calf. He grimaced. “Sorry about that,” he said, catching the trails of blood. “This looks good. It’s healing well. See?” He chuckled at the sight of my face, which I am sure had gone pale. “It will be fine,” he reassured me. “This bright red tissue means that it’s healing well, and all signs of infection are gone. I’ll put a simple dressing on it this time.” He took a clean strip of linen from a small trunk beside him, coated one side of it with honey, placed this against the gash, then wrapped it in place.

At his words, I relaxed. When he was finished placing the new bandage, I flexed my leg, pleased with the lighter, less bulky dressing.

“Is there anything else you would like me to look at?” he asked.

I hesitated, but only momentarily. This man was a physician. “My ribs. Right here. They pain me when I breathe deep, or move a certain way, or sometimes when I—” And here, I winced with real, sudden pain, “—talk.”

He nodded. “I see. May I take a look?”

“Certainly,” I said, then was surprised when he continued to look at me expectantly. “Yes?”

He smiled. “I need you to lift your shirt.”

“Oh. Of course,” I said, a hot flush spreading over my face. I rolled the shirt up carefully. It had been easy to pretend he was merely a medic, a professional stranger, as he changed the bandage on my leg. The top of his head and his shoulders as he leaned over his task had been comfortably impersonal. Now, I looked away from the intense expression of concentration on his face as he scrutinized my chest. I worried what he might think of my gut, which had begun to round out. After Cara left, I had willingly fallen into neglect.

I nearly hissed as his fingertips pressed against my skin, gently exploring my bruise—but not because it hurt. On the contrary, it was because his touch was unexpectedly pleasing, almost overpoweringly so. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe. It had been more than half a year since I had been touched so intimately by another human being. Even my surgeon and nurses had barely made physical contact with me, and when they did, it was brief and economical. Now I almost began to weep as he knowledgably traced the circumference of the bruise and began to press against it tenderly, a world of care in that educated, humane touch. In fact, I relaxed so deeply into the sensation that I cried out when he found a tender spot. I opened my eyes and was surprised and dismayed to discover they were moist with tears.

“Ah ha,” he said. “Sorry about that. Are you all right? You’ve been bruised badly here. You might have sustained a fracture, but of course we can’t tell without a shadowgraph. However, I don’t feel anything out of place. If you take it easy, it should heal just fine.”

“Thank you, I will,” I said, lowering my shirt, grateful for its privacy but yearning for his touch. I shook my head imperceptibly. No, that was not an appropriate response or desire. I was stranded, distressed, longing for companionship, and very grateful for this man’s care. It was nothing more than that. I avoided his direct gaze, and I hoped that he would not notice the tears that rimmed my eyes.

He paused, seeming to hesitate, then asked, “Are you well enough for me to examine your arm, or would you like a break?”

In truth, I really did need the time to regain my composure. But I had already rested enough that day, and did not want to appear weak or faint. I said yes for this reason, and not, I assured myself, because I was reluctant to leave his company.

“Good,” he said, his smile reaching his eyes. “I’ll try to be brief and gentle. Just follow my directions, and let me know if you feel anything untoward.”

Untoward, like what? I wondered, dryly. My eyes still itched with the tears that threatened to swell up and roll down my cheeks.

Fortunate for me and for my dignity, he did not look long at my face. “Clasp your hand,” he told me, full attention on my prosthetic. “Yes. Now the other. Hold them out together so that I can compare. Yes. Just like that. Ah. Now, extend each of your fingers as if you were counting one to five. Now, each separately, please.”

He watched the arm intently as I performed these exercises, his head cocking this way and that like a curious bird. “Hold on,” he said, and disappeared from the room. I took the chance to dab my eyes dry and take a deep, settling breath. When he returned, he opened a roll of tools on the ground beside his low perch and began picking through them. “Just some slight adjustments,” he muttered, taking my forearm in his grip.

It was an odd feeling, watching another human hold that clockwork hand while instinctively expecting to feel his warmth and flesh. With no nerves there, I registered none of those sensations, only a feeling of pressure and movement to my upper arm and elbow as the forearm was gently drawn downward. A tickle of sensation communicated into my upper arm as he tinkered at the finger joints with a miniscule screwdriver. I was startled when suddenly he gripped my upper arm with one of his hands above the prosthetic, and suddenly I could feel his grip. It was firm and sure, unlike the tender exploration of his fingers on my chest, and his skin was hot. His fingers curled around the curve of my triceps.

This time, I was not caught so emotionally unprepared. I fancied my entire arm a machine, and he a mechanic, and in this way I distanced myself. Yet after all I had been through I could not help but begin to relax into that grip. On he went, eyes focused on the wrist of the prosthetic, muttering simple commands to me. And if the room suddenly felt warmer as he scooted the ottoman closer and lowered his face very close to the arm—still without releasing that strong, sure hold—he did not seem to notice. The moments dragged on while sweat beaded on my lip. I was barely breathing.

“Wiggle your fingers now,” he said, and I did. “Again,” he said, barely more than a whisper, an intimate level of voice that only served to remind me of his proximity. “Yes. Okay. There, we have it.” As he sat back and released his grip, his fingertips slid down my arm—softly, like a woman’s caress. Only a happenstance, yet I could not dismiss the trailing sensation of his fingers against my skin. I had often prayed Cara’s touch would affect me so.

“Are you all right?” asked Marcus, suddenly.

“Just fine,” I said. I managed to smile as I shifted ever so slightly in the chair. Inappropriate warmth was spreading through my groin, and—I was afraid—over my face. “Just a bit flushed from the heat. I am still acclimating to the tropics.”

“I see,” he said, nodding. “And I understand. I’ve been there before.” His gaze lingered on mine for a moment. Was that a true gleam of understanding there, or simply friendly sympathy? He said, “You should find that the hand responds better now. Perhaps even better than your left. I would suggest practicing with it.” With that, he stood.

“Of course,” I said as I flexed the hand experimentally. As I followed him from the office, I noticed an alabaster statue on his desk. It was maybe two feet tall, smooth, and represented a naked man as beautiful as a god. It was done in the style of a classical Greek carving. Every muscle, every curve, every feature was perfectly realistic. I was immediately entranced by it.

Marcus noticed the object of my distraction. Hurriedly, he said, “Oh! You’ve noticed my art. I have a taste for the classics. Please excuse me. As I said, I’m not used to entertaining guests…” He flushed.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I…I like it.” The words left my mouth of their own volition, and I was surprised at myself. I met Marcus’s gaze with slightly widened eyes, not sure what I had meant.

Chapter Eight

Mortified by the encounter, I feigned exhaustion so that I might retire to the bedroom. For a while, I sat up at the table in the room, staring at the finches. Their vain fluttering seemed to reflect my mental state—the useless excitation, the agitation without an outlet. I moved to the porthole window above the bed to watch the sun set, then lay down when it became fully dark. I slept fitfully that night, and then woke to early morning sunlight. I stood, pleased to find my strength had returned despite the difficult night. I walked through the empty living room and out onto the doorstep to take a deep breath of tropical air.

The still, quiet forest scene was broken only by the occasional tink of metal on metal. I surmised that my host, who I had thought perhaps asleep still, was crafting something. I followed the sound to the back of the little building. There, I found an open workshop built out from the back wall of the cabin. Two long wooden tables stood underneath the tin roof. One was empty save for a spread of tools. The other held a large, complex apparatus that gleamed in the morning sunlight. Marcus was there, bent over the thing with the same singular intent with which he had regarded my arm the night before.

“Good morning,” I said after a long moment, hesitant to disturb him, especially after last night’s embarrassment over the statue. As I watched him work, I could not banish the image of the perfect white curves of the stone man, nor of Marcus’s blushing face as my eyes fell upon them, as if I had stumbled upon some shameful secret.

He looked up and gave me a ready smile. “Good morning!” he said. “How do you feel?” He appeared to be his usual bright and friendly self, as if nothing had transpired last night.

I relaxed a bit. “Better.” I approached the end of the table and closed my clockwork fingers around a hammer. “This arm is amazing.”

He beamed. “Thank you. I’m glad it suits you.”

“And what is this?” I asked, gesturing to the metallic apparatus that almost threatened to swallow him.

“Oh! This is my pet project. My pride. Wings.”

At first, I didn’t understand, but once I stared at it, the lines and shapes and struts and joints materialized into a brass skeleton and overlapping rows of neat steel feathers. It was a pair of human-sized wings, half-folded on the table. Spread to their full width, they would easily span fifteen feet or more. “Real wings? Functional?”

“Real wings? Decidedly not real, but hopefully quite functional. Real in their intent, certainly.” He rubbed a hand down one of the struts. “I’ve been studying the form of bird wings. Vultures, primarily. Gliding still appears to be the best option for human flight, and that is something vultures excel at. But vultures can power themselves into the air and maintain their flight, which I must figure out how to do. And that is where I run into a problem. I’ve worked on compact steam engines, although they can’t sustain propulsion for long. Langley’s aerodrome didn’t last a mile before it lost fuel, and that was catapulted into the air, at that. I worked with electricity, which led to my side project with wireless electricity and the finches. You are familiar with those. Now I am toying with clockwork. Your arm is the working prototype for a new system I’d been developing. Not the first official prototype, mind you.” He laughed, obviously recognizing the flicker of dismay on my face. “I obviously can’t keep you on display in my workshop or take you to the World’s Fair. No, that’s what this is for.

“Say,” he said. “Care to join me for a walk? I like to scour the beach every morning. I’m rather in the mood for eggs.”

How the two correlated, I wasn’t sure, but I joined him. I was rather in the mood for eggs, myself. We walked down to the water’s edge and picked over the sand. Now and again he would stoop to examine a piece of beach detritus, turn it in his hands, and toss it away again. “Nothing today,” he said. “But then, it hasn’t stormed. That is when I can be out here for hours.” He paused, straightening, and looked out to sea. He raised an arm to point. “There is a large reef system out there, surrounding most of the island. Very dangerous in a storm. It’s what shipwrecked us, and it’s what keeps most ships from passing close. When they stop to trade, they must lay anchor beyond the reef and take the jolly boat up. Frankly, I’m fortunate they take the risk at all.”

We walked a while longer along the surf. He glanced at the sky and said, “We’re lucky it hasn’t rained. Usually, there’s at least a short shower every day.” He turned to face inland and pointed up, where the land swelled up into a peak. “I believe there is a rainforest on the top of that mountain, hidden and kept constantly moist by the clouds. I’ve heard descriptions of cloud forests. That’s the first place I’m going when I’m up in the air on those wings. A man has to have aspirations, eh?”

I nodded. It was an impressive goal. Something he had said stirred my curiosity, and I asked, “You referred to ‘us’ when you mentioned you had been shipwrecked. If you don’t mind me asking, were you the only survivor?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. His tone took on a somber note. “No, I was not. There were seven of us that came to shore. Two died of malaria in the two months before we could hail a ship. The other four left on that first ship. Only I remained.”

“I see,” I said, softly. “Excuse me for asking.”

He looked at me. “No, it’s all right.”

We walked in silence for a while. He led us inland on a different, smaller path. It took us through thick forest to a small pond, where I was surprised to find a colony of common ducks. These, he explained, were his fresh source of meat and eggs. They had been shipped here at his behest, then encouraged to breed. The ducks, along with three crates of rabbits, were set loose on the island. He kept two cages of common finches at the cabin for his experimentation. “All of this lush greenery, and no mammals,” he said. “Every creature that lives here is a transplant from the mainland. No mammals ever reached here, nor amphibians. None that I have seen.”

“A fascinating ecology,” I said. “It will be interesting to see how the rabbits have come along.” I surveyed the duck population and nodded appreciably. I would return to record details later—the starting population, the current population, time elapsed.

True to his word, Marcus found eggs, and we took these back with us. I felt more comfortable this morning with my host. The friendly, academic dialogue did me good. I felt most at home when engaging in scholarly pursuits. Marcus’s intelligence and skill were remarkable, matched only by his humility and honesty when admitting that which he did not know. He showed great interest and attention as I identified plant genera and lapsed into a casual lecture about botanical identification, and he expressed delight when I showed him an edible fruit he’d avoided until then.

After lunch, I dared to ask him for a tour of more of the island. My ribs were feeling well in spite of our morning walk, and I was eager to test my limits. We spent the afternoon ducking through brush and climbing over rock outcroppings in search of rabbits. It was a damp, exhausting business, but I was flush with the pursuit and with the friendly attention of my companion. We returned to the cabin late in the afternoon. My ribs were tender and my leg smarted, but I was content and we had rabbit meat for supper.

We did not say much over the meal, but that was just as well, for my mind was busy digesting all of what I had observed that day. Afterward, Marcus kindly provided me with clean paper and a pen, and I disappeared into the room to detail my observations. For a time, I lost myself in the scratch of the pen on paper and the flow of my thoughts onto the page. I wrote until my hand cramped any my eyes grew bleary by the lamplight, and I had only to tumble into to bed to fall blessedly, deeply asleep.

Chapter Nine

The next morning I woke feeling damnably sore and as stiff as a corpse. I rather smelled like one, too. With no soap or towel or clean clothes to change into, I winced my way out to the bathing lake that Marcus had shown to me. I blundered only briefly in the wan early morning light before I found the sound of running water and followed it to the lake.

I found a thick fray of ferns to hide behind—silly, on a remote island, but habits die hard—and gratefully removed my sour clothing. I wadded it up, having made the decision to clean it as I bathed.

I stepped from the privacy of the ferns and cried out loud in alarm. Marcus was sitting in the water less than a dozen feet away, naked torso disappearing into the black water and one arm draped casually over the bank. Surprised, he looked up.

My arms darted down to cover my nakedness with the ball of clothing. “Pardon me!” I exclaimed, face flushing hot. I began to back away.

His surprised expression quickly changed. “Don’t be silly!” he said. “Join me. You only startled me.” He slid sideways in the water, making room for me at a bare stretch of the lake’s edge where the foliage had long since been trampled clear.

It was a simple accident, blundering onto my bathing host and newfound friend. But we were both men, were we not? And he had seen me nude before, for all that I had been unconscious. Yet I was frozen where I stood, afraid to move, for the heat from my face had traveled straight down to my groin. Under the concealing bunch of clothing, my cock stirred.

Marcus read the dismay on my face as shyness, and he turned his face away with a good-natured laugh. “There. I’ll look away. Be careful with that arm. Hold it up as you get in, then I will show you what to do with it.”

I approached the lake stiffly and stepped in gingerly, sucking in a breath at the unexpected coolness and then hissing with the sudden pain in my ribs. Only when I was submerged to my chest did I release the clothing, which billowed to the surface and began to float. I pushed it aside and propped my arm up on the bank.

“Ready? Good,” said Marcus, floating closer. “May I?” He indicated my arm.

I nodded. The unexpected coolness of the water had distracted me somewhat from my embarrassment. Now I attempted to focus my attention on what he was about to demonstrate with my new arm—not, I told myself, on Marcus’s naked form or my startled appreciation of his lean arms and shoulders.

He took the prosthetic in one hand and gripped one of the struts of the brace with the other. “Like your old arm, you can detach the prosthetic at the stump. The release for the brace is here and here. Grip the arm firmly, like this. The brace will fold down, and then you must press here and here. Pull firmly, and—here we are—the prosthetic disengages from the tendon hooks.” He lifted the entire right arm and placed it gently on the bank, leaving me with the clean, flat stump.

I was lucky, my surgeon had told me, lucky that part of the arm beneath the elbow could be saved. The intact tendons there had been fashioned with hooks that poked up from the healed flesh of the stump like savage talons. The three of them were able to articulate with the levers that controlled the prosthetic, allowing for movement that was almost natural. It was a very clever bit of technology, but the naked stump looked absolutely ghastly, and I had guarded it fiercely from view since my discharge from the hospital. No one besides my surgeon and nurses had ever seen it, save Marcus now.

“Excuse me,” I muttered, hiding the whole eyesore under the water and looking away.

“It’s quite all right,” he said. “I am not offended by your arm.”

“I am,” I said, darkly, and reached for the floating heap of clothes. I propped my leg against the rock, then used it as a scrubbing board to mash the clothes clean with my good hand.

“I have soap,” he offered in a mild voice, and soon I had lathered my entire body and the clothes while Marcus rested casually against the bank, soaking with closed eyes. His wet hair lay sleek against his skull, and I found myself admiring his features. No doubt the young doctor could have his pick of female companionship.

My hand lingered as I soaped my groin under the water. I found that my cock, though no longer erect, remained in a state of semi-arousal. Even the faintest touch set my nerves on fire. My fingers trailed against my soft but rapidly firming flesh of their own accord. Just as my eyes began to slide shut with pleasure, his opened and met my gaze.

An electric jolt of alarm and guilt coursed through me. What on God’s earth was I thinking? “Your soap,” I said quickly, placing it on a flat rock between us. I began to gather the clothing with my one hand, but he said, “Don’t worry about that. When I leave, I will take it. You can leave it to soak there.”

I shifted uncomfortably against the edge of the lake, keeping my traitorous hand tucked behind the small of my back where it could perform no more scandals. With a stirring erection and no clothing to cover me, I was trapped under the water until Marcus retired from his bath. The more I fretted over my absurd and inappropriate behavior, the more my cock swelled. Meanwhile Marcus relaxed in the water, making no move to leave.

I leaned my head back and stared at the canopy above, imposing the image of Cara on my mind’s eye. The curve of her waist, the luscious breasts, the trim ankles—so perfect. She was what any man would want. Yes, what every man should want. My eyes wrinkled as I thought of her, and the remembered pain tamed my cock to stillness. It reminded me that I was a gentleman biologist in polite exile, alive by the grace of my host.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Marcus said gently, “how is it that you lost your arm?”

“It was an accident.” I supposed it was only fair for him to ask. After all, I had inquired about his own misfortune. In truth, I was glad, because it was a relief to talk the whole nonsense out to a sympathetic ear. “An engine accident at the institution where I am employed. I was distracted with a matter in my personal life. A matter about a woman. Her name was Cara, and we were engaged to be married. The wedding was to be in a month. She left me.”

My voice fell silent, and Marcus murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, not as sorry as me,” I said. “I didn’t sleep for more than a few hours in that first week. I was a mess. I was running a set of calculations through the library difference engine, and I wasn’t thinking. My cuff caught in the gears as it ran. It snagged me firmly. I hadn’t the energy or reflexes to pull myself free in time. It chewed my hand and forearm to a pulp, gummed up the whole works.” I turned my head aside, ill at the memory.

His expression turned grim. “I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

I shook my head, miserable with the whole thing. “No, it’s all right. I just try not to think about it. If it weren’t for the entire bloody mess, I wouldn’t be here now. I would have two working arms, the chance to be tenured, to publish papers. Two manuscripts wilt in a box in England, simply waiting for review. They will never go further than that. And neither will I.”

Marcus said nothing into this silence. Pitying me, I thought. I realized then that this island life was a holiday for him, a quiet respite while he perfected his research, safe from the distractions of society and the peering eyes of less innovative imitators. When he was through, he would publish his research, take his work back to the Americas, and live comfortably on his established reputation. A tenured professorship would be waiting for him, I was sure, and a busy private practice in mechanical prosthetics. And I? I was a ruined man, destroyed by my affections for a woman. I was a convenient test subject, an object of pity.

There was a splash of water, and I turned to see Marcus swiftly tying a towel about his waist. I avoided his eyes as he stepped close to take the wet clothes from the lake. “If you care to wait a minute longer, I will bring you a towel and clothing.”

I didn’t see that I had a choice, but civilly kept that comment to myself. It occurred to me that choice was just one thing I hadn’t had much of for the last year. I needed to resign myself to that.

Marcus frowned and passed a troubled gaze over me. My story had disturbed him, then. I turned my eyes to the black surface of the lake and stared bitterly at my own reflection.

Chapter Ten

The afternoon and evening passed dismally. It rained, as Marcus had said it would. It was a monotonous, unending drizzle. I retired to my room to nurse my aching body and black spirit. Before the rain started, I had managed to clip several intriguing plant samples, and now I hunched over the table, describing them exhaustively on paper. If I didn’t keep my mind busy, my thoughts turned to self-pity or—worse—to the image of Marcus’s round, muscled chest rising from the water.

Marcus came in once, apologetically, to ask how I was doing and to take the bird mount from the bench. My skin prickled as he crossed the room. “Fine,” I lied, swallowing a dry lump in my throat. I gave him the barest of glances and flat smiles, afraid of staring if I looked at him or appearing rude if I did not. He invited me to supper, but I had no hunger, only a hole inside of me that had nothing to do with want for food.

Finished with the samples, I began a log of all that had happened to me since the shipwreck, hour by hour, detail for detail. Eventually I bored of this dry recount and started a list of every plant genus I had recognized so far. I described my observations of the altered finches, mused on how the introduction of rabbits into a predator-free environment would alter the island’s ecology, and made a list of all of the topics I would research when I returned to England, for—while I might never attain a tenured position or publish ground-breaking research—I could at least continue my career in biology. There was nearly infinite room for underdog intellectuals in the realm of science. Hundreds—nay, thousands—of jobs needed to be completed so that the true savants had literature to draw upon, like cataloguing new species and writing article drafts. These jobs took intellect, but not genius. Intellect I had, and I was good at these things. I even survived on them. Scientific inquiry was the fire inside of me. Indeed, it was all I truly had. It had always been enough for me, and it must always be enough.

I wrote until well after dark, and then doused the lamp and went to bed not because I was tired, but because I was out of things to write and because habit demanded it. However, sleep would not come. Instead a sort of nervous pressure pressed against my mind, urging me to wakefulness. Pain worried me like a knife in my chest and a burning in my leg, and though Marcus had changed the wet bandage once I’d returned to the cabin, I wondered if I shouldn’t have taken that bath in the lake, after all. I tossed fitfully, thoroughly uncomfortable in body, in mind, in spirit.

After a small eternity, the door quietly opened. I had just turned to face the wall, so I could not see Marcus, but I could sense his hesitant presence. Surprised, I turned. I could see him silhouetted by soft lamplight from the living room. He eased forward, slowly and quietly. In a low voice, he said, “You are awake. Are you all right? I can hear you tossing.”

I sat up, wincing with pain in my rib and then stumbling because of the wooden unresponsiveness of my right arm. I gripped it with my left hand and worked it back and forth to wind the clockwork. “I apologize,” I said, abashed. “I suppose I have a good bit on my mind.”

“And you are in pain, I imagine.”

I grimaced. “It is tolerable.” A sudden thought struck me. “Where are you sleeping?” The cabin had but two rooms, this one and the study. The only bed I had ever noted was the one I occupied.

Marcus now stood but a foot away, so I could see the shadow of his shoulder as he shrugged. “On the floor.” Immediately, I let out a cry of “Oh!” and began to swing to the side of the bed, but he planted a warm hand against my shoulder and said, “A jest. I sleep in the chair in the study. It’s actually quite comfortable.”

“The chair!” I said. That didn’t seem much better than the floor.

“Shh, it’s all right. And I came here for you, not for me.”

“I’m fine,” I said, both embarrassed and flattered. “Although now I’m afraid I will never be able to sleep knowing that I’ve put my host out of his own bed.”

“Then I suppose there is only one choice. We shall have to share it,” was his quick reply. I gaped at him, unable to speak, and he held up a hand. “A jest! Simply a jest.” He took a step backward.

A deluge of emotions broke over me like a sudden, violent wave. Guilt, alarm, a breath-stealing fear. Respect, humility. And there, yes, was want—a need for human closeness, for this presence that cared for and acknowledged me—and shame because of that want. And more than that, greater than the shame, was the need. “No,” I said before he had made it halfway across the room. I chose my words with care. “No, it seems…like a fair compromise. I have a suspicion you would not allow me to take your place in the chair. So.” I shifted in the bed closer to the wall. It would be wide enough for the both of us, but only just so.

He hesitated a moment, and then closed the distance to the door. With his hand on the door he asked, “Are you sure?” At my steadfast, “Yes,” he closed it, then came to the bed and slid carefully onto the linens next to me. I threw the sheet over him and sank back into the pillow with every muscle tense. The warmth of his body traveled quickly under the covers. For many moments, I dared not move, lest I bump against him. Indeed, I barely breathed.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you have enough room? If you become uncomfortable, let me know. I don’t want to make matters worse.”

“It’s fine,” I said, closing my eyes and taking a deep, slow breath, mindful of my ribs. “I will let you know.”

I felt rather than saw him nod. There was silence after that. I focused on the sound and character of his breathing, which lengthened and deepened after a time. When I was sure he was asleep, I opened my eyes again and slowly relaxed. In truth, I had just as much difficulty falling asleep knowing my host was in bed next to me as I would have knowing he was in a chair. I wondered if I should have insisted on taking that chair myself. Of the two of us, at least he could have benefited properly from the bed, and I would have had a ready supply of texts to occupy my wakeful hours.

But then, he wouldn’t have allowed that, would he? He continually expressed genuine concern for my well-being, and not just as a test subject. Even Cara had not shown me this deference. If she did anything for me without immediate personal gain, she made sure that I knew how fortunate I was to have her. She thrived on attention. Apparently I had never given her enough.

I was afraid I may have been unfair and incorrect in my earlier judgment of Marcus. For all that he was a genius well on his way to fame and fortune, he was a shipwrecked man, like me. And, also like me, he was an outsider of society. Who else could live like a hermit on a remote island? He had built his own home and his own life here and had even found the means to continue his research. Now, he shared this all with me without asking for anything in return.

I was aware of Marcus’s warmth next to me, and how much I needed it, how much I needed that closeness. It came to me as a wrenching yearning, and I understood at once that this was not something new. It had been buried inside of me for so long that I had for all intents forgotten it. My eyes burned, and tears sprang up as they had two nights ago in his study. This time I let them come. They welled in my eyes and tipped down over my cheeks.

A memory came to me then, almost as vivid as if it had happened yesterday: Cara, calling upon me at work, and me distracted and vaguely annoyed. She wanted me to walk in the park with her and perhaps come home for dinner. I told her I’d work to do, and her features screwed into an expression of pouting anguish. She reached a hand to me before she went, perhaps a last attempt to connect, or to supplicate, or simply to feel me. I grasped her hand in mine stiffly and awkwardly, no more personally than a handshake. A dim awareness caused me to pull her into a hug, but even that embrace was tense and brief. However, it was enough to douse the anger in her eyes. When she departed they were like wet coals, dark and damp. I recognized her anger and disappointment, but at the time did not think much of it. She was bold and impulsive, calling upon me at the university without warning and expecting me to drop what I was doing. If she was disappointed, it was not my fault. Did she not respect the importance of what I did?

That was not it at all, though. No, she had not been impulsive or bold or selfish, but human. She had been seeking connection with me and I had avoided it, repeatedly and frequently. Often, when I’d thought I was busy with work, or too tired, or in need of personal space, I had truly been avoiding her. The pouting and the demands for attention had simply been her desperate efforts to draw from me what I should naturally have been giving her; affection and genuine regard. In the end she had simply done the only thing she could have. She left.

It had not been Cara at all. It had been me. I had been hurting her, and in return I was now in every sort of imaginable pain—physical, emotional, spiritual. It was my fault. I was the cause of all of this pain.

At that, my throat closed and the tears flowed freely. Every muscle in my chest tightened, but the pain did not stop me from beginning to shake. It only served as a sharp reminder of what I had done to myself, and I began to cry harder.

My God, I’ll wake him up, I thought. I turned to the wall and curled into myself, attempting to quiet the silent, shaking gasps. A moment later, Marcus stirred.

“Jon?” he asked, sleepily. Then, more clearly, “Are you all right?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m fine.” My voice trailed into a strained whisper.

“No, I don’t think you are. Come here.” He was propped on his side, facing me. I turned minutely to see that he had lifted his arm.

I relaxed and uncurled my body. I twisted to say, No, I’ll be all right. I’m so sorry. I’ll take the chair, but my speaking muscles spasmed and I only groaned. Yes, to the chair, where I could continue to cry in loneliness and leave Marcus to his bed.

He did not give me the chance to decide. He lowered his arm across my chest and pulled me against him, strong and warm and secure. I gasped with surprise, dismay, and pain. His voice near my ear murmured, “It’s all right. There is no one here but me. It’s all right.”

His words released the floodgate. Like a fist around my heart, every muscle in my chest twisted tight, and I convulsed in his arms with a wrenching sob. It was followed by another, and another—one after the other, broken only by sharp, strident breaths. The bed shook with the sobs. Marcus’s arm tightened across my chest, holding me steady as my body bucked fitfully.

My eyes poured tears, my nose grew runny, and my body shuddered. I had lost all composure, any control I’d had. The only thing left of me was tears, and wailing, and my ragged breaths, and my body shaking against Marcus.

If I began to quiet for a moment, another thought would come, unbidden, to trigger the sobs again. I clung to Marcus’s arm, held it to me fiercely. Teeth chattering, jaw clenched, I cried, “I never loved her! Oh, God, I never even loved her!” and curled around his arm as another fit ripped my breath from me. They were reaching a hysterical note.

There it was. The truth I had been hiding from. It had all been a lie. I had never really loved Cara at all. I had been fond of her, certainly, and had even thought I had wanted her as my wife. But I had never loved her.

My breath was stolen by a long series of hissing, convulsive, dry sobs that never seemed to end. The muscles in my back, stomach, and jaw locked and burned. They threatened to burst themselves. An involuntary, animal groan squeezed up from my gut.

“Ssshhh,” soothed Marcus, rubbing his trapped hand against my shoulder. “Calm down, now. Slow your breathing. You’ll faint.”

I reigned in the next sob and shuddered on the long, sharp intake of breath. I let it out with a gush through my clenched teeth. I groaned helplessly with it. My stomach muscles trembled with the force of another sob that attempted to take me, but I swallowed it back with a miserable cry.

“Sssshhh. That’s it. It’s all right,” said Marcus, massaging my shoulder painfully now. I hadn’t the breath to complain. It was strangely centering.

Slowly, I relaxed into him. Every few moments I was seized by a sudden, spontaneous sob that threatened to break me apart again, but Marcus anchored me with his strong arms around my chest. Finally, the convulsions ended. I lay panting, spent and hollow. My face itched with tears. My mouth hung open, and my nose was thoroughly stopped up.

With the calm returned a vague sense of dignity, and with that, an awareness of how I clung to Marcus. Yet, I could not muster the strength nor spirit to care. I was only grateful, and—vaguely, weirdly—rebellious. God, let me have this. At least let me have this.

I closed my eyes. Shuddering softly, I sighed. With that, the last of the crying went out of me, and I relaxed finally, completely.

“There,” whispered Marcus. I worried that he would release me, but he did not. He only relaxed his arms a little so that I could breathe fully once again. He said nothing more, and neither did I. There were no words for the depth of my gratitude.

I fell asleep with his breath warming the back of my neck.

Chapter Eleven

I awoke feeling quieted. For many moments, I remained on my side without moving, regarding the wall with a sense of peace.

Marcus still slept, his back pressed against mine. His breathing was heavy and steady. Odd, I thought. Odd that he is still asleep and it’s morning. I had always found him awake and active.

With awareness of Marcus came awareness of the night before. Matter-of-factly, I thought I should feel shame for what had transpired, as if I had somehow taken advantage of his kindness. Yet I could not. There was only a calm awareness, as if I had been purged.

I slowly sat up, careful of my inert right arm, and looked down upon Marcus. I did not care to encounter him awake just now. Quietly, I wound my arm and then picked my way over his body. He remained blessedly undisturbed.

The light of the sun, largely hidden by the trees, became brighter as I approached the open beach. Here, the light was clean and new and evenly cast. I walked to the surf and stood there with my feet meeting the waves, watching the western horizon grow slowly lighter.

My eyes unfocused so that I took in the whole of the panorama—the long line where the dusky sky met the dark ocean waves. I felt vacant inside, as if I’d been cored. It was a filled emptiness. No loose fittings rattled inside. Just a serene feeling, as if nothing but breath filled me, or cloud.

I really should not have broken down like that, I thought at length. Eventually my rational mind talked me into misgivings, regrets. No, I should not have broken down like that. I should have composed myself like a man. Instead I had acted like a child spoiled with attention. I had taken advantage of Marcus’s kindness and shamed myself. However, I could not take that back now. I had done the thing, and now I had to live with it.

The sky lightened to the familiar new blue of early morning. I am not sure how long Marcus stood there before I became aware of his presence. He seemed to be silently regarding the horizon, and was dressed in fresh clothes. For a while we simply shared the breeze, the horizon, and the waves. At length, I said, “I hope you can accept my apologies regarding last night. I lost control of myself.” I dared not look at him as I spoke, lest I lose the courage. Instead I spoke to the ocean, which wouldn’t have cared had I cried a lake.

“It’s all right,” said Marcus, stepping next to me. “These things happen. It is what makes us human. How do you feel now?”

“Purged.”

He did not reply immediately, and I interpreted his silence to be a negative response. Disdain, perhaps, or disapproval. My throat suddenly grew tight and my eyes threatened to burn. So I was not purged after all, but fragile like blown glass. I swallowed back the emotion and filled the silence with words. Perhaps, at least, I could somehow make him understand. “My life has been stressful and confusing. As you can imagine—as you possibly experienced—being shipwrecked is…disorienting. You have been very kind to me. Too kind. I am very grateful to you.” I struggled past a lump and forced life into my words, though my voice was failing me. “I’m just rather afraid I’m weak.”

“Is that…what you think?” asked Marcus.

Now, my treacherous eyes watered. I only prayed that they did not overflow. “Of course. Don’t you?”

He said, “No. No, of course not. Jon, you are a strong and courageous person. And as tough as a nut!”

I was so startled that I looked at him despite my brimming eyes. Firmly, he continued. “You survived a violent storm at sea, and not just survived. You thrive. Yes, I know what it is like to be shipwrecked. I’ve experienced madness. My own, that of others. I’ve seen men die. No, I certainly don’t think you are weak.”

I looked away again. “You say that while I have tears in my eyes,” I scoffed.

“And what is your point?” he asked. “You are a proud, brave, resourceful, beautiful, dignified man. Even with the tears. Hell, because of the tears!”

I had focused every ounce of my concentration on keeping my face turned from him. So much so that I did not sense him moving closer until his hand was under my face. He took my chin gently and tipped my face toward his. “Don’t you see?” he asked, while I searched his eyes with confusion and surprise. Tears began to roll down my face. The edges of his mouth tipped up in a rueful, tender way. “You are an amazing person.” Then, he leaned in and placed his lips against mine in a short, sweet kiss.

His hand fell away as he pulled back, gaze locked with mine. I stared, speechless, the fresh tears still wet on my cheeks and the memory of his lips still imprinted on mine. Surprisingly soft, and as considerate and sure as his hands had been.

Marcus took a step backward. I caught his wrist before he could take another, and pulled him back toward me. What I would do once he was close again, I was not sure—not until his face was inches from mine. My hands rose to his face, and I winced slightly as my cold metal fingers touched his skin—not because I could feel them, but because I knew that he could. But then, I was guiding his mouth toward mine. He curled his hands around my neck with a sharp intake of breath that I felt as much as heard. Our lips touched, and this time they were exploring, kneading, needing.

A wave of energy and want flowed into me from that kiss—out from him and up from my gut. Our fingers tightened and we pressed closer until our bodies were molded against each other and I could feel his cock, hard against my thigh. I groaned reflexively against his mouth—surprised, alarmed, joyful. He groaned back and I was aware of my own member pressed stiff against him. His hips dipped down to grind wantingly against it. His tongue flicked against the crease of my mouth, invitingly. I parted my lips for him. I could taste him now, yes, and somehow I felt his caressing tongue and the heat of his loins as one sensation.

I broke away from him, panting heavily for breath. Sweet fresh salt air rushed in around our faces. “How? Why?” I gasped.

Marcus rested his forehead against mine and his arms traveled down to encircle my shoulders. “Thank you,” he said, breathlessly. “Oh my God, thank you.” He laughed and squeezed me and said, “You have awoken a passion in me I have not felt for years. I had begun to forget what it was like to be with a person, to be with a man. And here you came, so perfect, so desirable. If we’d have met on the mainland, I would have considered myself just as lucky.” He smiled at me. “Do you see now?”

“You desire men?” Puzzled, I pulled back.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, wry and sheepish.

“I never thought—” What? Never thought it was possible for an educated professional man to exhibit such unnatural, wanton cravings—or that those cravings may not be unnatural or wanton at all? Never thought that my nervous regard for beautiful, intelligent men may have been more than just admiration?

“You didn’t know,” he said, an explosion of mirth lighting his eyes. It was neither a statement nor a question, but a realization.

I shook my head. There was a great deal I didn’t know.

He drew his eyebrows together and pursed the lips I had just kissed. He hesitated, then said, “I…would like to show you, if you would let me.”

My gut clenched. “I…” I could not find the words. I could only stare at him standing before me in the clean morning light, a shadow cast across his eyes. God, I could still feel him against me—his skin, his lips, his cock—and I wanted him. I wanted to touch his face, to run my hands over his chest and through his sun-bleached hair. Wanted to feel his breath against my mouth. I wanted— Oh, God, I wanted to hold his stiff cock.

A twist of horror shot through the desire. What was I thinking? Here was the man who cared for me and showed me tenderness—beautiful, intelligent, and gracious. And I—I was exiled, stranded. Fractured.

“I can’t—” I choked, but did not know the rest of the words. Oh, but it suddenly made sense, didn’t it? The realization turned my blood to ice. This was the thing that had been wrong with me, the secret so shameful that I had kept it even from myself. I desired men.

I desired men, and I desired Marcus.

When I did not answer straight away, Marcus turned his face away. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I have acted out of line. It’s just… When I found you on the beach, you were so perfect, even broken. And then you opened to me last night, and I thought perhaps… Well, it’s been so long, and I hoped so hard that you would want me as I want you.”

My breath hitched. He stood there, a picture so tragically beautiful it made my throat close. I wanted to touch my fingers to his cheek, to comfort him. “Marcus.” My mouth had gone dry, my voice hoarse.

He looked at me with an expression of raw hope and need. Tears swelled in my eyes, and I looked away. “I…do. I want you.” My lips twisted into a tortured smile, and I laughed, a harsh sound. “I feel passion for you that I have never felt for a woman.”

The warm press of his fingers on my cheek made my heart lurch. I looked at him and for a long moment, he searched my gaze. “It’s not easy being this way,” he murmured. “I couldn’t live the lie anymore. It’s why I left. I don’t want you to…regret anything.”

I pressed my good hand to the one he held against my face. “The lie is what destroyed me.” I had never loved Cara, nor any woman. Denying my attraction to the same sex had only led to my ruin. I gripped his fingers and steeled myself against the fear I felt. “Please, show me.”

“Are you sure?” he whispered, pressing his forehead against mine.

I nearly moaned. I sought his mouth with mine. “Yes,” I said against it.

Chapter Twelve

Our lips met and we kissed again, this time slower and deeper. Marcus threaded his fingers into my hair and massaged my scalp, pressing my face gently against his as his tongue explored my mouth. Again, everything—our lips, our tongues, our skin touching, and his fingers working against the tension in my muscles—combined into one sensory experience that threatened to drown me. My knees could melt out from under me, and I would not care. I would simply dissolve into Marcus, a merged thing, a single flesh.

When we parted mouths, he played his fingers lightly over my chest. They came to rest at the hem of my shirt. Softly, seriously, he said, “When I ask you to take your shirt off this time, it is not as your doctor.”

I nodded in response, and my belly clenched. Suddenly I feared I might be ill.

Perhaps he recognized some change in my body language, for he hesitated. But my need for him far exceeded my fear of succumbing to stress response. “Please,” I begged.

He swept the shirt off of me, and I whimpered at a stab of pain from my rib. “Oh!” he exclaimed, but I shook my head emphatically and said, “I’m well.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, smoothing his hands over my shoulders. My chest, my flanks, my lower back. His hands were strong and sure, as I remembered them, but charged this time with heat and hunger.

“You are a doctor, aren’t you?” I posed, slyly.

“Yes, but not right now.” His voice trailed into a throaty whisper.

He had me. He knew it, too, because he chuckled wickedly and caressed my arse. His touch swept up to my lower abdomen, only several shivering inches from my cock, which ached from need. “May I?” he asked, barely a whisper this time.

My mouth had gone dry. I did not trust myself to form words, so I placed my hands over his and hooked his thumbs into the waist band of my pants. His body tensed against mine, and then he caught my mouth in a kiss as he slid the pants over my hips. My cock sprang free. His hands deposited the pants at my knees, and then traveled back up the fronts of my thighs and along the fold of my groin, teasingly close to my member. The sea breeze whispered across my skin, and though it wasn’t cold, I shivered. A hundred worries flashed through my mind. What if I was not the right length, or thickness, or color? What would he think of my being so hard for him? What if I went soft? What if I disappointed him? Oh, but his fingers were so close. I nearly groaned as I shivered again, this time from pleasure. “Oh, yes,” he murmured, staring at my erection with admiration plain on his face. “You’ve a beautiful cock.”

I swallowed through my tight throat and said, “Thank you,” not sure what the proper response to this was. It seemed to suffice, because Marcus smiled at me before running his hands down my flanks and thighs. As his hands drew back up, they slid inward along my inner thighs, fingertips brushing against my scrotum. I sucked in a quick breath and trembled where I stood.

“You may want to lie down,” he suggested, with an amused tip of one eyebrow. He guided me onto the sand, and then lowered himself beside me, still clothed.

“Will you, ah…” And I could not think of how to ask the question. “Your clothes.”

He laughed. The shirt came off first, revealing that toned abdomen and the lean curve of his shoulders and back. I found myself beginning to look away, then recalled that this time, it was all right to admire. By the time his hands reached his pants, my stomach had twisted into a knot. Yes, there was his cock—reddened, long, slender, and stiff. For me.

He was so close that his scent entered my nostrils—fleshy, musky, tantalizing. I wetted my lips. My hand itched to hold him, but I hesitated, afraid to disturb the perfect sight of his cock and unsure of how to touch him. I knew the best ways to pleasure myself—all the correct positions, the pressure, the cadence. But Marcus’s cock was so beautiful, and I worried that my scant knowledge would not be sufficient. Then, too, touching him would make this all so very real.

I drew in a deep breath and swallowed my trepidation. “May I?” I asked. He smiled and kneeled close to me on the sand. I ran my good hand over his chest and stomach, both lean and hard from island life. I traced his thin hips, the dip of his pelvis, the shock of dark curly hair. He trembled as my fingers brushed toward his member. I paused with fingers slightly curled, close enough that I could feel his heat. With a low chuckle, he twitched his member into my hand. As his flesh hit my palm, my own cock throbbed. His shaft was hot and solid, and he hummed as I stroked its exquisite, velvet length.

A heavy pressure lifted from my heart as I gripped him. I had not realized that it had been there until it was gone—years of fear that I could not love another, that I was incapable of that emotion. I was so very sorry about Cara, but then, I had not known. Now, Marcus felt divinely right in my hands, wondrously so.

“For me?” he asked, amused, as he regarded the tip of my penis. There was a drop of fluid there, proof of my excitation.

“Yes,” I admitted, laying back onto my elbows.

“I see,” he said, lips curling up in a sly smile. And then he lowered his face and before I realized his intent, before I could possibly object, he had closed his mouth around the head of my cock and sucked the drop from it. I hissed with surprise, and hardly cared about the slice of pain it elicited from my rib. He chuckled, and then he swallowed the length of me. I dropped back onto the sand with a shudder.

He went slowly at first, and I struggled to hold back tortured, guttural noises of pleasure. He pulled at me with a gentle suction, teeth grazing ever so lightly as his tongue made lazy circles along the underside of my cock. The grip of his mouth was as skilled as that of his hands, and even more capable of eliciting pleasure.

One of his hands found the base of my shaft and began to squeeze and twist. His rhythm quickened and my throat abandoned making noises in favor of drawing in deep, fast breaths. I sensed another rhythm at work. I stole a look down the length of my body to see his head working up and down, the length of my cock appearing and disappearing with every movement. Beyond, his body was folded in the sand, torso twisted to the side. His folded legs framed his magnificent cock and his other hand, which worked it with strong strokes. The whole scene sent a delicious thrill through me.

“Mmm,” I hummed, and he made an answering noise that vibrated against my cock. He drew his mouth all the way up, momentarily disengaging from me, and then plunged back down. My hum turned into an animal grunt, and I began to pant as his rhythm changed now—slow, fast, slow—in a way that made me wild. A fire grew in my loins. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to contain myself.

“Marcus,” I gasped. “I don’t think—I can’t—” Words failed me. Fire spread through me. I was going to spend, right then, into his mouth.

His only response was a rapturous moan. He dipped his head severely at a jackhammer pace, and my cock bumped against the back of his throat.

It was too much. I convulsed and cried out, splayed on the sand in helpless ecstasy. My come filled his mouth and he allowed it. He sucked it down greedily, then released me.

At my waist, Marcus grunted and hissed, back arching now as his hand pumped his cock. I watched with fascination as he doubled over and a spray of his seed shot across the sand. He collapsed against my legs, lungs heaving, and laughed.

I had no words, so I lay on the sand like a beached fish with my mouth hanging open—limp, beaded with sweat, and utterly exultant. Marcus was a warm weight on my legs, his head pillowed on my pelvis. I would have thought him unconscious or dead, but then he spread his hand on the ground and sighed. He looked up at me and with sudden shyness asked, “Did you…like that?”

I laughed. “Yes, very much. Thank you.” I held my arm up in the gesture of invitation and demand that he had used last night when I’d cried. He crawled up beside me and lay on his side in my arms, skin-to-skin.

Chapter Thirteen

That night, I lay next to Marcus, tracing the firm curve of his bicep. I said, “You seem to have experience with men.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’ve had my share. Women, too, mind you, although I never found their company satisfying… I had a rather extended relationship with a gentleman chemist. You remind me of him. Thoughtful, intelligent… And then he got married properly to a lady, and that was the end of that. That’s when I decided to travel. I hadn’t a stomach for society. I can’t pretend to be something I’m not, and eventually, people ask questions, as they are wont to do. Then, of course, I became shipwrecked, which worked out well enough for me. Especially considering the quality of the salvage that drifts onto the shore.” He twisted to smile at me, face inches from mine. The smile turned into a kiss, which led to his hand against my chest and mine on his thigh, and soon I had taken his cock into my grip and we were entangled on the bed in throes of pleasure.

The next two weeks passed blissfully and lazily, while my body mended and my spirit began to heal. I could have sketched Marcus’s body from memory by the end of that first week, so closely did I study his lean form. We bathed in the lake together, and we explored the forest and the winding beach. I taught him how to identify plants, and he introduced me to the mechanics of bird flight—wing shape, feather patterns, the anatomy of the flight bones, the physics of wind flowing around the pinions and causing lift. I began to appreciate the complexity of his project and the difficulty of granting man flight.

I set to exploring the island with renewed vigor. On afternoons as Marcus toiled over his wings, I hiked deep into the forest, taking clippings and jotting notes. Days passed, and in the second week, it began to rain as Marcus said it would. That brought an end to my long days adventuring. Around the same time, Marcus came to an impasse with his project.

“Missing something,” he muttered. “Missing something, but what?”

We sat together in the little cabin, riffling through books and reviewing Marcus’s notebooks on flight, waiting for the rain to stop so that I could go out or for inspiration to strike Marcus. Day after day, neither happened. On many evenings, he paced the living area of the cabin like a caged lion.

The rain put me in mind of London. I found myself longing for my raincoat. The memory of its oiled smell made me recall the rainy mornings I wore it to the street corner to hail a hansom. Until then it had been possible to keep the homesickness at bay. Between discovering the island and discovering Marcus, there had been enough on my mind that there was no room for thoughts of London. Now, trapped in the cabin with a distracted Marcus, I found myself with little to think about save the university green, the weight of Ferrous against my shoulder, pub food—all of the familiar things of home that I had taken for granted. I missed my housekeeper, too, and the horrible floral wallpaper that had come with the house.

With thoughts of London came a tightening in my gut, a sense of dread as I wondered how I would ever be able to resume my life there. There was no question in my mind that I would eventually need to return. One simply did not spend one’s entire life on a deserted island. I imagined trying to face my male colleagues and students without blushing, or how I would act toward women. Polite, but reserved. I feared my more perceptive acquaintances would begin to speculate about me, as Marcus said they eventually do. Perhaps I would have to take on a wife to keep up appearances, a girl like Cara who deserved more than a lie. Perhaps I might find happiness in raising a family. The sense of dread in my stomach told me otherwise.

It was these fears that made me feel more distant from London than the ocean between us.

One night, a little more than two weeks after I had arrived on the island, it stormed violently. It was a proper storm with thunder and sheets of rain, and I worried that the cabin might blow over in a strong gust. “It’s weathered worse,” Marcus assured me over dinner. Later, I found him sitting at the little table in the bedroom, staring at his electric finches with a distant expression on his face, perhaps listening to the thunder. More likely, he was mulling over his wings, which had now lain untouched on his workshop table for four days.

I did not disturb him, but instead went to the bed and lay down. With my eyes closed, I listened to the rain and the thunder. I was feeling particularly cramped, trapped, and lost that night. Lying there, I could almost imagine lying on my own bed at home. In my mind’s eye, old Ferrous was curled nearby, ears flicking at the louder peals of thunder. I would be teaching a class in the morning and hoped that the rain would die down by then, because I did not fancy arriving to class with wet trouser cuffs.

I was shaken from my reverie by Marcus sliding onto the bed next to me. When I turned over to make room for him, he said, “You’re still awake.”

“I hadn’t been attempting to sleep,” I said, looking at the wall. The image of London disappeared like fog in a wind, ethereal and then gone.

He pressed his body against mine and draped an arm over me. His touch instantly relaxed me, and with it, my longing for England twisted into a feeling of guilt and confusion.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Home,” I said. “London.”

“Ah,” he said, softly. “I imagine you must miss it.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I shouldn’t.”

“Why is that?” he asked.

I thought about it for several long moments. I said, “I have no one there to miss.”

“Well, that is sweet of you,” he said, and kissed the edge of my ear.

I closed my eyes at the sensation and sighed in his arms. I turned my head and found his lips with mine for a soft kiss. Marcus made me feel wanted and accepted. Why did I wish to leave?

We lay together for a while, and Marcus massaged his fingers through my hair. He said, “I do apologize if I’ve been preoccupied.” He sighed, and I could feel the warmth of his breath. “There isn’t much to do in the rain, and I’ve been so very absorbed. I do appreciate that you’re here, for as long as you’re here. I want you to know that.”

Quizzically, I looked at him. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said, though I could feel the dark shadow of doubt roll over me.

“Not now,” he agreed. “But when a ship comes, I will understand if you do.”

Our gazes were searching. At his words, it felt as if a hand clenched about my heart. I shifted uncomfortably in his arms and looked away, relaxing my head back onto the pillow. I squeezed his hand. “Thank you,” was all I could think of to say, although I thought they were poor words. The thought of losing him unsettled me, yet I could not promise him that I would not go.

“I care about you,” he murmured, and something had gone out of his voice, some vital energy.

I kissed him again. “And I care about you,” I said, hesitating only out of shyness. Those words, at least, I knew were true.

Chapter Fourteen

I woke to the soft light of dawn and a sense that something was amiss. Rain still pattered lightly against the roof. Marcus’s familiar warmth was gone from behind me. I rolled over and found no sign of him save a disturbance in the linens where his body had been.

As I took my clothing from the chair and donned it, I noted that Marcus’s boots were missing from their usual spot under the bench. Marcus himself was neither in the room, nor the living space, nor his study. I knew, inexplicably, that I would not find him in his workshop, either. A brief trip into the rain confirmed my suspicion. The wings remained folded on the workshop table as they had been for days, untouched.

As I stood hunched under the roof of the open workshop, a flurry of rain gusted in with the wind. It was a pushing, snatching wind that battered the roof and shook the trees. Of last night’s storm, it alone persisted in strength. The thunder had abandoned it and the rain had slackened to a tired drizzle. But the wind was enough to tumble a grown man to the ground, and was without question responsible for the felled branches, scattered brush, and toppled trees that littered the ground. It was just the sort of wind, no doubt, that had swept me onto this island to begin with.

I knew with certainty where I would find Marcus—on the beach, searching for salvage carried in by the storm. I staggered through the wind and rain toward the beach, driven by an unsettled feeling that gripped my stomach and pulled me on.

The sunlight that glowed through the clouds was diffuse and grey, lighting the beach like gaslight. Monstrous waves crashed over the surf, pounded onto the beach, and spread hungrily over the sand. Debris littered the beach. Much of it was windswept foliage from the island. I traced my way through a scattered maze of leaf bunches and tree limbs, scanning the coast for Marcus.

I spied a large, dark shape heaving at the edge of the surf. As I approached, it resolved itself into a wooden board, apparently splintered from a ship. That was not all there was. I saw hand-sized chunks of wood, whole planks, and—farther down the shore—large, dark structures that may have been the remains of the ship itself.

Fear clenched my belly, for certainly, Marcus was among these, searching for loot. My feet began to move quicker all on their own, leading me toward the broken shapes. I called Marcus’s name as I went.

I came upon one of the ship’s masts, which leaned dangerously and was still attached to a broken piece of decking. A scattering of white barnacles freckled the base and the deck wood, which was dark—darker than it should have been, even under the dismal grey light of the morning. Distracted as I was with finding Marcus, I could not put my finger on why this struck me as odd.

“Marcus!” I called, and barely had time to dance back as a breaker crashed against the shore, setting the mast to bobbing. I heard the crack of wet wood, and I knew the thing would not remain upright much longer. Suppose I walked up to it at the wrong moment, and a sudden wave swept it down over me? Or, more likely, what if it had happened to Marcus?

I jogged along the shore, glancing through the wreckage, urgent now with worry. There, yards out from the surf, bobbed what seemed to be a section of the ship. Without a thought, I doffed my clothing and waded into dark water. The light rain fell upon my naked shoulders. Underneath my feet, the sandy bottom shifted with every swell of the ocean water.

Perhaps I was just touched in the head, but I would like to think that it was some deep and urgent intuition that drove me to swim to that section of ship in the water, risking the violent waves and the immersion of my clockwork arm.

“Marcus!” I cried as I reached the piece of wreckage, paddling to keep abreast of a wave. At first, I heard nothing save the sounds of the ocean, but then I heard what could have been a voice, muffled and strained.

The next wave carried me right up to the floating wreck, and I clung to it. The cry of a human, though brief, was unmistakable now. I heaved upward at the edge of the structure with both arms—with no leverage save my treading legs—until it lifted from the surface.

Through the grey and the shadows and the roil of moving water, I almost missed him at first: Marcus, trapped underneath a cage of rotting wood, coughing and sucking at the air. I called his name, in fear and in relief. Then, the next wave swept me sidewise, and the wreck came rolling down over him again. Ocean water swelled over me and filled my mouth and nostrils.

I resurfaced with a gasp to find the wreck almost atop me. I caught its edge with my hands only a moment before it overwhelmed me, and was dragged along with it. I believe that only the mechanical strength of my prosthetic arm saved me from being sucked underneath as Marcus had. When the next wave pulled the wreck in the opposite direction, I kicked my legs and pushed at it with a surge of force. It toppled over, and then there was Marcus, thrashing in the water.

I hooked my left arm around his and pulled him through the waves to the shore, then dragged him high onto the beach where the spreading water did not reach. We left a trail of blood behind us, a dark and snaking thing through the sand. I fell onto my knees beside him and held him up as he coughed spastically in my arms. There was so much blood pouring down his left side that I could not tell where it came from, his arm or his side. He choked, doubled over, and wretched into the sand. He cried out like a wounded thing and rocked back, clutching his bloodied arm.

He looked down at his arm and held it out at an angle, clutching the fist. Rain dropped onto the blood, diluting it and also revealing the long gash on the forearm. He touched his hand to his left collarbone. “Clavicle…broken,” he said in a strained voice, and from the way he blanched, I worried that he would pass out there on the sand. The rain fell across us in rippling sheets, heavier now. My wet clothes clung to me, and the wind dashed right through them. I did not fancy carrying him back to the cabin.

“You’ll have to stand. I can help you walk, but we can’t stay here,” I said. I pulled my shirt off and bound it around the arm tightly.

“Yes,” he agreed, teeth clattering. “Hypothermia…in tropics. Who…would have…thought?” He attempted a smile, but it twisted into a grimace.

Thankfully it was his clavicle that was broken, not his legs. With my arms supporting him, he stood and began to walk, haltingly. We went slowly, while I braced us against the changing wind and navigated through the beach debris. It was easier to walk once we had reached the trees, for they buffered the worst of the wind.

“And now we are even,” he said once we had reached the cabin, gracing me with a wan smile before collapsing onto the ground near the stove.

Chapter Fifteen

I swiftly loaded wood into the stove and began a fire. As it warmed the room, I stripped Marcus there on the floor. He was pale and shivering, but conscious. Though blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage, it seemed to have stopped flowing. I dared not move him from the stove’s heat until he had dried and was warm, but I was otherwise unsure of what to do with him, as I hadn’t an ounce of medical knowledge.

He stirred, looked down at his arm, and touched his fingertips to his left collarbone. He looked at me and said, “You’ve immersed your arm.”

“A good thing I did,” I said.

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. He said, “Fill that bucket by the stove and bring it here. There is a rain barrel outside. While you are there, dip your arm into the barrel to wash the salt from it.”

I hesitated, then did as he said. When I returned, he directed me to place the water in a kettle on the stove, gather clean rags, and find a bottle of brandy. He also had me fetch a small patent leather bag and bring it to his side. The water was boiling by that time, and warmth had suffused the room. Color returned to Marcus’s face. He had picked the bandage from his arm and was regarding the angry gash that ran from his wrist to his elbow. He said, “It will need stitches. Have you any experience with a needle and thread?”

I said, “No. I’ve a housekeeper for that sort of thing. You don’t mean for me to…” I swallowed and could not finish the sentence, for the thought of sewing his flesh made me green.

He gave me a look of wry humor. He said, “It’s easy, really. I will talk you through it. First, take the needle and the catgut from the bag.”

Swallowing back a wave of nausea, I took the needle and thread as he said and laid them on a clean rag on the floor beside him. He then directed me to boil the needle, wet a rag with water from the kettle, and uncork the brandy. When the rag had cooled but was still steaming, I washed the gore from his arm, then tipped a generous splash of brandy over the laceration.

“Good,” he said, grimacing, and took a shot from the brandy bottle for himself. “Now, thread the catgut through the needle.”

I held the end of the thread awkwardly between one mechanical thumb and forefinger. My hands trembled so fiercely that I could not fit the catgut thread through the eyehole. Marcus looked at me with dry humor and said, “Go on, you’ll never get anywhere like that. Take a drink of this.” He offered me the brandy, and I took a burning gulp of it. Its warmth spread through my limbs and steadied me. Soon, I’d threaded the needle. I looked on with dread, waiting for his next directions.

He eyed me and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Never.”

This teased a genuine smile from him. He took the last of the clean rags and placed one of its rolled edges between his molars. Then, at the far end of the laceration, he pinched the two edges together. He said, “Here now. Pull the needle and thread clean through one edge before you pierce the other.”

My mouth had gone dry. “I am not sure I can do this with the prosthetic,” I said. “I haven’t really done any detailed tasks like this since the accident…”

He shook his head. “You can. I have faith in my own work.” There was an edge of teasing in his voice. “Go on, then. Start with one edge.”

I did. Piercing the skin was beastly business. Marcus clenched his jaw around the rag and breathed roughly as I worked. When I had both edges of the wound on the thread, I pulled them tight until they were puckered together. Cold beads of sweat pimpled my forehead, and the color had drained from Marcus’s face once again. We repeated the pinch-pierce-pull-pierce-pull process at least a dozen more times, until the entire length of the wound was closed. After the last stitch, I sat back heavily, light-headed from drink or queasiness, though I was not certain which.

“You did well,” he said, removing the rag from his mouth. He took another drink of the brandy. “Unfortunately, there is more.”

Thankfully, “more” did not involve any further stitching. We dressed his wound with honey and a linen bandage, and then he explored his left collarbone with careful fingers. “It’s fractured, but not broken,” he concluded with gruff relief. “You’ll have to bind it for me and fashion a sling for this arm.”

I wrapped his shoulder tightly, arranged his arm in a loop of linen, then helped him to the bed. Salt still filmed our skin, but we hardly cared. I detached my prosthetic and left it near the stove to dry, then sat on the floor with my back against the bed. Marcus rested his good hand in my hair. At length, I asked, “What were you doing out there?”

He paused long enough before responding that I thought he had fallen asleep. He said, “Being foolish.”

“Hm.” I shook my head. A sudden thought struck me. “Were there no bodies?”

“No. It wasn’t a fresh shipwreck. From the looks of it, it must have been something the storm tore up from the bottom. It may have sitting in the reef for months or years.” He combed his fingers through my hair idly. He asked, “What would I have done without you?”

I could find no words to describe the depth of the terror that had seized me when I thought I might lose him, so I simply took his hand and kissed it tenderly.

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, I found Marcus fixing tea at the stove. A freshly-drawn bucket of water sat at his heel.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” I asked. “You need to be in bed!”

“What I am doing is fixing tea. You were asleep and I was up. Good morning to you, too,” he responded mildly. And then he cracked an egg over a skillet on the stove.

“Where did you get those?” I asked, noticing the basket of eggs. He did not say anything, only met my eyes over his shoulder briefly with an unapologetic grin on his lips. I frowned. “You belong in Bedlam.”

“First it’s bed, then it’s Bedlam?” he asked, his back to me as he attended his sizzling egg. “In which do I belong?”

“Both!” I cried. “In bed, in Bedlam! But since we haven’t a way to get you to Bedlam, you ought to simply be in bed.”

“In bed, like an infirm!” He waved me off with his good hand, and in doing so, he jostled his injured arm. He winced.

“See!” I said. “You belong in bed so that collarbone heals correctly!”

“Nonsense,” he said, giving the egg one last stir before setting aside the fork and depositing it on a plate. “I’m a doctor. I know my limits.” He smiled at me. “Come on, then. Have some breakfast.” Then, he kissed my lips—a simple but effective way to quiet me.

The next week was a nerve-wracking one, for Marcus found every excuse and opportunity to remain active, and I was kept busy following him. I barely had time for my own thoughts, much less thoughts of London. Foraging, rabbit hunting, hiking, cooking, moving stacks of books—I could hardly keep up. However, in all of his puttering, I noticed that Marcus did not care to touch or discuss his wings. It was almost as if the project simply had never existed.

Finally one night I could take Marcus’s fidgeting no longer. He had spent the last three hours reorganizing and reshelving the entire book collection in his study, and had just begun to pull the books of one shelf out again. I said, “Why don’t you spend some of that energy on your wings? You haven’t touched them for an eternity!”

He winced and sat back, placing aside the book he had just pulled out. He said, “I wish it was that easy, but I am stuck. I haven’t a clue what I should do next. The wings will not fly yet, but I don’t know why. I’m missing something, but I don’t know what.”

“Wait,” I said. “Have you tried flying the things?”

“Well, no. How can I fly them if they can’t fly?”

“That’s lunacy!” I cried. “How do you know it can’t fly if you have never tested it?”

“Because they simply won’t be able to. They haven’t the proper structural integrity. The wings would collapse in the air.”

“Show me,” I said, sure that the only cure for his endless fidgeting was work on his project.

He seemed as if he would protest, but then got to his feet and led me to the workshop. We stood staring at the complicated leather, wood, and metal apparatus in silence. I hadn’t the faintest clue what was what or what did what, and I began to wonder what I had planned to accomplish by directing us out here in the first place. So, with nowhere else to start, I asked, “How does it work?”

“Well,” he began. “The struts here are like the bones of a bird’s wings. They’re jointed here, and unfold quite like real pinions. The feathers here are adjustable. Remember what I told you about air speed. There’s a tail back there to steer. The harness, to hold the wings to the body. It’s supported by a brace that fits to the back. The controls are here. These for the hands control the wings. Those for the foot control the tail.”

“Have you decided how to power it?” I asked. “Is that what you mean when you say it won’t fly?”

“No, I’ve solved that problem. I’ve finished the clockwork motor, the design of which is similar to your arm. I believe it will work well. It will rewind itself as the body moves naturally, so if piloted correctly, the wings can theoretically stay aloft…well, indefinitely.”

I was confused. “So, what is the issue, then?”

“Here,” he said, lifting at part of the harness. “The wings themselves are quite heavy. Given that they are fully jointed, they aren’t well supported when extended. They would collapse in the air.” In attempting to extend one of the wings as illustration, he upset the entire machine’s balance and it tipped over on the table. The wing slipped from his grasp, sending a jolt to his injured arm. He winced and placed his hand over his shoulder.

I sighed. “Do you see? Your arm doesn’t have the support of your clavicle. You shouldn’t be lifting things, even with your good arm.”

He paused, then looked at me with a puzzled expression. “What did you just say?”

“Your clavicle is broken, so you haven’t the full support of your shoulder girdle. You’re a doctor. You should be familiar with this.”

He stared at me for a very long moment, then looked back at the wings and ran a hand over the length of one brass strut. “Of course,” he said, almost absently. “You’re right, I should have thought of this myself…” He looked up at me with bright eyes and said, “Jon, you are a genius.”

“Forgive me, but I’m confused,” I said.

“Birds. Remember, birds have the support of fused clavicles—called a furcula, or wishbone—to help support their wings in flight. That is the thing I am missing. A furcula. A proper shoulder girdle for the wings. So very, very simple!” In his excitement, he grabbed me by the back of the neck and planted a hard, fast kiss on my mouth that left me reeling. “You’re a genius!”

“Pace yourself, now,” I said, wondering suddenly if this had been a good idea at all. “You can’t go building anything now because of that arm.”

“Oh, I need to design the thing first, so you needn’t worry. Besides, I have other things to occupy me while I wait.”

“Oh?” I asked, heart sinking somewhat at the prospect of Marcus spending another week of long days and late nights flipping through books and rendering plans.

“Quite,” said Marcus, approaching me with a sly grin. “I still have one good hand, after all, and there are a variety of terrible, wonderful things I can do with it. Like,” he said, unbuttoning my trousers with one hand and slipping his hand down to cup me, “this.”

My cock responded instantly. I swallowed and said, “I feel morally obligated to object.”

“Then don’t,” he said against my lips.

Chapter Seventeen

“I need you to promise me something,” I said to Marcus that night. “If you are to work on your wings, I need you to promise you won’t pick up anything heavier than a book from your shelves, and to use common sense for everything else.”

“I’ve been a real pain, haven’t I?” he asked. I could not disagree, so I wisely said nothing at all. He gave me a sheepish apology and a promise to behave, then warned me, “I will put you to work. I did not build that arm for nothing, after all.”

And put me to work he did. The next morning, and for every day following, I became his arms. I pulled stacks of books from the shelves, cooked food as he worked, rooted through crates of metal parts, and held the wings up in every possible position while Marcus regarded them with pursed lips. Together we studied the bone structure of his dissected birds, noting the shape of the tiny wishbones. His design for the new parts went through several revisions. The question of which material to use posed the greatest question. He hadn’t any metal beams in his collection of the correct length or thickness, so after several days of our searching through the trees and foliage, he settled on a kind of sturdy, but flexible, wood. I was the one who wielded the axe and the knife, chopping branches, stripping leaves, and bowing the naked wood to test its limits, but I did not mind. It made me feel competent and useful and kept Marcus out of trouble.

We dragged several promising specimens back to the workshop, where Marcus showed me how to clear away the bark and make the first shaping cuts with the knife. My first attempts were crude but encouraging.

I found myself learning handy skills unfamiliar to me until then. Despite the hungry glow in his eyes and his expressively gesturing hand, Marcus proved a patient teacher. And, somewhat to my surprise, I proved an able student. I found the activities stimulating to both body and mind, and the dark cloud of homesickness lifted from me.

For the majority of my life I had focused on intellectual pursuits. Even as a boy, I took to reading while the other children played games in the street, or I went searching through my mother’s garden for interesting insects and weeds. I had rarely tried tasks that used my hands’ dexterity rather than mental dexterity.

We made the wood slender and curved like a bird’s wishbone. It took several tries, as either the wood grain was wrong, or the piece fractured as we worked it, or it did not fit between the sockets that Marcus had fashioned on the wings to receive it.

One afternoon, we found the perfect fit—a supple young branch that yielded under the knife like soft soap. We bent it like a bow to fit into the wing’s slots. It gave easily, and sprang back readily. I stepped back from the wings, which were on the floor for this occasion, and wiped sweat from my brow. My arms were sore, but pleasantly so. I was happy with how my body had begun to grow trim and well-toned.

Marcus stood with me to admire the wings, which suddenly seemed quite graceful with the addition of the furcula, as if they might glide right off the floor of the workshop. He knelt and ran both hands over the smooth wood. By that time, his wound had healed to a pink slash and was well on its way to forming a scar. His clavicle, though not strong enough to support heavy weight, had healed well enough that he could move his arm without pain and perform gentle tasks.

“It will fly now,” said Marcus. He ran a thumb over the slick brass shoulders of the wings and fondled the leather harness. “We should take her on a test run. A test flight.” His face, which he turned to me, was illuminated with a bright inner light.

“Hold on, now!” I said, gesturing for him to slow down. “Remember that arm. It’s barely healed! All it needs is the slightest bit of trauma to refracture. What if you’re in the air when it does?”

He sighed and appeared to deflate. “You’re right. I was getting carried away. We can’t just send her up into the air, anyway. We’ll need to find the proper place to launch her. Proper wind, proper setting. And then, of course, this collarbone of mine. You’re right.”

The next week was spent healing, cleaning, organizing, and writing. We spent great lengths of time together without speaking, only being in each other’s presence. I felt that we had reached some deeper level of understanding, one that transcended words. It was a trust born out of working together, out of learning each other’s habits and movements.

Our time together passed like a pleasant dream. I enjoyed it, but worried that I would eventually have to wake up from it to my life in London once more. I would have to return to the social masquerade, the dirty streets, and the dismal weather. Sometimes, my gaze fell on Marcus, and the idea of leaving him made my thoughts freeze. I could not imagine a world without him. Yet, neither could I imagine a life without the city I had always known.

One afternoon, as we sat together in the lake, I asked, “What do you plan to do? Now that your wings are complete.”

“Well, they haven’t been flown yet, but after they have?” He paused to consider my question. At length, he shook his head and said, “I’m not sure. I have no other ‘pet’ projects. Not yet, in any case,” he added, dryly. “I suppose I could compile my notes and experiences with flight into a publishable manuscript.” He tilted his head toward me. “I am sure you could do the same for your adventures on this island.”

“Write?” I asked, dubiously. “Perhaps… I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“Are you jesting?” He laughed. “It’s all you do!”

I stopped for a moment to think, then grinned. “You’re right.”

On many days, Marcus went out to the beach simply to stand and lift a wetted finger into the air. He explained that he was observing which times during the day provided the best wind conditions.

“You are going to launch on the beach?” I asked. “Have you no better place to test this? Perhaps somewhere with a less fickle wind?”

“No,” said Marcus, shaking his head. “This entire island is a forest. This is the only place suitable to take off. The trees are still some way off, and I’ve the ocean to fall into in the other direction.”

“Delightful.” I eyed the waves. I did not savor the thought of having to swim out on another rescue.

He seemed to read my neutral look. “It will be fine. After all, I have you.” He patted me on the backside.

“Yes, and that’s what I’m afraid of,” I said dryly.

How I loved that dangerous smile he sent me!

Chapter Eighteen

I suppose I had no need for concern, as persistent rain kept him inside. When it was clear, the wind was hard and unforgiving. The days streamed by like the rivulets of rain that snaked over the bedroom window—running, winding, aimless. We played dice and cards by lamplight and shared stories as we lounged together.

“You are so marvelous,” he said to me, smiling. We were facing each other in bed with our legs intertwined while he caressed my chest, my abdomen, my face, my arms. I had begun to visibly regain my shape again. My stomach had lost its softness and my arms were well-defined. Marcus seemed pleased with the transformation, for his fingers lingered over the firm, flat plane of my stomach and over the swell of my biceps. I soaked in his attention, memorizing the feel of his fingers on my skin and cataloguing the planes of his face. I wished to remember us just as we were, always.

Lingering memories of London haunted the edge of my thoughts, but I pushed them aside and grinned. “All of me? You seem to be ignoring a spot.”

“No,” he said. “I am merely saving the best for last.” His fingers trailed down my chest and over my thigh, which he stroked slowly. I shivered and began to grow hard.

“You’re teasing me,” I said after a moment of delicious torture. His fingers lingered only inches from my groin.

“No, I am perfectly serious. I think you are marvelous. Every inch of you. Especially,” he added, “your cock.” At that, his hand brushed over my growing erection. He massaged me until I was completely firm and watched with devilish delight as my head rolled back and I made a noise of pleasure.

He turned in bed and showed me with his mouth just how marvelous he thought I was, first kissing down the length of my shaft and then licking his way back up to the head. His mouth slid down over me, and he sucked exquisitely while his hands gripped the soft meat of my arse.

His own member tantalized me from inches away. Though it had taken me days to take him into my mouth for the first time, I was shy no longer. I had, in fact, grown addicted to the taste of his flesh and to his deep groans as I drew my teeth up the velvet length of his cock. Now I licked the head where it quivered in front of me, and he flexed his hips forward. I drew him fully into my mouth.

His moan shot straight to my groin like lightning. He quickened his rhythm until I groaned around his cock and came. The orgasm washed across me in a shuddering wave, and I groaned again in both ecstasy and in dismay. It had happened so very quickly. Marcus was still hard inside my mouth, but presently he drew away, leaving me hungry for him. Then, he was leaning over me on all fours, his eyes lustrous. He paused there for a moment, looking into me. In a low voice, he said, “I want you, Jon. I want you so very, very badly. Will you let me?”

I was confused at first. Then suddenly, I knew what he was asking for. “Go gently,” I said, uncertain at the prospect, but trusting in him. I had gone that way in Cara once—the back way, because she had asked me to. I had enjoyed it then, but I had not been on the receiving end.

“Are you sure?” Marcus asked, and suddenly I could see concern and desire warring in his eyes.

With a surge of force, I flipped him over and sat atop him. “You had better take me before I change my mind,” I said, and began to lower my face to kiss him.

I had not made it to his lips before Marcus flung me off of him and onto my stomach. My cheek pressed into the covers. The bed dipped as he shifted and slung his leg over to straddle me. I bucked against him, but he shoved my hips down with his, causing my cock to grind against the bed. Thrills of sensation shivered down my thighs. I struggled briefly, but he planted his hand between my shoulder blades and then caught my wrists one by one, pinning my arms. In seconds, he had anchored me firmly in a prone position. “Quick enough?” he asked, leaning his weight forward and off my hips. As he did, he slipped his feet under my legs and swept them open. Cool air wafted against my thighs. I’d never felt so open and…vulnerable. My skin tightened and my pulse raced as I anticipated his next action.

The bed rocked as Marcus leaned to the floor. He sat up with a bottle in his hand so that he was kneeling just behind me, his cock lying hard over my sacrum, teasing.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Olive oil,” he said, as he uncorked it. I was about to ask what it was for, but as he began to pour a thin stream of fluid onto his hand, I realized its purpose. Cara hadn’t needed lubrication because she had provided her own. Nervous sweat prickled on my forehead. What if I did not like it? Or worse, what if I disappointed him?

Marcus set the bottle down again and settled back onto his haunches. “Relax,” he said, stroking my backside, perhaps feeling the tension that now seized my muscles. “I will go slowly.” He pressed his knuckles into the flesh of my arse and worked them gently with the oil, kneading.

The sensation was disarming. “Oh, wow…” I groaned, my taut muscles melting. For a while he massaged me, nothing more. In fact, I had not even noticed that his fingers had worked closer and closer to my cleft until I was aware of a new movement his thumbs were making. They massaged me deeply in a circular motion, causing the flesh around my anus to rhythmically press and pull apart—a gently stimulating, tantalizing sensation. “You are absolutely devilish,” I murmured, and he chuckled behind me.

“No. This is devilish,” he said, and he stroked one of his thumbs lightly over the anus itself, almost as if the digit had simply slipped unintentionally. An instant ripple of pleasure traveled to my groin, and I gasped.

“Quite…” I agreed, and then I moaned as his thumb “slipped” again and again.

“All right so far?” he asked, humorously, while I writhed and gasped beneath him. “You wouldn’t mind if I did this?” He dipped his thumb lightly so that it slipped in and out, just the tip. I did not bother to answer him. A part of me balked at the sensation—the rectum was designed to let things out, not in—but it felt so very good. Instinctively I strained against his weight to raise my hips to him. The thumb went in again, this time deeper, and I could feel it inside of me now, gliding, twisting. It drew from me an animal sound I had never made before.

And then he was sliding it in and out of me slowly. I lay helpless and with eyes closed, gliding on that sensation, pleasure spreading through me, making my body limp and banishing any thoughts from my head.

“How do you feel?” he asked in a low voice, after what could have been a minute or an eternity.

“More,” was all I could say, and then he withdrew, and a thicker probe pushed into my rectum. I was not sure if he had pushed his cock into me or more fingers, but it felt wonderful. I buried my face in the linens. After a time, I felt him shift behind me.

He said, “Tell me if I need to stop.” And the fingers withdrew. He shifted to bring my legs together and straddled them. Then, I felt a wider, smoother pressure against my rectum and immediately knew that this was his cock. Then, he was pushing into me slowly. My flesh stretched open for him, welcoming at first, until a shooting pain caused me to cry out. He paused, and then the pressure came again before I could form words. Suddenly he was fully inside of me, filling me.

He paused there, just there, sheathed inside of me. It was too much and not enough. He lowered his body over me and I could feel his breath at my ear. Slowly, he began to draw in and out.

“How do you feel?” he whispered.

I could not find words with which to answer him, so I only groaned in response. All of my attention was focused on the feeling of him stroking me from the inside. I stood on a precipice, every one of my nerves waiting for the figurative leap. His breath puffed against my ear and he drew his tongue across its edge. At that moment, he plunged deeper into me.

We became animal things, rutting, grunting. The world became friction, flesh, sweat, breath. He sat up and placed his hands against my back, fingers flexing and then clenching. The bite of his nails merged with the pleasure that was growing inside of me. I began to move my hips in time with him. The bed rocked underneath us like a ship in a storm. A peal of thunder crashed outside, although I was only vaguely aware of it as a separate thing.

A fire grew deep in my pelvis and began to spread—a burning pressure that demanded to be released. I called out, loud and long, teeth gritting, as if the vocalization would bring me closer. Marcus chuffed above me. He rode me fast and hard, thighs slapping against me. The burning inside grew urgent.

“Do you like this?” he asked, and drew his tongue along my ear. “No woman can ever pleasure you like I can, Jonathan.”

“I—” I started, but then language was lost to me. Ecstasy swelled up and rolled over me like a great crashing wave. I arched and shuddered around Marcus. I was aware of him distantly, crying out. He fell across my back and stayed there, still now.

Damp, drained, and folded against Marcus, I began to drift to sleep, feeling closer to completion than I ever had. Marcus stirred. He kissed my neck and murmured, “Stay with me.”

I never wanted to leave.

Chapter Nineteen

When I woke, Marcus was absent, and my first thought was, Good lord, not again!

My muscles were stiff and sore from the night before. A splash of water from the basin cleared my head and my eyes. I tugged on my clothing and stumbled out into the clear, bright, still morning. Marcus was standing in the middle of the beach with his arms half-spread at his sides. The look on his face as he stared out at the ocean was one of immense satisfaction. Even the waves were calm. “It’s perfect,” he said.

I could not disagree, for it was. His arm and collarbone were also all but completely healed. So I said, “It is.”

“Let us hurry, before the conditions change,” he said. He jogged back to the workshop like a boy, and I followed. The wings sat partially unfurled on the ground, looking simultaneously dangerous and mundane. We each gripped one of the wing joints and carried the whole apparatus to the beach. Marcus wore boots and sturdy clothes. A pair of scuffed goggles dangled at his neck.

After all these weeks, the wings still seemed like a hopeless, tangled mess of cords, straps, and struts. I am not sure how Marcus made sense of it. “It looks trickier than it is,” he said, though I was doubtful. He knelt on the sand, spread the wings, and carefully arranged the cords that controlled them. Apparently satisfied, he donned the goggles and sat back into the harness. He threaded his arms through the leather straps. As he pulled the buckles tight, I said, “Do be careful. That arm is hardly healed.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, leaning forward to fasten the leg braces around his calves. He fit the leather gloves with the wing controls over his hands. “The harness distributes the weight over my entire body. There won’t be much strain on my shoulders themselves. And I have full range of motion in the arm now, so there will be no problem using the controls. The rest is in my legs.” He smiled and proffered a hand. “Hand up?” he asked. I took it and pulled. He hunched as he stood, wobbling under the unwieldy apparatus. Once standing, he unfolded to his full height and faced me, looking for all the world like some mechanical angel.

“Please be careful,” I repeated, an uncomfortable feeling gripping my gut.

“Come here,” he said, and kissed me when I did. Looking at me through the cloudy glass of the goggles, he assured me, “I will be fine. In fact, I will be even better if you stand back for your own safety.”

I was not sure if I expected him to simply leap into the air or to make a running jump. He did neither, but instead adjusted the weight on his back and began to walk in large, slow circles, his thumbs hooked into the harness. The braces that fit around his calves made him waddle. The whole process seemed painfully clumsy and awkward to me.

After several circles, he stopped and waved to me, the wing on that side flapping and wiggling with the movement. Then, he looked down, fingered a toggle, and lurched forward into a halting jog. I could just make out a fast blur of movement near the tail of the wings. He spread his arms and splayed his fingers. The pinions unfurled. They caught the light of the sun and glittered impressively.

For a long moment, it seemed like nothing would happen. The wings bounced comically, and the air resistance they caused seemed to hold him back. Yet, abruptly, only his toes were touching the ground as he jogged, and he was bent headlong as if he was ready to tumble head over heels. With a flex of the pinions, he swept into the air. Up he soared, as if pulled by some invisible force. He crowed wordlessly in exultation.

My heart lurched into my throat and my head spun. Up, he went almost straight up! Ten, twenty, thirty, forty feet, and spiraling now like a buzzard in the air—great big, lazy circles that brought him higher still. His shadow slid over me like some great bird’s, and then he leveled off at what must have been sixty feet above.

Silhouetted against the sky, the wings looked genuine. He had done an artful job with the overlapping lengths of thin steel, for they seemed like real feathers.

After the initial jolt of mouth-drying fear, it was rather surreal. I gawked upward at Marcus, terrified but also amazed—relieved, as well, that he had leveled off and did not seem to be climbing any higher. Though his movement on the ground had been clumsy, his flight was smooth and altogether graceful. The furcula we had carved must have done its job, for the wings stayed steadily open. My fear gave way to admiration and a rising envy, though the thought of taking off and up into that blue tropical sky made my heart race

Marcus turned broadly out of his circle and headed in the direction of the ocean. I jogged after him, apprehensive as he soared out over the water. Either he did not see my waving arms or he chose to ignore my warning gesture, for soon he was a distance away, his shadow skimming over the waves. I stopped at the surf to watch him. Oh, I did not fancy swimming to his rescue again.

He turned back before he had reached a distance I could not swim. Considerate of him, I thought wryly. He seemed like a boy to me at times, ready to test boundaries and push limits. Though I cursed his penchant for risks at times like these, I generally found it rather endearing. After all, it was he who had taken the risk to kiss me first. It had gotten him into the air. It had allowed him to survive on this island with nothing save his strong muscles and clever mind. He was a dreamer and a go-getter, my Marcus. And now he could fly.

He streaked right over me and executed a rather wobbly, sharp turn that threatened to send him into a spin. I ran after him, but the flight stabilized and he returned to his circling. However, something was different this time. The wings began to shake. I realized that he was waving one hand at me, frantically.

A thousand possibilities flashed through my mind: that he could not get down, or that something had broken, or that he had lost control, or that his collarbone had fractured again under the stress. He was shouting at me, but I could not make out his words, only the distant sound of his raised voice.

And then he was veering uncontrollably inland. It wasn’t a fall, exactly, but a sharply angled descent that carried him away from the water and straight for—

“The trees!”

Chapter Twenty

It all happened very fast. Marcus’s descent took him right into the embrace of the treetops, which bowed severely under his weight and momentum. I half expected that the backlash would fling him back into the air, but there was only a crashing sound as the entire swathe of canopy sagged. I reached the trees moments later, and I could hear the sounds of brushing leaves and cracking branches.

“Marcus!” I cried, feeling a disconcerting wave of déjà vu. This time, there was no ocean of water. Instead, Marcus was lost in an ocean of trees above me. Perhaps the impact had badly damaged or killed him. I imagined half a dozen deaths for him—dashing his head, or strangling in the harness, or snapping his neck. I dodged through the trees, eyes trained upward, following the movement of the canopy.

It was not hard to find Marcus this time, not with him dangling from the treetops like a tangled marionette. He was suspended limply in the harness, head and limbs hanging lifelessly. I came to an abrupt stop and stood, frozen, staring at him as the blood drained from my face.

There was a crack of wood, and Marcus stirred. The squeezing pressure on my heart eased away, and I cried his name hoarsely. He looked at me with goggled eyes. When he tried to flex his arms, there was a movement to either side of him. The wings, which had broken his fall and now held him in the trees, shifted in response to the movement of his gloves.

“No! Stay still!” I yelled, bursting into a run. If the wings moved enough, they might slip right out of the trees, and he would fall twenty feet to the ground, surrounded by thirty or more pounds of metal and wood as it crumpled against the forest floor. I came to a stop below him and we stared at each other, my jaw slack and his body limp.

He would need to get out of that harness, but he could not unbuckle it himself unless he managed to first get out of the wing-control gloves. Even if he did, and even if he managed to unharness himself, he still had a long drop beneath him.

There was a branch near him, a thick sturdy one that seemed separate from those that held him up. If only I could climb out onto it, I might be able to help him out of the harness and break his fall. Climbing trees had been one of the few physical activities I had engaged in as a boy. I had raided more than one bird’s nest in my early days. “Hold on!”

Though the tree had few low-lying branches, its bark was thick and gnarled, full of good handholds. I climbed two feet onto a protrusion at the base of the tree, and from there I leaped onto the first branch above me. My hands caught and held, but feebly. Hanging by my fingertips, I swung my clockwork arm back and then hooked it over the limb. The branch had the girth of a child and easily supported my weight as I pulled myself onto it. I could see Marcus from where I squatted—closer, but not close enough.

The next branch was closer, easier to jump onto. Adrenaline charged my movements. This one gave under me just a little, but I braved its tapering, swaying length to reach Marcus. Reaching the end, I straddled the branch and hooked my legs underneath it. I could see the flash of the wings’ metal through the leaves.

“Steady.” I leaning forward, and my stomach clenched as the branch bent downward. I took a deep breath. Again, I murmured, “Steady.” I don’t know if it was for his sake or mine. Carefully, I reached out, my leg muscles trembling to keep me still. I took his hand and guided it slowly out of the glove. As his wrist bent to allow the release of his fingers, the right wing, which was lodged into the branches not far from me, tilted. However, it did not give.

Marcus flexed his free hand and relaxed into the harness. “Thank you,” he said, then freed his left hand. My mouth parched and every muscle was taut as I watched him. “There’s a ship. I think they saw me.”

His words struck me like a splash of cold water. A ship?

Marcus fumbled nervously at the straps of his harness. After unbuckling the first, he stopped and looked at me. “I don’t suppose we have a plan to get me down?”

His question jarred me back to the present. “You unbuckle, and I hold onto you,” I said. I placed my hard metal fingers around the meat of his upper arm, ready to grip hard.

“Oh.” He looked at the hand, and then began to work at the straps again. Once he had released the strap at his sternum, I could feel his body beginning to sag out of the harness. He glanced at me once, nervously. The strap at his abdomen seemed to prove more difficult, perhaps because of his weight straining against it. With only one strap left—this one at his pelvis—he looked downward and said, “My legs.”

His legs were still strapped into their own harness. “Hold onto the harness there.” There was one trick that I had not tried for a very long time, one that had allowed me to reach branches otherwise too flimsy to bear my weight. I flexed my legs briefly, and then hooked them underneath the branch again, this time with more strength. Gripping the branch in my hands, I fell over sideways in a slow, controlled topple until I was hanging upside-down. I swallowed hard. When I was confident that my legs would hold, I released my hands from the branch and hung there. If I reached forward just so, I could touch his right foot with my fingertips, and if I scrabbled for a moment for purchase, I could fit my fingers into the ankle strap. Marcus swung his leg out for me, which delivered his foot square into my two hands.

Quickly, I unbuckled the two leather bands that held his foot snug in the harness. My muscles were trembling by the time I was finished, and a cold sweat had beaded on my forehead. His other foot was just out of my reach, though if Marcus twisted it and I stretched to my limit, I could snag its harness with my fingertips. I grit my teeth as I sought for a grip, and was able to tease open the straps using little more than my nails. Only when his foot was free and I had eased back did I realize I had been holding my breath.

There was no moment to relax. Marcus was hanging by a single strap. I climbed back into an upright position and willed my muscles to stop shaking, then reached forward again to take him by the arm. He was completely motionless, tense with fear. “I’ve got you,” I said. “Let the last one go.”

He did. His body dropped, my grip tightened around his right upper arm, and the branch I straddled bowed under our combined weight. Above us, the trees quivered as his weight was suddenly released from them, and the wings shook and slid. I cried out as I dropped downward with the branch and instinctively tightened my hold on it with my other hand.

“Grab a hold!” I cried, swinging Marcus toward the sturdier branch beneath us. He missed on the first try, but caught hold on the second. At that moment there was a sharp crack, and then I was falling—truly falling—as the branch gave way. Marcus, still gripping my arm, yanked at me, and I slammed down beside him, knocking the air from my lungs.

As I struggled to catch my breath and catch a hold, the broken bough cracked and fell. It clattered against the trunk and its leaves whipped past us. We clung there in the aftermath, barely moving, just being, until Marcus chuckled nervously and said, “I didn’t know you could—”

A groan of metal and wood cut him off. The sound quickly crescendoed. The trees shuddered and the wings crashed to the ground. With a great swish and a whirlwind of leaves, the trees rushed upright again. Finally, truly, the forest stilled itself.

We looked at each other as my heart continued to pound under my tongue, and then we began to laugh. It was a nervous, exultant laughter. Weak and trembling, I lowered myself to the ground. My palms were raw and red from the rough tree bark, but I was well and in one piece. Marcus dropped down next to me and pushed his goggles up. He threw his arms around me and kissed my mouth with a smile on his lips.

“Marcus, your shoulder—” I gasped.

“It’s fine.” He grinned and kissed me again. “You are marvelous!” Then, his expression grew serious and he said, “The ship.” He looked off in the direction of the shore.

I reeled. “But the wings—” I began. There was his dream, crushed.

Marcus looked back at the pile of crumpled metal, wood, and leather that had been his wings, now bent beyond recognition. His lips flattened. He said, “Destroyed beyond repair, I’m sure. But they worked, and that is the important part. I have the plans still. And we are alive.” He hugged me again, cheek to cheek, then took my hand. “The ship!” he cried, and led me to the shore.

I staggered before falling into pace with him. “Are you sure you are all right?” I asked, breathlessly.

“Absolutely fine!”

Through the forest and out across the sand we ran. We halted, panting, at the shore. “There!” He pointed.

Sure enough, there was the white glint of a sail, and it appeared to be getting closer.

Chapter Twenty-One

The ship took anchor before the reef, as Marcus said it would, and the crew rowed ashore in small boats. We watched from the beach.

Marcus said, “Well, it’s taken longer than I expected, but here it is.” He added, “If you are planning to leave, we had better get things packed for you.”

Leave? Marcus’s words stung me. Yes, of course. Leave. Home, I could go home. A sober feeling washed over me. I had wanted this, hadn’t I? Well, yes, but hadn’t I also decided to stay? Suddenly, I did not know. And since Marcus was the one to mention it, it must mean that he had planned for me to leave, that he expected me to. Perhaps he wanted me to. But hadn’t he said…? I responded automatically. “Oh, yes. I suppose. Of course.”

The boats reached the shore, breaking our quiet and solitude. The beach was suddenly crowded with loud, red-faced seamen. “Excuse me,” Marcus said, and went to them. He seemed to know several of the men, for they smiled and shook hands. For a self-styled hermit, he appeared quite natural and at ease. I could see him speaking and laughing from where I stood. I imagined him in London in a proper suit and hat, milling with other physicians at the university, a natural socialite.

A sick sense of anxiety and foreboding made me turn away. I walked along the forest paths that had become so familiar to me, losing myself in the embrace of green foliage. Soon, the cries of the men faded from earshot. My head spun with doubts, mixed emotions, and conflicting thoughts—a mental noise that threatened to overwhelm me.

Back to England, back to the life that was familiar to me. My lodgings would be waiting for me, as would the housekeeper and old Ferrous, who by now was probably being chased by mice instead of the other way around. Luther had promised me I could return to my accustomed university position. I could return to teaching. I could bring my notes with me and write a book, as Marcus had suggested. I could clean off and send out those manuscripts that sat gathering dust. I would return with a new confidence and a sleeker prosthetic. Luther would be pleased. After all, was this not why he had sent me off for field work to begin with? So that I could regroup and recuperate?

Yes, return to England. That would the most practical thing for me to do, the most reasonable. However, the thought of walking onto that ship, of watching the island fade from view, of stepping off onto the sooty streets of London made me green. Most of all, I could not bear the thought of leaving Marcus behind. The thought of looking into his hazel eyes and knowing it would the last time I would see them made my heart seize.

It was a long afternoon. I spent most of it hiking through the forest or watching the activity of the sailors from a hidden distance. They rolled barrels ashore to refresh their water supply. They also brought crates of goods. There was movement in the trees as men captured ducks and rabbits, picked fruit, and bathed. I saw little of Marcus, only fleeting glimpses as he hurried about the island.

I thought of him here, of what it would be like if I left. Perhaps he would rebuild the wings. Perhaps he would make it to the top of those cloudy peaks. I thought of him alone again, with no one to keep him company save the ducks, the rabbits, and the endless fluttering of the little yellow finches. I thought of myself, walking through the rain of London, alone. I thought of his arms around me, of our walks along the shore. I thought of his cock—filling my mouth, filling me. I thought of his murmured appeal, “Stay with me.”

And with the memory of those words, I knew with certainty that I could not leave. I would not leave.

I made my way back to the cabin. Marcus was in the bedroom, kneeling next to a small chest on the floor. It seemed to be filled with an assortment of small metal parts. He was writing something. At my approach, he looked up only briefly, his expression flat.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A repair kit. For your prosthetic. I am jotting instructions for their use and for the most likely repairs you will need to make.”

I settled into the chair. There were butterflies in my stomach, but I managed to sound cool as I asked, “And why do I need that?”

He looked at me with an expression I could not read. “Because your arm is a prototype and I won’t be there to fix it.”

Those words hurt, and I blinked back the sudden burning in my eyes. I feigned puzzlement and asked, “You’re leaving?”

He furrowed his brow at me. “You’re not?”

I slowly shook my head. He lowered the paper and pen to the floor. He said, “This is the last ship for months. You won’t have another opportunity for a long time.”

“Good,” I said, trying not to sound as if my mouth had gone dry. “I could do without all the noise.”

A smile began to curl the end of his mouth upward, and with that, my butterflies began to vanish. “You won’t grow tired of my company?” he asked.

“Hardly,” I replied, my own grin growing. “The conversation, the sex, and the view are all too good. Besides,” I added, “who else will help you reach that mountaintop?”

There was a full, genuine smile on his face now. “Well,” he said, standing to embrace me. “If you change your mind in four mouths, there will always be another ship…”

“Never,” I said, placing my hands at the small of his back, pressing his warm body to mine. “I wouldn’t care if they didn’t stop at all.”

“Well,” said Marcus. He closed in for a kiss.

I pulled my head back, just out of reach of his lips. “Just…do me one favor.”

“Yes?” he asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“Stop getting yourself into trouble.”

He laughed, and he kissed me, and I knew that he wouldn’t.

But then, that was fine, because he had me to get him out of it.

About the Author

Christine Danse is a native Floridian, a rather rare species of hominid with an aversion to the sun and a love of air conditioning. She has been writing stories of fantasy and the paranormal since she was old enough to hold a pen, and she has been telling them even longer. She is particularly fond of shape-shifters and strange steampunk, although she has yet to write a story that involves both. (The excitement might cause her to spontaneously combust.) She lives in Ft. Lauderdale with her dog, Bait; her best friend, Rhianna; and the two talking cats from whom they rent.

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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9080-2

Copyright © 2010 by Christie Bailey

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