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I was eleven years old when I first saw Greycliff Island, and I immediately made it my own. I would never be able to go there, of course, but that didn’t matter. It was my private place, safe and secure, removed from all the heartbreak and sadness I had known so often in my short life. It was a symbol, and in my imagination I dwelt there like a storybook child, surrounded by warmth and beauty and the friends I had never known. Every day that summer I would leave the cottage and pass through the woods and wander along the shore, and when I reached my secret cove I would perch on one of the rugged gray boulders and stare at my island, dreaming while sea gulls circled overhead and scolded with shrill cries.

Over a mile from shore, it rose majestically from the water, shining like a jewel on sunny days, frequently shrouded by mist, which made it dark and mysterious. The island was wedge shaped, a small village huddled near the water on the side facing landward. Behind it, pine-covered hills rose in levels to the high, flat stretch of land where the big house stood. From the ocean, I knew, one could see only the steep gray cliff that gave the island its name. On clear days, perched on a rock in my cove, I could see the village, with boats tied to the piers and rocking with the waves, fishing nets hanging like spider webs on ancient poles. The buildings were picturesque, very old-fashioned. Sometimes, if there was no mist, I could see the dull red-tiled roof of the big house rearing above the dark pines on the cliff side. A rich and powerful family lived in that mansion, and they owned the island. That didn’t matter either. As I kept my lonely vigil on those hot summer days, Greycliff Island belonged to me.

Although it was English territory, the island was like a separate country, tiny and proud and self-sufficient. The men of the village, fishermen famous all along the coast, made their living from the sea, and the women made exquisite lace that was distributed all over England and sold in some of the finest shops in London. The islanders were a strange breed, clannish, dour, formidable. Maudie, my aunt’s maid, said they were all descended from the pirates and smugglers who had once made the island their headquarters. Like many of the coastal folk, Maudie was superstitious, and she believed the island was cursed.

“Strange things ’appen there, Miss Carolyn, an’ that’s no lie. Evil things. Them caves where the smugglers used to hide their boats—why, not more’n a year ago they found a little girl there. Wudn’t even as old as you are, poor mite, an’ ’orribly mutilated—”

My aunt came in before Maudie could finish her frightening tale, and I was glad. Maudie was a silly thing, skinny and nervous, addicted to the tabloids and always chattering about axe murders and skeletons in the woods and witchcraft rampant in the suburbs. I had no intention of letting her spoil my island with her foolish babble. Greycliff Island was beautiful silhouetted against a pale blue sky, the pine trees dark emerald, the gray boulders glittering silver in the sunlight. It was mine, a place where sadness never came, a haven where I could roam in imagination and forget my grief.

My father had died when I was five. I remembered his hearty laughter and his smiling blue eyes. My mother had never gotten over his death. She was pale and sad and vague, and it was as though I were the parent and she the child. We lived in a drafty old flat in London. I looked after her, reminding her to buy groceries, reminding her to pay the bills, holding her hand when she had one of her bad spells. One afternoon she went for a walk and stepped in front of a huge red bus. It was a terrible accident, some people said, and others whispered that it was no accident at all. The conductor claimed she deliberately stepped from the curb and hurled herself in front of the bus, and a number of passengers agreed with him. Accident or no, my grief was almost unbearable. I was sent to the coast to stay with my aunt during the summer months. In September, I would go to a boarding school.

Aunt Angela was kind in her way, but she knew nothing whatsoever about children. A spinster, she was tall and thin and gaunt, her hair steel gray, her blue eyes bewildered at this sudden responsibility thrust upon her. She saw to it that I was well provided for, but she was immersed in church work and social activities and had no time to spare for those other needs every child has. There was no communication between us. We respected each other and kept our distance. Aunt Angela gave me a pleasant room and fed me and went on about her business. I was left free to roam the woods and walk the shore and dream of another, happier existence.

In memory, I can see myself back then. Was ever a child so plain, so serious? I was terribly scrawny, and my long brown braids were drab, the color of mud. My face was thin, and people told me I was always frowning. I remember being filled with doubt and insecurity. I wasn’t meek and docile, no. I was fierce and independent and belligerent, unlovable because I was without love. I was hateful to Maudie. I kept to myself. There was a crusty shell around me, and it was only when I was alone that the real Carolyn was able to exist.

I spent several hours a day at my secret cove. Sometimes I would take along a book or my sketch pad and crayons, but usually I was content to sit and dream. The shore was wild and rugged, reached by a twisting, dangerous path down the side of the cliff. Great jagged boulders rose along the water, foaming waves lashing against them in fierce onslaughts; the air was laced with a strong, salty tang. There were barren stretches of beach littered with driftwood and broken shells, and always the gulls screamed as though in anguish. The cove was different. No larger than a room, it was surrounded by rock on three sides and sheltered a tiny yellow beach. There were crevices in the rocks where sand crabs scurried, and there was a small pool, blue and amethyst, alive with beautiful, exotic water creatures. The cove was snug, protected from the savage waves, and by sitting on one of the rocks I could look directly across to the island.

It was hot that mid-August day as I made my way down the steep pathway cut into the side of the cliff. The sky was yellow white; heat shimmered in visible waves. The water was pearl gray with deep bronze shadows, and calm, slipping over the rocks and washing over the sands with a quiet, slushing noise. Defiantly barefoot, wearing a short, ragged blue dress, I clambered over the boulders like a young mountain goat, pausing to stare into the depths of purple and azure pools nestled among the rocks. I picked up a tiny coral and orange shell and examined it. It was beautiful, delicately formed, the loveliest by far of any I had found. I would keep it always. It would remind me of the coast when I was banished to the gray school back in the city. I would be leaving soon. Soon I would no longer be able to visit my island.… I hurried along, eager to sit and stare, eager to dream.

By the time I neared the cove, my dress clung to me in damp patches of perspiration, and one of my braids had come undone. All arms and legs, my calves covered with a network of scratches, I must have looked an awkward, gawky puppet with stringy hair and heat-flushed cheeks. The boy stared at me as though I were an apparition, and my eyes widened with surprise when I saw him sitting there on my rock. His rowboat was pulled up on the small stretch of beach, and he dangled a fishing line into the pool. Surprise turned to fury. Dropping the tiny shell into my pocket, I glared at him with undisguised menace, my hands balled into fists. He merely grinned, and that infuriated me all the more.

He was perhaps thirteen years old, tall, with a healthy, muscular build. He wore scuffed tennis shoes, tight trousers bleached bone white, and a loose black and white striped jersey with the sleeves pushed up over his elbows. His shaggy dark blond hair curled behind his ears and fell across his forehead in tattered locks, making a startling contrast with his deep tan. His eyes were gray, surrounded by sooty lashes.

He stood up, his wide pink mouth curling in an infuriating grin, and I drew back. He was beautiful, a bronzed young Adonis with sun-streaked hair. I was afraid without knowing why. I hated him, because he had invaded my cove, and because I was ugly and awkward and insecure. I knew he was probably laughing at me. I wanted to hit him, and I wanted to burst into tears and run fleeing along the shore.

I brushed my knees angrily. Grey thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled. With great natural charm, he exuded an affable, nonchalant warmth that made itself felt immediately. Most people are helpless in the face of such magnetism, and I was no exception. I could feel my anger melting, and I fought to hold on to it. I didn’t want to give in to that charm. Defiantly, I stared at him, and Grey gave his head a little shake and shrugged his shoulders. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a chocolate bar and began to unwrap it.

“Suit yourself,” he retorted. Sitting back down on the rock, knees spread out, he began to eat the candy, ignoring me. My cheeks were flushed, and I felt warm all over. There was an ache inside that I couldn’t understand. Part yearning, part sadness, it mounted, and I could feel the corners of my mouth begin to tremble.

“I thought maybe we could be friends,” he said indifferently, without looking at me. “I don’t have any friends. I hoped maybe you’d be one.”

“Not one,” he retorted. “There aren’t many boys my age on the island.”

Grey nodded, finishing the chocolate bar and wiping his hands on the rock. I felt regret. I loved chocolate and I rarely had any. I wished I had taken some.

“Because I come here every day. It’s my secret place. Now it’s not secret anymore. You’ve spoiled it.”

“I—I don’t know,” I said. But I was gradually giving in, succumbing to that powerful charm. “You’re a boy. I don’t like boys.”

“I rarely beat up little girls,” he said gravely. “Come sit down. I won’t bite you.”

Hesitant, ill at ease, I obeyed, sitting on the rock beside him. He grinned, and I suddenly felt glad, experiencing a happiness I hadn’t known for a very long time. The hot sun caressed my cheeks, the salty air was inebriating, the sound of the waves brushing against the rocks was like music. Grey reached into his pocket to pull out another chocolate bar. I accepted it shyly. His remarkable gray eyes were filled with pleasure as he watched me eat it.

“I’m an orphan. My father died when I was five. My mother—my mother stepped in front of a bus.”

With the calm, total frankness of children, I told Grey Brandon about myself, and he listened with a serious expression, nodding now and then. I felt that he understood, that he sympathized. Grey was silent for a while when I finished, and then he looked at me with something like anger. I knew the anger wasn’t directed at me. It was directed at the world, at fate. He had experienced tragedy, too. I could sense that.

“Everything’s going to be different now,” he said sternly. “I’ll look after you.”

It happened that quickly, that simply. Children are direct, with none of the sham and pretense of adults. They respond immediately, with total commitment. A short while ago Grey and I had been strangers, and now we were bound together. I felt that I had known him all my life. We talked for a long time as the gulls screeched overhead and the waves slushed gently over the sand. Warmed by the sun and by his presence, I sighed, completely at ease now. I had never been happier in my life.

Then Grey was silent, staring across at the island with a moody expression. He had told me nothing about himself, but I assumed he was the son of one of the island fishermen. The striped jersey and sun-bleached trousers led me to think so. His tanned skin and streaked hair showed he had spent a great deal of time out-of-doors. Rowing and working on his father’s boat probably accounted for the firmness of his body, which was extremely well developed for one so young.

A stiff wind blew over the water, causing his rowboat to rock with a wobbling motion, straining at the rope. Locks of sun-bleached hair fluttered across his forehead, and the loose tail of his black and white jersey flapped. Arms folded across his chest, Grey stared at the island, a curious look in his eyes. Was it sadness? Fear? Resentment? I couldn’t tell, but once again I sensed some tragedy in his life. Perhaps that was what drew us together: both of us had experienced grief.

Grey sighed and shook his head, snapping out of his mood. His mouth curved in an amiable smile, and as he looked at me his eyes smiled too. He was the brother I had never had. I was his little sister. It was so natural being with him, so right. Heat waves shimmered in the air, and the gulls continued to screech, flapping overhead like scraps of paper. Grey touched my hair, rubbing a straggly lock between his fingers.

“You’re very innocent. Very trusting, too. Terrible things happen to little girls who are too trusting. You shouldn’t be here with me, you know. You should never speak to strangers.”

He laughed, tugging my hair playfully. “Your braids are all undone,” he said. “Let me fix them.”

“’Course I would. When I was a little boy I used to braid my grandmother’s hair.”

Positioning himself behind me, he loosened the braids, combing my hair with his fingers. Slowly, carefully, he began to loop the strands together into new braids, twisting them tightly without pulling. I leaned against his knees, my head tilted back to face the sky, my eyes closed, hot rays of sunshine stroking my cheeks. Grey finished the task, tying the braids with the scraps of blue ribbon I had used before. He rested his hands on my shoulders, fingers kneading the flesh ever so gently, and I smiled, wondering if it was a sin to be so happy.

He didn’t say anything. Straightening up, I turned around to look at him. His handsome face was grave, and that curious look was back in his eyes. He was unhappy, and his unhappiness had something to do with living on the island. I remembered some of Maudie’s tales about the place. Was it really cursed? Had all those evil things actually happened there? I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want anything to spoil my imaginary haven.

“I—I live there, too,” I said shyly. “In my imagination. I go to the island and everything is different. Safe, and peaceful, and—well, different. I suppose you think that’s silly.”

“Why not? I’ll take good care of you. I’ll bring you straight back. No one’ll ever know.”

I hesitated, torn between the desire to go and a curious feeling that it would be a mistake. In my fantasy, the island was perfect, an enchanted place. I was afraid that if I actually went there the illusion would be destroyed and it would become a place like any other. Grey stood up, rubbing his hands over his thighs. I looked up at him, still undecided. He grinned, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet.

Grey took up his fishing pole and put it into the rowboat. I couldn’t resist him. I didn’t want him to think that I was afraid, although in a sense I actually was. I’d never been in a boat before, and the beautiful bronze-shadowed water suddenly took on a sinister appearance. Grey chuckled and, holding my arm firmly, led me to the boat and helped me climb in. It was very old, the sides encrusted with dried salt, some of the planks swollen out of shape; but it seemed sturdy enough. Grey untied the rope, coiled it neatly and gave the boat a shove. It skimmed over the water, rocking treacherously. I gripped the sides, alarmed. Grey swung into the boat, splashing water over me and gathering up the oars. In a few moments we were moving over the water, the cove growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

“Relax,” he told me. “You don’t have to grip the sides like that. It isn’t going to topple over.”

“Well, I’ll keep you in line. You get cheeky with me, I’ll smack ya. We’re going to have lots of good times together, Carolyn. You and me, we’re going to be great chums.”

Happiness flooded over me, and my fear of the water vanished. I felt safe and secure with him. I had a friend, at long last. It was a glorious sensation, strange and new and wonderful. I could hardly believe my good fortune. The summer had been so long, so lonely, and now everything was changed. I wrapped my arms around my knees, drawing them up against my breast, savoring the warm glow inside.

Grey handled the oars with magnificent ease. His biceps tightened under the cotton jersey, his chest swelled, but his breathing was easy, and although his hair was damp with perspiration, he seemed to be using no effort at all. I peered at him over my folded arms. With his dark blond hair and clear gray eyes, he looked like a handsome young Viking. I could imagine him sailing for lands uncharted, totally fearless like the storybook heroes. I imagined us sailing away together, leaving the rest of the world behind.

The cove was far away now, barely visible along the shoreline. We were heading directly for the island. It loomed up larger and larger. I could see the boats tied along the waterfront, rocking in the water, silver gray fishing nets stretched out on ancient brown poles. The picturesque buildings huddled closely together, brown and gray and rust colored. Beyond the village the pine-covered hills rose, but we were too close now for me to see the red tile roof of the big house. As we drew nearer, Grey changed course, rowing around the island, away from the village. Soon there was nothing to see but great gray-black boulders and dense pine woods, shadowy black-green, curiously sinister. This part of the island wasn’t pretty at all. It seemed, in fact, forbidding.

The bulk of the island cast long dark shadows over the water, and daylight seemed to vanish as we rowed around to the cliff side. It was cooler here, twilight dim, the water deep purple, the rocks black, crouching on the edge of the water like giant, hunched monsters. I didn’t like it at all. I was frightened and wished I hadn’t come. Far away I could see the great gray cliff rising up in stony magnificence, but here there was only a low cliff, the woods above it rising in thick clusters, and more rocks, larger now. Grey rowed steadily, breathing deeply. He headed directly toward a solid wall of black rock, and it was only when we were upon it that I saw the opening. The boat passed under the natural archway, and we were in a small, secret cove completely enclosed by rock, everything black and gray and purple. Small waves lapped against the muddy black shore with the sound of whispers, echoing. I shivered, remembering Maudie’s tales.

Grey leaped out of the boat and reached down to take my hand, pulling me up. I stepped onto the shore; the mud squished beneath my bare feet. He pulled the rowboat up out of the water and then, as a precaution, tied the rope onto a rusted metal ring fastened to one of the rocks. Taking my hand, he led me along a damp pathway between the rocks, scarcely wide enough for us to pass. Damp black rock walls pressed close on either side, and there was no sunlight, only a dim gray glow. I could easily imagine pirates moving stealthily along this path, cutlasses in hand, expressions fierce as they contemplated some new deviltry.

The path twisted, slanting up, and I realized we were climbing. Damp green moss clung to the uneven rock walls, and there was an odor of moss, of mud and decaying wood. I stumbled, almost falling. Grey pulled me up sharply, laughing. I tried to smile, but I wasn’t enjoying this. My knees felt weak. My heart was pounding, and a strange apprehension gnawed at me. I shouldn’t be here. I should never have let him persuade me to come. We continued to climb, and a short while later we stepped out into the woods. A few rays of sunlight penetrated the thickness, creating a shadowy brown-green world. Wind whistled through the limbs overhead, and there were a dozen noises: rustlings, cracklings, creakings, none of them pleasant. Grey was still holding my hand tightly. A happy smile curled on his lips. His eyes were alight with pleasure. He was enjoying himself, delighted to be sharing this adventure with me. I tried to ignore the uneasiness inside.

“We have to go through the woods a way before we reach the caves,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze.

“Not much light ever reaches this part of the island. Come on, Carolyn. You’ll love the caves. They’re wonderfully spooky.”

He led me through the thick woods. Although there was no formal path, he moved with confidence, knowing exactly where to turn to avoid running into a thicket. I realized we were moving along the crest of the low cliff. Occasionally I could catch a glimpse of the sunlit water through the heavy branches. Pine needles crackled underfoot, and there was the glorious fragrance of pine mingled with the salty tang of sea air. I felt much better now, my apprehension almost gone.

Grey stopped abruptly, freezing in position. He motioned me to keep silent, and for a moment we stood very still. He was listening for something; a worried frown creased his brow. My heart started pounding again, and I trembled. All around us the wood noises whispered. There was a loud snap, the snap of a dry twig cracking underfoot. I moved closer to Grey. He curled his arm around my shoulders. Leaves rustled as something slithered under a bush. A bird cried out shrilly. Grey tensed, his body rigid.

He continued to listen. I was petrified with fear. After a few more seconds had passed, Grey relaxed, sighing a heavy sigh of relief. “I thought I heard something—someone,” he said. “I guess I must have been mistaken.”

He gave me a reassuring smile and squeezed my shoulder. I was on the verge of tears and fought them back only with great effort. The woods were again dark and terrifying, a primeval world shrouded in moving black shadows, the feeble rays of sunlight only heightening the gloom. I was eleven years old and not nearly so fierce and brave as I pretended to be. The distant roar of the sea was like a whispered warning. What had seemed a grand lark before now seemed incredible folly. My sunlit cove was far away, and I longed for it.

Grey shook his head, frowning. “Never found a trace of ’im,” he replied. “Police said he musta been a maniac. Hey, look, you’re pale as a ghost. There’s nothin’ to worry about. I’ll protect you.”

“Because of the murder? That was almost a year ago. I’ve been here lotsa times since then. Nothin’ ever happened.”

“I told-ja, I was mistaken about it. Come on, Carolyn, don’t turn sissy on me. You wanted to see the caves, and I’m going to show ’em to you. They’re fascinating.”

I squared my shoulders and smiled, showing him that I wasn’t a sissy; but inside I was still trembling. I kept remembering that sharp snap a few minutes ago. What if someone had been following us? The murderer had never been caught. What if he had seen us and decided to …? I fought back the sobs and hurried after Grey. He sauntered on ahead, hands thrust into his trouser pockets. Arching pine boughs overlapped, making dark green tunnels through which we passed. Birds scurried about in the trees, shrill and vociferous at our intrusion. Grey paused to wait up for me, then led me out of the woods to the edge of a steep incline studded with jagged gray-black rocks. The beach below was almost completely covered with huge, humped black boulders, purple in the dim light, waves lashing against them with savage fury.

Gripping my hand tightly, he led the way down the incline, carefully picking his footholds, pausing to make sure I was in no danger. The rocks were wet and slippery, and the waves below sent up a fine misty spray that dampened my dress. Grey moved with agile grace, reaching across to help me climb around a boulder. In a matter of minutes we were on the beach below, and Grey led me through the labyrinth of gigantic black stones. We had to wade through pools and pass through fountains of spray, and when we finally reached the narrow cove both of us were soaking wet.

“Well, here we are,” he said jauntily, pointing to a dark opening in the side of the cliff, only a few feet from the water.

“Why did we have to come through the woods?” I asked him in an irritable voice. “Why didn’t you bring the boat here in the first place?”

Grey wiped a damp blond lock from his forehead. “Too dangerous,” he informed me. “The waves are too choppy for a rowboat. It’d take a motorboat to get here safely. Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked, indicating the rough, jagged opening.

I nodded. I had the perverse, natural curiosity of a child and was eager to see the caves, yet at the same time I was plagued with apprehension. The little girl had been found in the caves. The murderer had brought her here. There was an aura of evil about the place; that dark, gaping hole cast a sinister spell. I wanted to turn back, but I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t let Grey think me a coward. He was my friend. I didn’t want him to despise me, desert me.

Grey stepped through the opening. I tagged along behind him, trying to quell my fears. We moved down a long passageway where purple-black rock walls dripped with moisture. The place was filled with echoes, and the light grew dimmer and dimmer as we progressed, moving down. Currents of icy air swept through the opening. I shivered in my wet dress. Peering ahead, I could see nothing but pitch black darkness, and there was a rustling, squeaking sound that set my nerves on edge.

“’Course. When I was younger these caves were my private domain. I wrapped a red bandanna around my head and carried a wooden sword, pretending I was a bloodthirsty pirate. I used to build fires and bury treasure in the sand. It was fun. ’Course, I’m too old for that now. Here, wait up a minute.…”

He began to grope along the wall. I could barely see him—just a faint outline against the darkness. Arms folded around my waist, I shivered as fingers of icy air stroked my body. Grey muttered something unintelligible, and then there was a loud clatter. He stooped to pick something up, fumbling in the dark. There was a loud scratch as he struck a match. A faint orange light flickered, then blossomed and spread as he held the flame to the end of a long torch wrapped in oily rags. Darkness fled, replaced by a spluttering yellow orange light that flickered against the damp walls and made shadows appear. The shadows seemed to dance all around us, dark demons that leaped and darted in fury.

“I was hoping it’d still be here,” Grey said. “I always used to keep the torch and a box of matches in that niche, never knowing when I might be coming back.”

The passage led into a large grotto with various natural tunnels leading away from it. Grey led the way down one of them, and we came into an even larger grotto, icy cold. Jagged stalactites hung from the ceiling like blue-brown icicles, a few of them joining with the stalagmites rising from the floor. Grey placed the torch in an old iron holder fastened to the wall, moving closer to me. He reached for my hand, holding it in a bone-crushing grip. It was an eerie place filled with deep purple shadows that seemed all the darker by torchlight. There was something in the air, something fetid and evil, an almost tangible atmosphere of malevolence.

At first I thought it must be my imagination, but Grey felt it, too. He wasn’t nearly so jaunty and nonchalant as he had been earlier. He seemed younger, a vulnerable little boy, no longer the confident lad who carried himself with such a mature air. When he spoke, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

“The pirates used to bring their victims here,” he said, “captives, and people who displeased ’em. Sometimes they ran ’em through, but usually they just chained ’em to the walls and left ’em to die.”

He pointed to the ancient chains hanging on one wall, rusty manacles affixed to several of them. I trembled, imagining the moans of those tormented souls left to perish in the darkness. The walls of the grotto seemed to have absorbed the evil once perpetrated here, tossing it back now as we stood looking at the manacles. Behind us the torch spluttered, throwing bizarre shadows over the ground in front of us. Bats squeaked, and I could see the furry brown shapes hanging from the ceiling.

“Everyone on the island did. She was one of the village brats, always getting into trouble. They found her over there, in the corner. You can still see the bloodstains on the rock.…”

I thought I was going to faint. I closed my eyes, swaying as my knees gave way. Grey supported me, wrapping his arms around my shivering body. He held me very close, and I clung to him, fighting back the sobs. When I looked up at him, his gray eyes were filled with tenderness.

“I hoped you would,” he said quietly. “I really hoped so. You don’t like them at all. You’re afraid—”

It was then that we heard the puttering noise coming from far away and echoing through the caves. Grey stiffened, an angry look in his eyes. He released me. I was barely able to recognize the noise: a motor idling. Someone had brought a motor boat into the cove outside.

“My cousin. I hate him. He’s seventeen years old, always spying on me, always breakin’ up my fun. That was probably him in the woods. He probably saw us and figured out where we were going, then went back to the boat house to fetch the boat.”

“That’s right. It’s on the other side of the island, perched on the edge of the cliff. It’s a grand place. Someday I’ll take you there. They won’t like it, but—” He cut himself short, frowning.

“Evan, and Burke. Particularly Burke. He’s worse than Evan; never lets me do anything.”

Disgruntled, almost surly, Grey took the torch from the iron holder and moved out of the grotto room. I hurried behind him, glad to be leaving the terrible place. We moved down the twisting passageway, through the first, smaller grotto and on up the passage that led out to the cove. When we were halfway there, Grey doused the torch in the damp sand and placed it back into the secret niche, rattling the box of matches as he did so. Far ahead of us, through the tunnel of dark walls, I could see the dim patch of light that was the opening. I started toward it eagerly. Grey reached for my arm, restraining me. He seemed terribly upset.

“Evan—he’s mean. He—he doesn’t like me. He treats me like a child. I—don’t let it bother you. Okay?”

“He doesn’t like for me to have friends. He’ll separate us. He’ll try to keep us apart, but it won’t work. I’ll be there at your cove tomorrow. I promise.”

“Don’t let anything Evan says—” He cut himself short again. I could barely see his face, but it was filled with worry.

Although the light outside was dim, it seemed dazzling after the darkness of the caves. I could see a neat red and white motor launch beyond the black rocks, bobbing at anchor several yards out in the water. Waves hurled themselves against the rocks with splashing fury, spraying mist in every direction. Grey stood quietly beside me. He looked cowed and intimidated, terribly young, and I had the feeling that I was the older, the protector.

He stood several yards away, leaning against a rock with arms folded across his chest. Even slouched as he was, I could tell that he was very tall, over six feet, with the hard, muscular body of an athlete. His raven black hair flew about his head in dark, tattered waves; his tanned face was the face of a street corner tough, a slight hump above his nose giving him a pugilistic look. I knew he was only seventeen, but he seemed much older, frightfully mature, with nothing of the boy about him. He wore gray denim trousers and a loose-fitting black jersey with the sleeves shoved up over his forearms. His dark brown eyes stared at Grey coldly, ignoring me completely.

Grey started to say something but bit it back, his moment of defiance gone. The cowed look returned, and for a moment I thought he was going to burst into tears. His gray eyes were the eyes of a disobedient child, filled with apprehension.