The Gracekeepers by Kirsty Logan Page A

their waists. Melia reached for the floats strapped to the wall, then realized it was a waste of time. They wouldn’t make a difference in a sea this raw.
    Their coracle was only the third away from the main boat, and their ropes were long enough to reach across North’s and Ainsel’s coracles—assuming that North’s had not also been damaged in the collision. Red Gold would be on the deck of the
Excalibur
, but the stars might not be bright enough to let him see the coracle’s damage beneath the dark water and white froth.
    Melia threaded the lamp on to its hook—a burning canvas was now the least of their worries—and began untying the overhead. The knots were tight and her fingers were numb.
    “Whitby!” she shouted. “I can’t—it’s too—”
    And he was beside her, nimble fingers dissolving the knots, strong arms pulling back the canvas, calloused hands throwing the end of her rope out of the coracle and into the night. It thudded and splashed into the sea. Melia pulled herself up on to the edge of the coracle, wrapping the overhead ropes around one arm so that she wouldn’t tip into the water. The coracle’s edge was slippery with seawater and she overbalanced, jerking the coracle as she landed on her knees. The thud juddered through her bones—she didn’t think that she had landed that hard, but still the impact seemed to vibrate through the coracle.
    In the bleaching starlight she saw the outline of Red Gold, lashed to the
Excalibur
’s mainmast. She waved her free arm at him, but he did not notice. Now that Melia was out, she could see how low their coracle sat in the water; how it was already beginning to drag down its neighbors.
    A split of lightning arced across the sky, echoed by a deep grumble of thunder. It lit up the world, painting Red Gold’s wide red face as white as bone. Melia’s head spun. It was all unreal. Pale shapes. Etchings on burned wood. The ends of stories.
    Red Gold raised an arm to hail her and she threw him the rope. He could not know what had happened to the coracle, but he knew that they were in trouble. She made sure that Red Gold had a tight hold of her rope, then reached down for Whitby’s to throw that too. She could not find it.
    “Whitby!” she shouted, but the wind stole his name. Shekicked her feet in the empty space of the coracle, trying to find him. “Whitby, stop trying to fix it! It’s too late!” She ducked her head inside but couldn’t see anything. She pulled some slack on her rope and dropped down into the coracle. All her breath was knocked out as she landed hip-deep in the icy water.
    “Whitby, damn you to earth!” She groped around in the dark but could only find the sides of the coracle, her numb fingers bumping and scraping against the straps and buckles. Nothing, nothing. Then: a tug around her belly, pulling her backward through the water. She pressed her hands against the walls and screamed out Whitby’s name. But Red Gold had the end of her rope, and was pulling her out.
    As she came free of the water she kicked her legs out as hard and wide as she could. They caught things, dozens of things, soft things and shattering things, but she did not know if any of those things were Whitby. Around her waist the rope tugged, tugged, and it was so tight that she could not breathe, could not call again for Whitby. Stars wheeled above her. The sea raged in long, deep heaves. She tried to turn, to untie the rope, to signal to Red Gold. As she slid over the edge of the coracle it scraped a long graze of skin from her forearm. A wave spat saltwater on to the wound, but she felt nothing.
    She half scrambled, half dragged over the two coracles and on to the sodden deck of the
Excalibur
. Red Gold pushed her toward the cabin. Through the burn of saltwater in her eyes she saw that he was climbing across the coracles to save Whitby. Despite his tight and mismatched oilskins, his cracked and bloody cheeks, Red Gold at that moment was the most glorious