Later, she remembers that night only in bits and pieces. When the memories come to her, as they do for the rest of her life, it would only ever be in flashes - of smell (sex, and embers, and autumn), of color (blue-black of night, ice-white of moon, wild orange of fire and Francis’ hair), of taste and touch (rough leaves beneath feet, the
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He hurried to her side, pace quickening as he hurried, crouching over and regarding her with worry. "Miss, I'm a doctor," he introduced himself. "Can you look at me? Can you tell me your name?" he asked, wary of a head injury and wanting to keep her spine still.
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The man is speaking, she realizes, speaking to her, and she tries to answer. She wants to answer - she wants to ask why Charles, or Henry, or Francis haven't come, and which way the car is, and when she can go home. But all that comes out is a dry, spluttering cough. At a loss, she only shakes her head, a movement that causes a blood-soaked lock of hair to come loose from the rest and stick to her cheek.
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In a sharp flash, gone as quickly as it has come, the image comes to her: racing, racing, racing past trees on legs as swift as the wind, running as she never would again-
Camilla blinks twice and instinctively grabs his arm to help herself stand.
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"Juno! What happened to you?" There was an awful lot of blood on her hair, but I wasn't entirely certain whether I wanted it to be hers or not. If it was her own blood then she was injured and I was in no real position to help with that. But if it wasn't her blood then whose was it?
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I crouched down closer to her. There was no wound that I could see, other than the cuts on her feet, and her chiton was oddly free of blood. Even with a head wound, and I had seen plenty of them, there would at least have been more blood on her clothing and face. It was an odd picture, but I was more than a little excited. After months on the island I was beginning to fear my investigative skills were going to seed.
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And that he doesn't ask too many questions.
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Limpid pools like the one he found himself staring at right now. Limpid pools that shouldn't have a chiton-garbed, strangely familiar young woman sitting by them.
"Camilla?" he called, wanting it to be her even as he hoped that it wasn't.
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All the same, overlaying his terror is another memory, of Camilla just as she is now, curled childlike in the arms of her brother carrying her back to the car. It is this Camilla that wins out, that must win out, the blonde angel that he knows is there beneath the blood and the swaths of fabric and the hunted--hunting?--look in her eyes. And it is the memory of this Camilla that moved him forward into her embrace.
"Camilla, it's--it's going to be all right," he murmured, one fine-boned hand rubbing the small of her back in gentle, calming circles. "I'm here, petite cherie." And if his embrace is a touch hesitant, or his heartbeat a hair too wild, or his gorge beginning to rise at the coppery scent of blood perfuming her hair? That's just from the shock of seeing her again, surely.
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It is only a boy and his dog, she struggles to tell herself as reason and consciousness battle off the last vestiges of madness.
She tries to speak, to answer his question as calmly as she can, despite the way she trembles with tired and shock, and the way her feet feel full of glass. But strangely, no words come, and she stares at boy and dog, mute and uncomprehending.
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But as the woman has her mouth open, and as no words come out, I begin to realize something else is wrong. "Are you okay?" I said again. My frown deepened. "Can you speak?"
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It's a terrifying sensation.
She nods firmly, but then pauses and frowns, and with somewhat more trepidation, shakes her head.
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The girl wrapped in white startles her for a moment and she breaks from her path away from her home. What should have come to this girl if Miranda had not strayed? If she had lingered longer in her house before leaving it? The idea of more damage being done by such a trick is one that she quickly casts away. Kneeling next to her, her knees squishing in the soft earth of the bank oblivious to the water that is creeping up the hem of her short dark red dress.
"Dear girl, have thou lost thine way? Taken a tumble and fallen where thou should not have tread?" she asks, curious and well-meaning as she extends her hand. "I beg thee, let me give thee aid."
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Where am I? Camilla stares hard at the girl, and it is a moment or two before she realizes that the words have not reached her lips. She tries again, and again, but the thought stays trapped in her mind like a tiger pacing the perimeter of a cage. Then Camilla pulls her hand back and shakes her head sharply, this mad turn of events more difficult to believe than anything that came before.
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For a moment Miranda frowns, her concern no less genuine but the lack of an answer gives her pause. Perhaps this girl is a mute, one of those creatures who has lost their voice through some error of man or god. Clasping her hands in front of her, Miranda looks around for a moment as she tries to figure out what to say.
"You have found haven," she decides is the best place to start. "This might be madness, but tis safe and far from ill. It is an island, whose name is unknown to most who arrive here. It is strange, I do know, but such strangeness is commonplace."
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