Sarah was lost, adrift. Everything she knew and could relate to had been torn away through her own act of stupidity and now she had no idea how to conduct herself. She had initially tried to retain the trappings of her previous life, to cling to the customs and habits that she understood, but her woolen dress was too hot and the stays too confining for the island so they had been abandoned in her chest. There were no servants to direct, no menus to plan and no morning calls to pay. Her companion was both intimidating and baffling, refusing to answer to anything but 'Billy' and ignoring all of her requests to call her 'Miss Castle'. He expected her to help him but was impatient with her fumbling attempts at basic tasks; he had no idea or care of decorum or respectability, saying and doing things that constantly put her in a blush; and his table manners were non-existent. She wanted to be helpful but shied away from exposing herself to his exasperation and thinly veiled contempt and so found herself at a loss as how to comport herself.

Not for the first time in her life she felt useless and burdensome and in her uncertainty found herself treating her fellow castaway with hauteur and detachment, putting him at a distance to protect herself. The only thing she could think to do to be of assistance was to watch for rescue and so every day she would climb to the top of the cliffs to the lookout that commanded a sweeping view over the bay and the sea beyond. At first, full of hope, she had spent much time up there scanning the horizon for a ship that never materialised, convinced that the lack of ships wasn't due to their not coming but his lack of attention. She did not tell him this of course but the slightly superior expression he always wore when she returned disheartened from a long watch made her think he knew exactly what she thought. Eventually she realised that he probably hadn't been lying.

A creeping lethargy began to envelop her, sucking away her energy and making even small chores seem insurmountable. She picked at her meals in a desultory fashion, pushing her food here and there on her plate. Her hammock, now relocated to the clearing of Mr Bones' hut despite her misgivings, was harder and harder to rise from each morning, she just wanted to turn over and go back to sleep, always hoping that maybe this time she would wake up from this awful dream, or maybe just not wake up at all.

The tree canopy above her stirred in the breeze and she gazed at the shifting leaves idly, wondering what Woodes was doing. She yearned to ask Mr Bones about Woodes but the one occasion she had gathered enough courage to ask him how her husband had looked when last he saw him he had replied shortly, 'Hollow, like a man who has lost everything.'

She did not ask again.

She could hear Mr Bones moving around the camp, the clatter of wood as he restocked the pile by the fire and the splash of water as he took a drink from the cask. She shut her eyes again and heaved a sigh.

'You should bathe,' she heard him say from the fireside. Irrational irritation flared up inside her, the only emotion she seemed to be capable of feeling at the moment, besides apathy. Either she didn't care or she was irritable and there seemed to be many things to irritate her recently; an overturned cask of water that she had just spent all her energy filling; the knots of her hammock loosing and dumping her to the ground; her knife never being where she could have sworn she had left it. She ignored him and rolled over.

'Seriously though, you're starting to look and smell like you've been months at sea.'

His voice sounded from just above her. Her eyes popped open and she sat up to find him looming over her, tin cup in hand. She rolled gracelessly off the hammock and turned to face him, flushed and frowning, the woven mat of her bed providing a barrier between them. He regarded her with his brows raised and something like sympathy in his eyes, a gentler expression than she had yet seen on his face, but also an expression that made her want to scream at him, even though she was well aware of the consequences of provoking this man's wrath. His brows rose a little higher as he observed her.

'It will make you feel better,' he said quietly. 'Believe me, I know.'

Abruptly he turned away, walked to the fire and dropped his cup into a bucket. He picked up his fishing line and net from where they were propped against the hut and without looking at her strode out of the camp, calling over his shoulder, 'I'm going fishing.'

Sarah watched his retreating back until he was out of sight and then slowly uncurled her clenched fists from the edge of the hammock and in doing so caught sight of her hands. They were dirty, filthy really, her nails black crescents at the tips of her fingers, torn and rough. Her hair was a tangled mess falling over her shoulder, a mass of snarls, dirt and sweat. She suddenly felt disgusting, and embarrassed. Her once fashionably pale skin was now a golden brown, despite all her best efforts to stay out of the sun, and she knew even without a mirror that freckles speckled the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. She shook out her skirts, noting the dirt crusted on the hem and a tear in the flounce. If Woodes could see her now he would be appalled.

Huffing to herself she stomped down to the fresh water pool not far from the hut, divested herself of her skirts and scrubbed at the filth in the shallow water at the pool's edge. Once satisfied they were as clean as she could manage she laid them to dry on a flat rock in the sun. Glancing around to make sure that Mr Bones was nowhere in sight she waded into the pool, her chemise clinging to her skin. The water's cool touch was an immediate relief and she floated lazily for a time staring at the sky, her breathing loud in her ears, watching small patches of white cloud chase across the expanse while she considered her situation.

She knew she was behaving badly and if she was honest with herself, first encounter aside, Mr Bones had done very little to deserve her treatment of him. A little rough he might be but he also fed her, maintained the fire, collected food for their meals and for the most part kept a proper distance. She was still wary of him, he often silently brooded for long periods and was short tempered when he eventually emerged from his contemplation. She suspected he was still ravaged by guilt for his past actions, actions that she knew very little about. Other than their brief conversation on the day of the first meeting the past had not been mentioned, but it was clear to her that his remorse and shame were eating away at him, and to be sharing a camp with her listless, apathetic self probably wasn't doing a great deal to improve his mood. After all, it wasn't his fault that she was trapped on the island, she only had herself to blame for that, and he was as much the victim of a cruel fate as she.

Resolve stirred in her for the first time in weeks, they could do better, she could do better. She washed her face and wrung out her hair, wrapping the tangled mess of curls up into a tight bun. Her soak had loosened most of the grime under her nails so she removed the remaining dirt and parred the rough edges down with her knife, before donning her now dry skirts over her damp chemise. Back at the camp she considered their food stores, worrying the still rough edge of a nail with her teeth. She took down some smoked fish and herbs hanging from the ceiling of the hut, found some roots and onions, chopped them up and then put everything into the cast iron cooking pot with some water. While the pot was simmering she ground up some hardtack to serve as a thickener and added it to the bubbling concoction. She spooned a little out to taste it and was pleased to discover that the fish provided enough seasoning. Once satisfied it was cooked she swung the pot away from the fire, covered it with a cloth to keep the insects out, and crawled exhausted into her hammock to sleep again, too tired to wonder how her peace offering might be received.

The clink and scrape of metal on metal woke her. Blinking and rubbing her eyes she turned towards the fire. Mr Bones was eating from a tin plate with apparent gusto. He looked up as she pushed herself erect and gestured with his spoon to the fish stew.

'This is good.' He sounded surprised. 'I didn't realise you could cook.'

She felt wooden but forced herself to respond, 'My mother taught me. She wasn't born to money.'

'She taught you well.'

'There's no secret to it, just don't boil everything until all the flavour is gone.'

He blinked at her dry tone and gave a wry grimace. 'I'm not much of a cook.'

'No.'

'You volunteering for the job?'

He held her gaze as if he was expecting her to protest but she just nodded and then said quietly, 'I thought maybe you could teach me the plants as well.'

'The plants?'

'Which ones are edible, what to gather, where they grow.' She paused, 'So I can help you more.'

He inclined his head and said slowly, 'That would be useful.'

She released the breath she hadn't even realised she had been holding. The proffered olive branch appeared to have been accepted.

The next day Mr Bones stomped across the clearing, gun in hand. Sarah looked up from sewing her torn flounce, slightly alarmed.

'C'mon, I'm going hunting and you're coming too,' he said gruffly.

'Hunting?'

'I'll hunt, you can pick some fruit and the like. I thought you might like to see a bit more of the island and I can show you some edibles that you haven't seen yet.'

'Now?' she said, her lassitude dampening her enthusiasm.

'Yes, now. You got something better to do? Put your hat on,' he said shortly and strode to the edge of the clearing. She rolled her eyes a touch behind his back but did as she was bid, pausing to also tie on her pockets and pick up her basket. He looked around as she joined him and gave a jerk of his head to indicate she should follow him, through the trees, past the pool and on into the forest. He moved quickly, striding ahead of her so that most of her attention was concentrated on finding her footing and not tripping over the abundant tree roots.

They had been walking for a time and Sarah was hot and more than a little vexed by the sullen silence of her companion. When they reached a small stream he bent to take a drink and she crouched down beside him to do the same. Splashing a little water on her face cooled her and she was about to ask him where they were going when her eye was caught by an impossibly quick flash of bright green. She straightened up and saw it again, amid a perfusion of white blossoms on a bush across the stream, a tiny iridescent green bird hovering amongst the flowers. At least she thought it was a bird, it had a long narrow beak but its wings were moving too quickly for the eye to see, so quickly they emitted a gentle hum. She was enchanted.

She put her hand on Mr Bones' arm to get his attention and whispered, 'What is it?'

'What's what?' he said glancing round. Sarah looked down at her hand and quickly jerked it away. She pointed silently at the bird.

'Oh that,' he said. 'It's a fairy.'

She looked quickly up at him, scepticism written all over her face. 'Fairies don't look like that.'

'Not in England they don't,' he said but she saw his lip twitch, a slight curl at the corner like he might smile. She had not seen him smile but then she herself had not smiled for some time.

'What is it?' she asked again, a bit more insistently.

'It's a humming bird,' he relented in a low voice. 'There's lots of them here, all different colours and sizes. That one's quite a small one, some are bigger. They feed on the nectar in the flowers.'

'And those are proper bird wings?'

'Yes, they are proper wings, just moving faster than you can see. Sometimes they fly right by you and it sounds like a huge insect is coming for you.'

She gave a shiver at the idea, the insects here were larger than she was used to and strange to her eyes. The humming bird moved from one flower to another as she watched, the whir of its wings an accompaniment to its movement, and then suddenly it vanished.

'Oh,' she exclaimed in disappointment looking around and trying, to no avail, to find it again.

'You scared it away.'

'I did not,' she said rather indignantly.

'No, you didn't. It probably went to find some more food, which is what we should be doing too.'

He straightened up and gestured to her to follow him. She grumbled quietly to herself but followed him nonetheless. The forest was a verdant green and alive with sounds that she couldn't place, so many rustlings, chirps and calls she didn't recognise. She realised she was glad of his company, there was something unnerving about being on her own in this unknown place and despite his vague reassurances she couldn't quite put his comment about terrifying creatures out of her head. After seeing the humming bird he seemed to relax a bit and began pointing out various edibles along the way. She picked some roots and some wild onions at his direction and memorised the shape of the leaves for future reference.

She was wondering along, eyes darting around trying to take in as much as possible when she was suddenly brought up short by his restraining hand and an admonition to keep quiet. She looked past him and saw the duck he was eying. It was a large one, good for several meals. He drew his pistol from his belt, cocked it and carefully took aim. Sarah held her breath and couldn't quite help the small squeak she gave when he fired the gun, the retort loud at such close quarters. She lowered her hands from her ears, embarrassed at the bland look he was throwing in her direction. He walked over to the fallen duck to check if it was dead and then tied it to his belt with a certain grim satisfaction.

'Good shot,' she said feeling some praise was only polite.

'Thanks,' was his only response.

She had expected him to start back to the camp now that they had the makings of a full meal but he did not. She didn't question it, he seemed to be looking for something specific and she was content to follow along in his wake, occasionally stopping to pick some herbs to put in her rapidly filling basket.

She was digging out some more roots when he suddenly exclaimed, 'There it is,' and went striding off. He approached a tree with broad leaves and knobbly green fruits and proceeded to cut one of the fruits down before segmenting it with his knife. He came back to where she was crouched in the dirt and held a portion out to her. She took it with a quizzical tilt of her brows, holding it gingerly by the thick rind, her hand grubby from her rooting.

'It's sweetsop, try it,' he encouraged.

Sarah put the pale yellow pulp to her mouth and nibbled tentatively. It tasted like…sweet custard. She looked up at him in shock and found that he was smiling. His smile really did transform him she noted. Gone was the sullen, short tempered man of recent weeks, instead he looked boyish and pleased with himself, infinitely preferable to his intimidating scowl.

'Good isn't it?'

'It's delicious,' she said candidly. 'It tastes like custard. How is that possible?'

'I don't know but I'm not one to question a good thing.'

He saw that she had finished her piece and gave her another which she devoured.

'I thought you might like it,' he said in a satisfied tone.

'You did?' she said uncertainly.

'I did,' he said simply and turned back to the tree to gather more fruits.

Sarah stared down at the piece of fruit rind in the palm of her hand, wondering if he meant it as a peace offering of his own.