First Ophelia disappears behind that flimsy curtain into the bathroom.
Then she’s dead quiet in there. Two, three, five minutes.
Longer.
She’d looked like she was going to faint; was she okay? Rowan goes to the curtain, calls her name. He hears her retching; she’s being sick.
And the old lady pushes past him into the bathroom, then emerges with a horrified look. “Your girlfriend,” she says, like it’s all Rowan’s fault, “has disposed of her clothes.”
“Disposed of her clothes?”
“She has no clothes, boy.”
In the end Rowan buys a cheap little cotton sundress for Ophelia, a green one. That will look nice with her eyes, he thinks. And a pair of plastic flip-flops.
She comes out. She won’t look at him. But yeah, she looks cute in the dress.
And the two of them leave the store as fast as they can, getting out from under the old lady’s hard, suspicious glances.
“Really, I’m okay.”
“But what happened to your clothes?”
“Thanks for the dress, and the flip-flops. . . . I can pay you back. . . .”
Rowan waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
“How long was I in there?”
“Five, ten minutes.” What happened? Did she pass out? Is she sick? She looks fine—he peers at her. Yes, she looks totally fine.
“Really. That’s interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
She glances up at him, then away. Mumbles something he can’t hear.
Her hair. It smells of salt water.
He remembers the look on her face when she saw the world map with Antilia on it.
He remembers that certainty in his chest when Ari said, “The Chosen ones—lovers—come from your world.”
Could she . . . Is it possible?
His heart starts racing. It would explain . . . what? The instant feeling of connection between them, the feeling he’s had ever since they met.
“Ophelia, what happened?”
She has the same imaginary world as he does. No, not imaginary. It’s real. And she goes there, too . . . Is that what he’s thinking? It’s preposterous.
But . . . Wasn’t her hair sort of straight when they met at the coffee shop? It’s wavy now, curling around her face in adorable corkscrews.
Almost like her hair has somehow gotten wet. And that scent of the salt . . .
She stops walking. “You will think I am entirely insane. I should just go home.”
“Please. Don’t.”
“Rowan, I . . . I’m . . .” She looks like she’s going to cry. “There’s something wrong with me.”
Rowan looks around, desperate. “There’s a park near here. Let’s get off this street.”
The day is warm and the park is full, people really beginning to believe that summer is coming. Rowan leads Ophelia away from the crowded centre of the park to the place where the land falls away, overlooking a gully lined with trees. The ground is dry; they sit, looking out over the trees, the sky, the city. It feels good here, like a secret place.
All day he’s been trying to imagine telling her about the yellow letter. It’s been burning a hole in his pocket ever since he fled his house that morning. But now, there’s this.
Rowan feels with all his heart that Ophelia goes to Antilia, too.
If he’s right, how can he get her to tell him? There’s something wrong with me. . . . You will think I am entirely insane. . . . Funny, it’s never occurred to him to wonder about his own sanity. His time with Ari always feels infinitely more sane than his life here, with his parents and the crazy war and everything else. But this one—she’s different.
What was her word of the day yesterday? Pusillanimous—meaning cowardly. The opposite of that is courage, right?
Rowan takes a deep breath. “I got a letter today. It’s . . . here.” He pulls it out of his jeans pocket and hands it to her. “I’ve been called up.”
She gasps.
He sees himself, his deliberate creation of a dramatic scene, handing the letter over like a theatrical prop, hates himself for it. But he can’t stop now. It all seems unreal, like a dream, like he’s watching himself do this from far away. “So I’ll have to go. . . . They say the training starts in three months. But there’s something . . . Ophelia, there’s a place I can go. In my mind, I guess.” Maybe she’s right; this does sound insane. He sees her looking at the letter out of the corner of his eye; he still can’t look directly at her either. “But lately it’s been . . . more real. This happened—” he gestures at his face “—because I sort of tripped out of what felt like a . . .” His voice cracks. He keeps talking, can’t stop. “It felt real. A bloody real ocean voyage. I’ve come back soaking with salt water. I’ve been almost drowned by a big wave.”
She whispers something. He thinks she’s saying, “You could go there.”
“I could what?”
“You could go there. You could stay there.” Her voice gains in strength. “Then you wouldn’t have to go fight in this war, this ugly, pointless . . .”
They’re both shaking. “You do, Ophelia, you do go there, too. . . .”
“But it’s dangerous, Rowan, there’s a volcano—like on that map, right?—and it’s—”
“—it’s going to erupt,” he finishes.
He meets her eyes.
They are huge, round, and her lips are trembling.
“Antilia.”
She nods. “Yes. Antilia.”