ASH IS LATE. WE’RE LEAVING TODAY AND WE AGREED to meet at the marina before sunrise to do some last-minute checks on our yacht. I climb down the concrete steps onto the pontoon to look for him but he’s still nowhere to be seen. It’s damp and gray, and even though the sun has not yet risen the marina lights have already gone off — stupid energy-saving measures. A spring mist swirls between the jumbled masts like they’re wrapped in strands of cotton. I shudder because it gives me this flashback of steaming leaves and jungle, and I have to shake it out of my head. I’ve been getting a lot of flashbacks recently, and I won’t feel truly at ease until we’re out on the water.

Beneath the mist, the sea is black and calm, sloshing lazily against the floats. I walk a short distance along the pontoon to see if there is a light on anywhere. Perhaps Ash has gone on ahead to the boat? The thud of my deck shoes on the boards is eerie, emphasizing my growing feeling of isolation. I tell myself not to be stupid. No one is going to creep up on me. I check the boards for foreign objects and take a peek over my shoulder. Since we got back I’ve been paranoid that it’s going to happen again. That someone is going to snatch me away from here and I’ll be powerless to do anything about it. I used to love my own company. Now I need to see people — lots of people — just to feel safe, and it’s messing with my head.

I want the old me back.

I need to know that I can be independent again. That’s why I’m not going to let this stupid anxiety get the better of me. It’s also why Ash and I are going to sail around the world, this time setting off from home here in Weymouth. We want to face our fears together, to prove to ourselves that we could have done it. I’ve put my Women’s Laser Radial Olympic training on hold and, after we announced our intentions to the local press, a boatyard owner donated a forty-foot yacht. Mrs. Carter has helped us to kit it out. It’s far from the Spirit of Freedom but I love it. No bells. No whistles. This yacht will need sailing. They even painted a new name on it for me yesterday, Izzy Lionheart.

I swallow the rising panic and force myself to walk onto the junction. Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. This is England, not Africa. What’s the worst that can happen?

It doesn’t help.

Our yacht is moored halfway up one of the aisles and I can tell before I get close that Ash isn’t up there, either. Now I’m really starting to lose it. Something must have happened to him, but what? I worry that I’ve gone too far and turn to look back the way I’ve come. My heart jumps.

There is a hooded silhouette just standing in the darkness at the end of the pontoon — a strange, deformed-looking shadow. It seriously freaks me out. All I can think of is the Sangoma’s yellow smile. I frantically scan around to see if there’s anywhere I can run but the marina is deserted. There’s only one way out and the shadow is standing in it.

“Who are you?” I yell, fumbling for my phone. The screen lights up as I swipe it. My hands shake badly and I can’t remember how to get the number pad on. “I’m calling the police!” Terrified that I’m taking too long, I look up.

The shadow doesn’t answer. For a moment it looks like it is caught in indecision, like it may just turn and go back up the steps. Then a part of it seems to wriggle away, bouncing onto the boards with a loud thud and a throaty laugh. A small boy runs at me out of the gloom. He’s dressed in wrinkled, oversized jeans and a thick winter jacket. He stops in his tracks when he sees the fear in my eyes. Behind him, the other shadow steps forward, too, its footsteps so light on the pontoon that they barely make a sound.

I can’t believe my eyes.

Ash drops to the pontoon behind them and grins at me.

The figure pushes back the hood of her unbuttoned coat and the first watery dawn rays illuminate a worried, round face. She is openly wearing that silver chain around her neck now and there’s a bent old crucifix dangling from it. Her hair has grown and she’s wearing a colorful dress that’s about two sizes too big, secured with a wide, glossy belt. She looks beautiful.

“Rio,” she says, smiling uncertainly. “It is me.”