Matthew flipped a page of the leather bound vellum, the book his only possession that had survived the shipwreck six years ago. His stump of a leg ached, as it often did on more humid days. A breeze stirred the pages, and he held tight to the book, having experienced more than one occasion that it had blown out of his seaside perch and precariously near the ocean. With its salt water and high amount of pincered crabs, it was not a good place for his journal to be, if Matthew still wanted it to be in one place.

And besides, the ordeal of retrieving his water-warped cane, replacing the peg of wood that served as the lower half of his right leg, and plodding awkwardly to the shoreline to get his book would be... Humiliating. Painful in all the worst ways, in body and soul, in heart and pride.

"Still writing in that book?"

Matthew looked up as his friend—and former rival, now ofttimes enemy—walked over with an ease Matthew never stopped envying.

"I was. Now, I'm thinking of convenient ways to decapitate you." Matthew turned another page, reading over what he had written yesterday.

"Is that what's in the book, then?" Celeste took a seat next to him on the beach, sinuous, tan limbs coiling as she sat cross-legged with no care for modesty. There was no real need for it between the two of them—she had been the one to pull him out of the ocean six years ago, half-drowned and half-naked, the only dry thing on him the book he still kept. "Murder techniques?"

He barked a laugh. Maybe those would be easier to write about. "No."

"Then what are you writing about?" Her freckled face, framed by a fall of wavy dark hair, came into view as she tried to snatch the book from him. Matthew hung tight to it, having grown accustomed to these interludes in his writing. "If you don't tell me, I'll simply assume you are romantically fantasizing about me again."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "I never fantasized about you, nor will I ever."

"Lie all you like, Matteo. It doesn't hide the truth." Celeste said faux-dramatically, patting him on the shoulder. "If you refuse to talk about your writing, let's move on to an even more difficult subject, why don't we?"

Matthew groaned, setting down the book and gripping it between his thighs. "Celeste—"

"Why didn't you leave? They offered you freedom, the chance to be the king of Arlea, royalty again. Why didn't you take it?" Celeste's brown eyes were wide, probing.

But he knew they were not entirely innocent. Celeste wasn't any island girl—she was the daughter of the governor of this island. She may as well have been a princess. And with the people rebelling against the colonialists, for her marrying the Prince of Arlea would have cemented her father's claim to rule. He couldn't quite trust her, despite their six years of friendship and all the kindness she'd showed him—at any minute she could take it all back. Dangle it over his head like a carrot with marriage as the stick. It was silly of him to ruminate on such topics though—not when she'd never once shown a hint of romantic interest toward him before.

"It's none of your business."

"Matthew..." she used his proper name this time, not the version of it in her tongue, so he could tell she was being serious. Celeste was rarely somber, so it never boded well for him when she was. "Is this about your leg?"

He said nothing, shifting the book and clamping it under his arm. He strapped the wooden peg leg onto what remained of his own, and stood shakily. "I have finished speaking to you, Celeste. I'll see you at dinner."

She stood and scrambled after him fluidly. "The sun set ten minutes ago! It's dinner time now!"

Matthew had been staying at the governor's mansion for six years since he'd washed up ashore with a bloody, swollen, half-dead leg and Celeste had somehow recognized him in his bedraggled state as Prince of Arlea. Waiting and wishing and hoping for a sign that his parents were alive, that the rebels had yet to take the crown. That his brothers and sisters were still alright—Natasha and Dominica, Donald and Sasha.

The crown prince, Donald, had been too busy with the duties of the throne to bother caring a whit for the litter of children their fecund parents had managed to produce, and the task of playing overprotective older brother had fallen to Matthew. The role of strong, reliable, unbending older brother. The one who never showed weakness, the one who was always there for them—and then he had gone and abandoned them, and lost half a leg to boot. Now, he was as worthless as any cripple, prince of Arlea or otherwise.

"Matteo?" Celeste came up behind him placing a hand on his shoulder. She kicked up sand onto his ankle. "Talk to me."

He ignored her and stared at the billowing white curtains of the manor visible through the thick green brush of the jungle. A swarm of insects hung in the air around the greenery like fog, but near the house he knew would be free from the pesky creatures. The lighted incense candles—both for worship and pragmatic lighting—would keep them away.

"I didn't go home, because Arlea is no longer my home." Because how could he face the people he had failed? The sisters he had sworn to protect? "And it's too cold there besides."

The weak joke he told cracked the tension. Celeste gave a faint laugh. "Come on, then. Let us eat."