The strange restlessness that had plagued her since the day she had visited the mine continued to haunt Ashlynne. Days turned to weeks, the weeks to a month, and with every hour, her sense of unease grew stronger.
With her parents home, she dared not leave the compound to ride along the beach. It was strictly forbidden. There were dangers outside the compounds protective walls - a chance encounter, however unlikely, with an escaped prisoner; the lure of the jungle, wild and emerald green; the threat of attack by ferocious beasts; the churning riptides along the northern shore.
She had always avoided the jungle, but the ocean, ever seething, ever changing, called to some primal sense deep within her and she answered whenever she had the chance.
Her days, once filled with pleasant diversions, now seemed boring. She was tired of reading, tired of playing games and watching vids on the tele- screen, tired of playing the piano. Tired of painting and sculpting.
Tired of living behind the compound's high walls. For the first time, it occurred to her that she was as much a prisoner as the slaves who labored in the mine. As much a prisoner as Number Four.
Number Four. She spent far too much time thinking about him, wondering about him, daydreaming about him. It had to stop.
She heaved a great sigh as she went to the window and watched the storm rage across the sky. Slender bolts of brilliant white lightning slashed through the roiling thick black clouds. Thunder rumbled in the heavens, vibrating through the earth. Rain pelted the window. The wind howled through the night like an angry, ravenous beast.
A streak of lightning stabbed through the clouds on the far side of the compound, and a tree burst into flame. It flared for a moment, burning like a giant candle in the darkness, and then the rain snuffed it out.
The elements were still raging when she climbed into bed. Drawing the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes. She had always loved the savage unpredictability of the storms on Tierde. Lightning sizzled across the skies, casting eerie dancing shadows on the walls.
Gradually, the fierce rain lessened to a slow, steady rhythm, which soon lulled her to sleep.
By morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a wide swath of destruction. Trees and plants had been uprooted; debris-floated on the surface of the pool. The tree that had been struck by lightning stood like a dark sentinel near the side wall.
Her parents conferred, then her father called the mine and told Parah to send one of the prisoners to the jinan to clean up the wreckage.
She wished, but didn't dare believe; prayed, but expected no answer. It was too much to hope that Parah would send him - Number Four, with his shaggy black hair and cool blue-gray eyes.
She stood at the back door, one finger tapping restlessly on the wall, her gaze fixed on the side gate. She felt her heart jump into her throat when she saw Number Four enter the yard, followed by Dain. Some prayers, it seemed, were answered after all.
She stood in the doorway, listening surreptitiously while her father issued his instructions. Number Four was to dig up what was left of the tree that had been struck by lightning and haul it away, and then he was to clean up any other debris left by the storm.
Excitement bubbled up inside Ashlynne's stomach as she found a book, grabbed a couple of big yellow apples and headed outside to sit in the sun and read.
She found a perfect place on a flat rock a few yards away from where Number Four was working. Pretending to be engrossed in the old novel she had hastily pulled off one of the bookshelves in the library, she studied Number Four from beneath the veil of her lashes. She hadn't realized how tall and broad-shouldered he was. He wore a pair of loose-fitting tan leather breeches and black mud boots, nothing more. His skin was a deep golden brown; each muscle was clearly defined beneath his taut skin. The gash on his cheek had healed, leaving a thin white scar. Sunlight glinted off the thick lynaziam collar at his throat, off the heavy shackles on his wrists. His hair, as black as the baneite crystals he dug out of the mine, fell past his shoulders.
She had never seen anyone quite like him before. He was beautiful, wild and untamed. Exciting. Forbidden. As dangerous as one of the big black mountain lions she had seen at the circus when she was a little girl. The cats had been prisoners, too, she thought, locked in cages at night, controlled by a collar and leash by day
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