The note arrived when darkness descended upon day, not delivered by the panicked assistant this time, but disguised in a fruit basket that was left in her room. Isla discovered it when her knife cut too far into a pear, the blade biting into paper hidden under the fruit. She gasped, her pounding heart when she withdrew it, wiping away juice that stained the sides.
The phrases were strange to her, haphazard and disconnected, but the words were strong enough to break through any bars that held her captive.
When the moon wanes, the west-facing cliffs will be defenseless. A vessel will lie below. Come, and you will not come alone. You will be secure in your passage.
It was signed with one letter. L.
Luca.
She shook as she read the words by touch. This was not a rumor or a book. It was an escape, a half-opened door. Liberty was written in black ink, as dangerous as it was inviting.
