Page 18 of The Prince's Castaway Baby

We walk in silence for a long few minutes. I’ve no idea what he’s thinking about or looking at, but I’m too busy scanning the surroundings to pay attention to Jens and his hurt feelings. If he wanted to be babied, he should’ve started following someone else around.

I spot some birds in the branches and gesture to him to stand still and be quiet. To his credit, he does exactly that. I grab my camera, crouch down, and set it up, then get in position, lining up my angles on the birds.

And then it starts to rain.

I get a few shots in, but I don’t want to get my equipment too damp. “Come on,” I say to Jens, standing up and reaching out for my case. “We should head back.”

His face falls like he’s genuinely disappointed. “Oh. Okay. We haven’t been out here very long.”

“No, but this is the wrong weather for it. It’s coming into storm season out here.”

Jens nods slowly, and trails after me as I walk back towards the cabin. “What are we going to do for the rest of the day?” he asks.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “What makes you think there’s awe?”

I’m half-expecting him to look disappointed again, but instead his smile twists into one of confidence, like he’s sensed a challenge. “There must be games or something back at the cabin, unless you have work to do…”

“Yes, I do have work to do!”

When we get back, it takes twenty minutes before I cave and teach him a card game. He’s pretty slow to learn, whichfascinates me. Didn’t he ever play cards as a kid? Didn’t he have any friends?

Maybe my friends and I were just weird, because we used to have a whole betting ring at recess.

But eventually he gets it, and the first time he wins, the light that illuminates his face is radiant and captivating. It’s like seeing a lightbulb turn on behind his eyes — and it should be so smug, but somehow it’s not.

“Good job,” I say, trying to be gracious in the face of his victory.

“Let’s go again. I’m sure that was just a fluke.”

“Maybe not. You’re pretty good at this.”

He dips his head, almost embarrassed by the compliment. “All right then,” he says. “Let’s go again so I can beat you.”

Despite his fighting words, he doesn’t. But the light in his eyes doesn’t go out, and by the time we go to bed, I’m left wondering more than ever about where he came from.

CHAPTER 9

JENSEN

I’ve been on Mostaza for a week now. At least I think it’s a week. It’s hard to keep track of time when all the days look the same and I don’t have a calendar to help me differentiate.

The last few days, Billie’s been taking me out more and more, explaining her job to me, telling me about everything she has to do. She’s been teaching me all about the natural world, and it’s opening my eyes to things I didn’t even realize people needed to worry about.

It’s been raining on and off too, and I’ve been doing my best not to annoy her, but it’s hard when there’s only two of us, and I’m bored. Soon, I’ll have read every book in the cabin, and we’ve still got days and days left to be trapped here.

We’re in a completely different part of the island today, somewhere that I’ve never been before. It’s less dense with trees here, but thick with undergrowth and bushes. Every time I take a step, I feel like I’m being stabbed by a thorn or a twig or something. Just more scrapes to join the bruises all over my legs.

I’ve never looked so damaged in my life.

One of the best things Billie’s teaching me is foraging — and not to brag, but I am getting pretty good at it. Obviously, I knew that people could eat stuff that grew in the wild, but I thought you had to have special knowledge to be able to decide what was good for you and what was bad. I guess you kind of do. But I didn’t realize how easy it was for people to share this knowledge.

I guess if I’d thought about it, I might have figured that out. After all, before microwaves and freezers and the invention of indoors, people had to know what stuff from the ground would kill them, or feed them. I wonder how many people must have died before they got that one right.

“Look,” says Billie, pointing at a bush. “You must recognize that one by now.”

I follow her finger and wander over to the bush, crouching down to inspect it. I squint at the leaves — pointed and bright green — then notice the fruit is bright yellow, round, juicy-looking. I compare it to other things we’ve seen, like holding up paint swatches in my mind.

She must have given me an easy one on purpose. “That’s got to begranadilla.”

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