Island of Icarus Read Online Free PDF Page A

very close to the arm—still without releasing that strong, sure hold—he did not seem to notice. The moments dragged on while sweat beaded on my lip. I was barely breathing.
    “Wiggle your fingers now,” he said, and I did. “Again,” he said, barely more than a whisper, an intimate level of voice that only served to remind me of his proximity. “Yes. Okay. There, we have it.” As he sat back and released his grip, his fingertips slid down my arm—softly, like a woman’s caress. Only a happenstance, yet I could not dismiss the trailing sensation of his fingers against my skin. I had often prayed Cara’s touch would affect me so.
    “Are you all right?” asked Marcus, suddenly.
    “Just fine,” I said. I managed to smile as I shifted ever so slightly in the chair. Inappropriate warmth was spreading through my groin, and—I was afraid—over my face. “Just a bit flushed from the heat. I am still acclimating to the tropics.”
    “I see,” he said, nodding. “And I understand. I’ve been there before.” His gaze lingered on mine for a moment. Was that a true gleam of understanding there, or simply friendly sympathy? He said, “You should find that the hand responds better now. Perhaps even better than your left. I would suggest practicing with it.” With that, he stood.
    “Of course,” I said as I flexed the hand experimentally. As I followed him from the office, I noticed an alabaster statue on his desk. It was maybe two feet tall, smooth, and represented a naked man as beautiful as a god. It was done in the style of a classical Greek carving. Every muscle, every curve, every feature was perfectly realistic. I was immediately entranced by it.
    Marcus noticed the object of my distraction. Hurriedly, he said, “Oh! You’ve noticed my art. I have a taste for the classics. Please excuse me. As I said, I’m not used to entertaining guests…” He flushed.
    “It’s all right,” I said. “I…I like it.” The words left my mouth of their own volition, and I was surprised at myself. I met Marcus’s gaze with slightly widened eyes, not sure what I had meant.

Chapter Eight
    Mortified by the encounter, I feigned exhaustion so that I might retire to the bedroom. For a while, I sat up at the table in the room, staring at the finches. Their vain fluttering seemed to reflect my mental state—the useless excitation, the agitation without an outlet. I moved to the porthole window above the bed to watch the sun set, then lay down when it became fully dark. I slept fitfully that night, and then woke to early morning sunlight. I stood, pleased to find my strength had returned despite the difficult night. I walked through the empty living room and out onto the doorstep to take a deep breath of tropical air.
    The still, quiet forest scene was broken only by the occasional tink of metal on metal. I surmised that my host, who I had thought perhaps asleep still, was crafting something. I followed the sound to the back of the little building. There, I found an open workshop built out from the back wall of the cabin. Two long wooden tables stood underneath the tin roof. One was empty save for a spread of tools. The other held a large, complex apparatus that gleamed in the morning sunlight. Marcus was there, bent over the thing with the same singular intent with which he had regarded my arm the night before.
    “Good morning,” I said after a long moment, hesitant to disturb him, especially after last night’s embarrassment over the statue. As I watched him work, I could not banish the image of the perfect white curves of the stone man, nor of Marcus’s blushing face as my eyes fell upon them, as if I had stumbled upon some shameful secret.
    He looked up and gave me a ready smile. “Good morning!” he said. “How do you feel?” He appeared to be his usual bright and friendly self, as if nothing had transpired last night.
    I relaxed a bit. “Better.” I approached the end of the table and closed my clockwork