(no subject)

Two days wasn't a very long time, not in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough to Anne to stop bursting into tears all the time and start to move on again. In some ways, it would've been easier if Constable Turnbull had died, and she could comfort herself with the knowledge that he was in God's hands now. As it was, she had no way of knowing what had happened to him, or where he was now. Had he gone home again? Had he gone back to the moment he'd come from? Had he been whisked off to yet another island? Anne chose to believe that he was safe at home, surrounded by the people he loved and who loved him. She also chose to believe that he would remember her.

And so it was she sat on the log outside of her hut, in the skirt that Constable Turnbull had once told her was quite pretty and a blouse that let through the light breeze, with a pad of paper and a pencil in her hand. She had put pencil to paper once or twice, but mostly she was sitting with her chin resting on her hand, staring out at the jungle and the blue sky.