Dara, Page, and the Secrets of the Multiverse

▷ 11.2

The warm, coastal wind pushed Page's hair away from his forehead. His suit clung to his skin with the heat creeping past the cashmere fabric. He clicked his tongue, looking at the sky. The sun was brighter than ever, shining down on the docks and toasting him in place. He pushed the shades up his nose, further shielding his eyes from the blazing rays as well as keeping his face and presence as nondescript as possible.

His loafers thumped against the bobbing planks, the rotting boards threatening to give way underneath him. He tugged at the rim of his gloves, making sure they hadn't slipped off since disembarking from the boat. The path curved inward, stopped by a paradise-themed gazebo complete with the colorful plastic flowers hanging from the planks holding up the ceiling. He wrinkled his nose and pretended to admire the interior as he passed through. His goal was the other connecting dock, one that would aid him in getting to the isolated island inscribed in his grandfather's map.

The salty smell of the sea wafted all around, passing through the gazebo and following him wherever he went. Once he got home, he had the inkling that his brothers would make fun of his hair smelling of sea salt for the rest of the month. Or sardines. With his brothers, there was no predicting them.

This place was the only pier in a long while, and with him using up almost all of his sailing knowledge and skills, he needed someone to point him in the right direction, especially if the way to the island was nothing but long stretches of open water. Even with a high-speed boat, it would still take an estimate of two days to reach the next breakwater. Only then could he move inland, straight to the city marked in the map.

He still didn't understand what the map was and why it was important. Why would his grandfather give Page the only puzzle to solve and dangle the inheritance overhead? Of all people, the patriarch knew how much Page wanted to be out of the family even at an early age. That didn't really change as the years went by, so what was his grandfather aiming to achieve by sending Page halfway across the globe, searching for some mystery treasure or whatever. He didn't even know what he was looking for.

The gazebo's exit loomed closer when a face popped past Page's periphery and into his main field of vision. A goofy face, from the freckles dotting his nose and cheeks and the lopsided smile playing on his lips. Page glanced behind him just to make sure he was the one being talked to. No cameras either. This couldn't have been for a prank video.

"Hi! I haven't seen you around here," the man said. Even his voice screamed positivity, seeping right into Page's mind like a packet of gooey cheese. "Are you visiting? On a vacation?"

He spoke in the language Page was familiar with, so he inclined his head at the stranger. "Is it your hobby to get into people's way and invade their private space?" He clicked his tongue. "Move along. I have somewhere to be."

A glint flashed in the man's eye. "Aha, old money kid, are ya?" He wagged a finger knowingly by Page's nose. It was annoying, how all of his life and experiences were condensed to quick labels, most of which didn't make sense. "Tell you what, I've got a hand in the wheel myself. You in need of a sailor?"

"I wouldn't be here if that's the case," Page replied drily.

The man jerked his chin towards the foamy sea bobbing in the horizon. "Why are you headed to Maurice's shop, then?"

Ah, busted. This fellow had good observational skills to boot. What else has he gathered from the way Page stood, dressed, and carried a conversation? He whirled the second time, scanning the people in the gazebo. Most of them were dressed in striped tank tops, beat-down shorts, and sandals. Some of them sported shades like him, but their similarities ended there. Perhaps that was why this haggler picked him out in the crowd. The other option—that this man knew who Page was and where he was connected to—was as feasible as water in space.

Or not. Page studied the man's face, noting the slight turn of his eyes, the plumpness of his lips, and his bushy eyebrows. It was both familiar and strange. Perhaps, he had generic features—ones that could have been found in anyone. Page should still be wary. Strangers were more horrifying than pinpointed enemies.

"Are you planning on staring at me the whole day?" the man interjected through Page's thoughts. "I know I'm dashing, but it's kinda creeping me out."

Page blinked. With his eyes behind an amber-gray film, he doubted the man saw how flustered he was. Good thing. He cleared his throat. "How much do you know about sailing?" he said. "I need someone who can switch places with me across the Carcalles."

The man bobbed his head. "I need to go that way too," he said. "And I know everything about sailing like the back of my hand. My granddad taught me."

An inexplicable pang gripped Page's gut at the mention of grandfathers. Not that he cared about his own long after the grave. He was just reminded of what he went through with him dying and everything.

"Then, come with me," Page said to the man, turning back to the direction where he parked the boat. "And do tell me your name."

"Dibs on the helm." The man pushed past Page in an illusory hurry before looking back at Page with an even goofier smile. "And the name's Dara."

With a grin playing on his lips despite his stern disapproval, Page followed Dara out.