The island was tiny. Walking all the way around it took less than half an hour.
The southern side had a gently sloping beach, while towering cliffs lined the north. The island as a whole formed a steep slope.
The villa stood atop the cliffs, at the island's highest point.
The view was excellent. To the south, sea and sky blended into one; to the north, the mainland's coastline was faintly visible.
Although they could see the opposite shore, it was anything but close. Swimming across under their own power would be very difficult.
Still, a ship docked once a week to replenish the island's supplies.
The good news: there was a ship.
The bad news: it was a warship carrying hundreds of people.
This really was an ideal place for house arrest.
Throughout the history of many civilizations, famous people who lost political struggles had been exiled to small islands.
So, in a way, they were getting a taste of celebrity treatment.
One person stranded on a deserted island without supplies made for a castaway adventure.
A group stranded on a deserted island without supplies made for a battle royale.
But as long as supplies were plentiful, life on the island was quite comfortable.
Clearly, whether supplies were available directly determined the quality of life on a small island.
Those famous people in history who had wanted to escape their islands simply had greater ambitions and refused to waste their lives there.
But the people on this island had never had much ambition to begin with. They treated their house arrest as a vacation and felt no anxiety whatsoever.
Except for Number Seven.
She was always worried, feeling that their current situation was no different from pigs being kept in a pen, liable to be taken out for slaughter