Fateful

  Don’t be stupid. This man is cursed to be a monster. He’s tied to dark powers you can never understand. Even if he weren’t, after what you’ve learned about Daisy and Layton, don’t you know that no servant girl can ever trust a wealthy man?

  The stupidest part, I realize, is that I’m considering denying myself the only protection I have—because I’m afraid of my own heart.

  “Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow, before lunch, at the grand staircase.”

  He doesn’t reply, but I can see the reflection of my own gladness and confusion in my eyes. In some strange way, we are alike. A boundary has been crossed.

  Chapter 11

  AFTER FINALLY LOCATING LADY REGINA, AND BEING scolded for taking so long with her shawl, I’m released to change from my now-dusty morning uniform into my evening uniform, and to eat something for dinner if I’m lucky enough to have the time. Hopefully I will; that one sticky bun Irene gave me wasn’t much to go on after missing tea last night. I must be the only person going hungry on the Titanic—the richest ship in the world.

  Making sure to remain in sight and hearing of others the entire time, I dash down to F deck, through the doors that separate the classes, and enter my cabin, which is empty. None of my bunkmates are inside, and neither is my evening uniform. Just as I’m getting ready to curse worse than the groundskeeper when he’s had a pint of gin, the door opens behind me and Myriam walks in. Her thick dark hair is a frizzy mess, the way it gets when you’ve had to spend too much time in heat and moisture. But in her arms, neatly rolled, is my uniform.

  “I hate ironing,” she says.

  “Oh, thank you!” I take the uniform up and see that Myriam’s done a wonderful job; this is as neatly pressed as I could manage, or perhaps even a professional tailor could do. “Really. It’s marvelous.”

  “Do you intend to spend all of luncheon changing clothes, or would you like to hurry so that we can actually eat?”

  I ought to correct Myriam: The midday meal is luncheon only for the rich. For us, it’s dinner—the main meal of the day. At night, when they get dinner, we only have tea. Sometimes it’s no more than bread and butter washed down with a cup of tea. But who knows, perhaps it’s different in America.

  Her unspoken assumption is that we’ll have dinner together, and I suppose we will. As I hurriedly change, brushing and hanging my morning uniform so that it will be presentable tomorrow, I realize that—with hardly a kind word spoken between us—Myriam and I have somehow become friends. I’ve never had a friend outside my family or the other servants at Moorcliffe before; it feels almost strange, but kind of interesting, too.

  The third-class dining hall isn’t anything so grand as the one for first class, of course, but it’s still a bright, cheerful space, with gleaming white walls and well-polished floors. Myriam informs me that last night there was an impromptu dance after the meal, because a piano has been provided even for the third-class passengers. An Italian who had brought a violin and a German who had brought an accordion joined in with the volunteer piano player, nationality unknown, to play tunes for hours. “Some of the ship’s officers joined us,” she says, as if it were an afterthought. “Not the captain, of course. I’m sure he’d never show his face down here.”

  “Just some of the lower officers.” I take a big bite of my roll, gulp down some tea. “Like, for instance, the seventh officer, a Mr. George Greene?”

  Myriam doesn’t deny it. She rests her chin in her hand, half lost in thought. “He is not at all the sort of man I would once have imagined for myself. I thought another man from Lebanon, some friend of my brother’s in New York, perhaps. George is—oh, Tess, he’s been everywhere in the world. Even India.”

  It’s funny to see her so starry-eyed, though I don’t mock her. After the past couple of days with Alec, I understand that feeling better than I used to. “He seems awfully nice, too. He’s gone out of his way to be kind to me.”

  “Is it true that sailors have girls in every port?”

  “George doesn’t seem the type.” Though who am I to know what type George is or isn’t? After everything I’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours, it feels as if I hardly know anyone, even some of the people closest to me. I think of Alec—man and monster—and the hours I’ve promised to spend with him tomorrow. “But it’s hard to know when to trust a man.”

  “You say that like someone who has reason to doubt a man’s intentions.” Myriam raises one eyebrow, as perfectly shaped as a bird’s wing. “And here I thought your overnight adventure probably had an innocent explanation.”

  Our eyes meet across the dining room table. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. We’re surrounded by the clinking of plates and forks and chattering in half a dozen different languages, but the silence between us seems louder than all the rest. She’s teasing me, but not; what Myriam’s really doing is giving me a chance to confide in her about last night, if I want to. In some ways I do want to. But who would ever believe me?

  “Nothing improper happened last night,” I say.

  “You are keeping a secret.”

  “What a brilliant deduction. You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

  Myriam frowns. “Who is Sherlock Holmes?”

  They must not get Arthur Conan Doyle’s books in Lebanon. “He’s the most marvelous detective. I’ll give you the titles of some of the best novels. When you get to New York City, you can look for him at the bookseller’s.” Though after last night, I’m never rereading The Hound of the Baskervillesagain.

  This was my best effort at changing the subject, but Myriam’s forehead is still furrowed with concern. So I add, “It’s not my secret I’m keeping. It’s someone else’s. That’s why I can’t tell you.”

  Accepting this, Myriam says, “Well, if you weren’t having amorous adventures throughout the night, which man do you distrust, and why?”

  The least complicated layer of the truth will have to do. “Tomorrow I’ve got an afternoon off. Someone has asked me to spend it with him. Alec.”

  “Shipboard romance has its charms.” Her silky smile reveals that she’s familiar with these charms already. “I’m surprised you had time to meet anyone here in third class, though. They’ve kept you working every moment.”

  “He’s not in third class.” I look down at the potatoes on my plate instead of at her. “He’s a first-class passenger. Alec Marlowe.”

  “First class!” She doesn’t sound impressed; she sounds wary. “I doubt the motives of rich men who pay attention to poor girls.”

  “That’s not how it is,” I say as firmly as I can.

  Doubtfully, Myriam replies, “Maybe Americans are different.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I will be an American soon.” She takes a deep breath, and there’s something different about her smile now. Her anticipation is so fierce and unguarded—so like my own. “My brother says it’s a wonderful place. Nothing like the old stories. Instead it’s loud and crowded and dirtier than you can imagine.”

  “I think that’s just New York City.”

  “That is where I’m going to live, so what’s the difference? Loud, crowded, dirty, and wonderful. And new, always new. That’s what I want. Not the same life my mother led, like her mother before her, and her mother before her.”

  Come to think of it, I have one secret I can reveal. “I’m going there too. America.”

  “Yes, I believe that’s where the boat is headed.”

  “I mean, forever.” I’ve never said these words out loud before. Speaking them makes them more real. “I’m giving my notice to the Lisles at the end of this trip. So I’ll be starting over in New York too.”

  Myriam’s entire demeanor changes. Before, she’s been willing to listen to me, even to help me, but now she sees me as truly someone like her for the first time. Her excitement doubles to cover the both of us. “Good for you! You must be sick and tired of being a maidservant. What will you do for work, when you get there?”

  “Well, I might end up
a maidservant again,” I admit. “It’s the main thing I know how to do. But at least I could work for a less odious family, if I did. And I’m quite good at sewing, embroidery, making hats, things like that. So—you know, I expect something will come along.”

  “That does not sound well planned to me.” The criticism stings mostly because I know Myriam has a point. But how could I have sought work in America without tipping off the Lisles? Her eyes narrow. “You aren’t expecting your wealthy man from first class to take you away from all this, are you? I would not have thought you that foolish.”

  “Believe me, I never dreamed of it. I know it’s—beyond impossible.”

  I recall Alec as he was when I first saw him this morning, lying half-conscious on the tiles of the Turkish bath. How beautiful he was. How bruised. How he had been a murderous animal only hours before.

  Yes, it’s impossible. For reasons I can speak aloud, and for reasons I can’t.

  My duties that afternoon are the same as I’d have expected, as boring as ever, but after the time I’ve had on the ship so far, boring is almost a relief. I tidy up after Beatrice, hand wash Irene’s fine silk-and-lace underclothes from France, and get her into a fancy dinner dress—this one in a sea green that’s even more unkind to her complexion than the yellow was.

  Horne insists that she intends to take tea in the third-class hall tonight, and assigns me to stay with little Bea. It’s not so bad, though, because the child’s temper has improved, and there’s enough soup and cakes for both of us. She goes to sleep right on time, and I feel almost at peace for the few blessed minutes I get to myself.

  Though I’m alone—and I know I shouldn’t be—this is the one place I think Mikhail wouldn’t strike. He’s trying to cozy up to the Lisles, but they’re hardly going to be in the mood to chitchat with new acquaintances if they find a dead body in their rooms. Not even Lady Regina’s as cold as that, and surely not even Mikhail would risk losing his chance of getting the Blade just to kill me for sport.

  He could just throw my body overboard, though. A chill sweeps through me as I realize how easy that would be for him to do. Who would ever find my body, floating out in the middle of the dark ocean?

  But no. He wouldn’t. I’ve seen his fangs, heard his taunts. Mikhail wouldn’t just kill me. He’d—he’d eat me.

  Well, he wouldn’t do that here, I tell myself. Not without leaving an awful mess, and good luck getting bloodstains out of this carpet.But the briskness doesn’t work as well as usual; the fear remains curled within my belly, making my last meal feel crowded and my lungs feel tight.

  Since I was thinking about Mikhail being so friendly with Layton, I ought to expect what comes next, but I don’t. When the door opens, I quickly rise from the chair I’d been resting in to greet the family—and Mikhail, who is escorting Lady Regina through the door.

  “How curious that you should have heard of Uncle Humphrey so far away as Moscow, Count Kalashnikov,” she says as she tosses her fur stole aside for me to retrieve. “He was a noted collector, but I admit, I always thought him a bit of an eccentric.”

  “Sometimes the eccentrics are the true geniuses,” Mikhail says.

  He says it the way any fawning gentleman would, but his eyes don’t match his carefree tone. From the moment he walks into the suite, Mikhail stares at me. Only at me.

  I hurry to put away Lady Regina’s stole, hoping he won’t see how frightened I am. Instead of acknowledging his attention, I look at the others in the room: Lady Regina, thrilled to have a new admirer; Layton, drunk again; and Irene, who looks so exhausted that she might have been the one working all day instead of me. Clearly none of them have any idea why Mikhail would be asking about Uncle Humphrey, or suspect anything; whatever ties the man had to the world of the supernatural, they’re ignorant of it.

  “Such a pity you could not meet Viscount Lisle,” Lady Regina says. “He would have so appreciated knowing a friend of his late uncle’s.”

  “A pity indeed, Lady Regina.” Mikhail smoothly takes another step closer to me. “What kept the Viscount from the journey? Not ill health, I hope.”

  “He had business matters to attend to in London.” Layton says it too quickly. He might as well hold up a sign saying, He’s trying to negotiate with the family creditors so we can keep living like rich people though our money’s run out.

  But Mikhail handles the momentary awkwardness as easily as any gentleman would. “Business matters are such a burden. Hopefully he will soon join you in the States, and I shall have the pleasure of his acquaintance there.”

  Irene sees me, no doubt white as a sheet, and gives me a wan smile. “You may go, Tess. I mean, Davies. That will be all.”

  “I should be leaving as well,” Mikhail says. “Though it has been a charming evening, I must bid you bonsoir. Promise me, however, that we shall discuss the matter of Uncle Humphrey’s collection another time, very soon.”

  Oh, no, don’t let him walk out the same time I do!We probably wouldn’t be alone in the corridor, but we might be, and then—I don’t want to think about what would happen then.

  For once, Lady Regina’s snobbery works in my favor. There’s no way she’s going to let a Russian nobleman out of her sight that easily. “You must stay for a brandy with Layton.”

  “Damned right,” Layton says, steadying himself as best he can.

  “We already had a brandy in the lounge, and that is quite enough for me—” Mikhail’s mask of perfect cordiality is slipping; I can sense his impatience as I hurry toward the door.

  “Irene, do help me persuade the count. It is so rare to find properly sociable young men these days. I swear, that Alexander Marlowe appears to be in hiding. Does he intend to skip every dinner while we’re onboard?”

  Mikhail watches me as I leave, but knows as well as I do that, for the moment, he’s caught in his own trap. While I walk out, I hear him say, “Perhaps Mr. Marlowe doesn’t know how to enjoy himself. Unlike me.”

  The moment I’m alone in the corridor, I take off running. Every step pounds despite the soft carpet, and a few well-dressed ladies and gentlemen have to flatten themselves against the walls to avoid being run over. I’m making a spectacle of myself, but I don’t care. I’ve got to return to third class before Mikhail can get himself free of the Lisles.

  I make it to the lift, where the operator is my companion and my safety—though he is hardly more than a boy. When he gives me a smile, I feel guilty. Am I endangering him, just being close? Would Mikhail kill someone else to get to me?

  As soon as he drops me in third class, I start running again. Stupid of me now; I know he couldn’t have followed me. And yet the light in the corridors doesn’t seem as bright at nighttime, and I’m imagining footsteps behind me.

  No. There are footsteps behind me.

  I run faster and faster, and the footsteps go faster too. The door to the third-class area lies directly ahead; I’ll have to stop to unlock it, and in that time, he’ll catch up. My pulse hammering, I decide to turn and fight—

  —and whirl around to see nothing. To hear nothing.

  It was the echo, I realize. The echo of my own footsteps.

  I laugh at my own foolishness, though the laughter is weak, and my heart still pounds. My legs wobble the whole way back to my cabin.

  When I get there, the room is dark and the elderly Norwegian ladies are already fast asleep, but Myriam’s not in yet. Maybe I’ll get to tease her about her own “overnight adventures”? But no, it’s not actually that late. Probably she and George are simply enjoying a stroll along the deck. I could go to the dining hall and see if another dance has started, but I’m far too exhausted to enjoy it. Tonight, all I want is sleep.

  I change into my nightgown. As the thin cotton slips over my head, I remember what I slept in last night—my underclothes, damp with steam. And I remember Alec, who is back in that Turkish bath, a wolf again. Howling. Monstrous. Terrifying.

  Yet when I think of the evident pain of the transformation?
??when I imagine him going through the agonies Mikhail did, with no choice in the matter, no hope—I can’t be afraid of Alec. I feel only compassion.

  Just as I prepare to clamber to my top bunk, there’s a shivery sound beneath the door. I look down to see a folded note that’s been pushed beneath.

  Is this some sort of ship’s bulletin? I frown as I kneel to collect it. There’s just enough light coming through the crack under the door for me to read it.

  In heavy cursive, it reads:

  You’re to help me, Tess. Not stand in my way. To prove it to you, within two days, I’ll hurt someone you love. Not you. I’ll hurt you when you disappoint me—or when it pleases me.

  He didn’t sign it. He didn’t have to.

  And as I realize who wrote it, I realize there are breaks in the light beneath the door. Just where two feet would stand, if someone were on the other side, about to come in.

  I can’t move. Can’t scream. I can only remain there, clutching the crumpled note in my fists, as I realize that Mikhail is standing on the other side of my door. My companions are two old ladies, sound asleep, whom Mikhail could and would tear through to get to me.

  And then he walks away.

  I’m not sure how long I remain crouched there, but by the time I’m able to rise, every muscle aches. Trembling, I climb into my bunk and wrap the covers around me tightly. Who will he hurt? There’s no one onboard to hurt me with—Myriam’s my friend, but I bet he wouldn’t assume that.

  He couldn’t mean Alec. He couldn’t.

  I fight against sleep, because I no longer feel sure how, or if, I’m going to wake.

  Chapter 12

  APRIL 12, 1912

  “Are you sure you’re well?” Irene asks, for about the fifth time this morning.