by A. G. Howard
“I will,” Willow said. And she meant it. Now that she knew her future was irrevocably bound to Julian’s and Newton’s, her wandering flyaway-days were behind her, forever. All she wanted was to be home. Safe at home with the family she loved. But that family would be incomplete unless she could convince Julian to give up this crusade and follow her this time.
Diurnal assignments for Sunday, April 27, 1904:
1. Capture and detain Sala’s decoy until she talks; 2. See Newton and Willow safely to the hotel; 3. Find the bastard Sala and cut his throat for hurting Willomena…
Julian waited with a pasty-faced steward inside the putrid, sweltering depths of steerage, wrestling the rage that had been rocking his stomach all morning. There was only the infamous trunk and a portmanteau left. Upon reaching port earlier, the marked parcels of luggage had been dragged up to the promenade so they could go ashore with their rightful owners.
“What happens to these if they go unclaimed?” Julian asked, readjusting his vest. His voice echoed in the absence of the roaring motors. Without all of the immigrants milling about, the dimly lit belly of the ship seemed fathomless.
The steward shrugged bony shoulders and looked up at Julian, who was a head taller than the young man. “They’ll be auctioned off to the crew,” his nasal reply came. “The luggage and their contents. Hope it comes to that. I’d give up half a week’s pay for that box you’re guarding. It’s a beauty.”
Julian took a seat atop Willow’s mystery trunk. The bumps and scrollwork on the lid made for an uncomfortable perch. He imagined it would seem well-crafted and intricate to the innocent eye. Although he himself wished to bust it into splinters with an ax. He wished it had never been brought aboard this ship. Hell, he wished he had never boarded himself.
If he had simply confessed his feelings to Willow at the school—the true scope of his feelings instead of choking out a half-hearted attempt that left her hanging between hope and turmoil—she might have felt secure enough in their future not to follow him. In truth, he might have decided to stay and not attend the fair because having admitted his love, he wouldn’t have been able to leave her at that school at all.
As of now, the thought of parting ways rendered him crippled and imbalanced. She’d become a part of him on this ship … actually long before that. The difference was, now he realized it, and his days and nights would be miserable and pointless without her—even in a didactic environ such as the World’s Fair.
Upon seeing Willow nurture a child, upon becoming enamored of said child himself, Julian was ready to raise Newton, to take him as their own. In fact, Julian was finding himself prey to a windfall of domestic fantasies: Willow, wearing his name; Willow, bearing his seed; Willow, aging hand in hand alongside him, watching their grandchildren grow big enough to enjoy their amusement park—the rides they would build together throughout their lifetime.
That’s if Willow would ever forgive him enough to wed him one day. She’d been furious when he’d left the cabin a half hour earlier, but instead of throwing breakfast in his face, she had begged him not to go; to leave it alone; to stay in the stateroom until everyone disembarked, then come back to London with them.
It had unnerved him, to see her crying the tears of a woman-child, so soft and fragile in his arms as she whimpered. This change in her—this uncharacteristic passive apprehension—was a complete turnaround from the night before.
After their dinner, she’d tried once more to reason with him. To convince him to come home. Things had escalated into an argument by the time the judge and Newton returned. Willow calmed down then, preoccupied with getting the mouse to bed, and was so exhausted she fell asleep while telling the child a nursery rhyme.
However, her subconscious wasn’t so easily subdued. Late in the night, she’d had another ill dream, so disturbing she’d moaned in her sleep and awakened Newton. The mouse stumbled into the parlor in the dark, grabbed Julian’s hand, and tugged him into the bedchamber just in time for Julian to witness her thrashing in her sleep with her eyeballs rolling beneath shut lids. Julian slipped beneath the covers and held her in his arms until morning, with little Newton balled up on the other side of her. Not the way he’d envisioned their first night together in the same bed, but he wouldn’t have traded those hours for anything. To hold her … to be her security. He wanted nothing more than to help heal those scars. Her sleep had been fitful even in his embrace, until Julian finally convinced her they should turn out the lamp. Strangely, that’s when she relaxed, snuggled against his chest, and slept peacefully.
She had seemed resigned to Julian’s plan at breakfast until they made another disturbing discovery, unhinging her once again. She had pulled Tildey out from the drawer while packing and studied the bird etched on the doll’s back. Newton settled beside her and pointed to the marking then to his shoes … a sure sign he referred to Nadia. Stunned, Willow untucked the shirt she wore and eased down her pant waist just enough to show her tattoo to Newton. His eyes grew wide as he pointed to his shoes again and nodded. An inconceivable notion came to light—that there was a skin-deep connection between Willow and the dead girl.
After recovering from the shock, Julian busied Newton with some paper and pens so he and Willow could have privacy. Together, they surmised that the tattoos must be etched into every girl’s skin upon her induction into Sala’s ring. The fact that the Italian used a hummingbird for the mark was apparently coincidental—not brought about by Willow’s chanting cries as she had once assumed.
Most unnerving of all, it appeared even Sala’s own daughter had not been exempt from his depraved enterprise, assuming Nadia truly was Newton’s sister. Newton maintained that she was, but his word was all they had to go on. The word of a mute.
“Five more minutes,” the steward’s announcement tapped into Julian’s thoughts, blotting away the memory of Willow’s pleading tears. “After that, we assume them abandoned. By now the passengers will have all cleared out and gone ashore.”
Julian’s breath hung in his lungs, a sharp, angry scrape. He tried not to think of it … not to imagine what would’ve become of Willow had she not escaped the orphanage. Those bastard caretakers were working for Sala … training Willow to bend and move in graceful, aerial poses only to exploit her amazing talent by turning her into a victimized whore. Just the thought of those words in the same sentence as Willow’s name, and fury seared through him. To think he might not get the chance to make Sala choke on his due rewards almost burned a hole through his chest.
He had no intention of bringing Willow into it. He had to protect her anonymity above all else. But he wanted to acquire some solid proof so he could take the matter to the proper authorities. Thus Willow would receive vindication, if only from afar, and he could rescue any other innocent girls from that monster.
As it stood, no justice would come to Sala unless Julian proved the women in the troupe had been kidnapped. Each one seemed to hold an impervious loyalty to the Italian devil. He must have taken them from poverty stricken homes and offered possessions and wealth in exchange for their silence.
Standing, Julian stretched his legs and smoothed the wrinkles from his trousers at the bend of his legs. Loyalty notwithstanding, Sala’s decoy was going to sing like a rabbit being primed for stew. Julian would never manhandle a woman, but he wasn’t above frightening one. At the very least, he planned to expose her lower back and see if she had a hummingbird tattoo like he suspected. His plan would fall to rot, however, should she not show up at all.
“Well … that’s it then.” The pasty-faced steward slapped his hands together and started toward the stairwell. He paused, noticing Julian still leaned on the trunk. “I can’t leave you here, sir. Now that we’ve docked, steerage is off limits lessen you’re accompanied by a crewmember.”
Julian nodded, taking one last look at the lid. His palm skimmed the cool, carved surface, resigned to hopeless frustration. They’d been waiting for well over forty-five minutes. He was sure the young man
had tasks to attend before he could go ashore. He’d mentioned to Julian earlier that his crewmates often indulged in drolleries at a local tavern on the eve of their docking. Julian had no right to detain him any longer.
Julian had just started to follow the steward up the first step when they heard a shuffling sound from above. Within moments, an old man appeared midway, inching down the stairs; the bulbous bump between his shoulder blades set him off kilter and made him take each step with premeditated hesitation. Or so it appeared…
Julian caught the steward’s elbow and tugged him back down to floor level into the shadows, shushing him as they awaited the elderly man’s arrival. His mind raced … he wasn’t sure how to handle this. Every part him—bones, blood, and soul—wanted to jump the decoy, pin him to the ground, and throttle out some answers. But most likely, it was a woman under there … one who had been forced into this life as a child, as Willow almost was.
Once the old man had taken the final step, Julian emerged from the darkness and offered his hand. “Sir, might we help you? We were just on our way up. Steerage is now closed to the public, as this young steward has informed me.”
When the decoy’s eyes met Julian’s, he saw a spark of shocked recognition. That was all he needed. In the same moment the suddenly spry old man turned on his heel to leap back up the stairs, the hosiery-encased-birdseed-hump fell from his jacket. Julian caught him by the scruff of his neck and spun him around.
As the decoy tried to wriggle free, Julian lifted off the wig and hat and peeled away part of the flesh colored mask. He and the crewman both gasped at the result. It was the owl-faced steward Julian had met upon his first morning aboard the Christine Victoria—the very one he’d saved from losing his job by taking Mr. Sala’s room—staring back at them.
“You?” Julian asked as the-red haired decoy stripped off the remaining mask to reveal his freckles.
“Orville?” The other pasty-faced steward came out of the shadows, addressing his crewmate.
“One of Mr. Sala’s actresses hired me,” Orville answered. “I saw her in the corridor just afore we docked. She offered me a sterlin’ pound to don this costume and come down to steerage to get her trunk.” He shrugged. “It seemed harmless enough. And I wanted the lucre so I could buy some company at the tavern tonight … can you blame me?”
Julian clenched Orville’s lapels, lifting him so the owlish youth’s boot soles slid on the floor. “Is this the first time you’ve helped her like this? Answer me!”
Orville winced and clutched his borrowed hat. “Aye. And I’ll not be doin’ it ever again, judgin’ by this reception.”
Julian released the jacket, giving his captive some balance. “So where is she now?”
Before Orville could answer, another rush of footsteps pounded down the stairs. Julian looked up to see Newton taking the steps two at a time, holding onto the rail, knuckles deathly white as though his fear of heights was at war with his desire to get to the bottom swiftly.
“Newton?” Julian took a step forward, balking when he saw the judge following close behind the boy. “What in hell? Who’s with …?” Julian remembered the two stewards and stopped himself just short of blurting out Willow’s name.
Newton lighted the last step and pushed past Julian, rushing toward the trunk. He flung open the lid. It was apparent by his desperation that he sought Nadia’s shoes. But Julian knew he’d find nothing within. He himself had looked with the steward when they’d first arrived.
The judge tottered down, his feet meeting the floor none too gracefully. “Sala’s girl,” he bent at the waist and panted, “introduced herself as Louisa. She came by to retrieve the fair’s ground plans.” Judge Arlington drew out a handkerchief and swiped his brow. “She waited at the door while I went to the desk to get them.” He swallowed more air. “Newton stood there, staring up at her as if he knew her.” Leaned against the wall, he tucked his hanky away. “She bent down and whispered something to him, then he bolted out of the room.”
A dark premonition folded over Julian’s soul, chilling him. “Where was Wilson all this time?”
“In the water closet. I thought it best to chase the boy down before your … other brother … could fret over his absence.”
The chill skittered up Julian’s body, lifting his hairs so they pricked and snagged his clothes like the twines of a comb. “You mean you left Wilson with that woman?”
Judge Arlington’s moustache waffled. “I locked the door behind me, left Louisa in the corridor—”
“Distractions.” A buzzing heat niggled through Julian’s earlobes. “She told Newton the shoes were in the trunk. You were sent down here as distractions.” He shoved Orville out of his path. “The whole lot of you.”
Julian was already halfway up the stairs—leg muscles quaking beneath the strain of taking three steps at a time—when the judge started the climb behind him, huffing and puffing like a mule put to plow on a mountain. “There’s no way Louisa could’ve got in … aside from picking the lock. Surely she can’t pick a lock?”
“Considering one of her playmates broke into my room and stole the shoes the night of the masquerade”—Julian shouted over his shoulder—“I’d venture she bloody well can!”
Part IV
When you see, however distant, the goal of your wandering…
It matters not how many ranges, rivers or parching dusty ways
May lie between you; it is yours now for ever.
~Freya Stark
Twenty
Julian crouched on the parlor floor in his stateroom, chest sore after a battery of unconstrained raging wails. His eyes clenched … his spine ate into the wall … his chin wedged on his knees. The past half hour’s events pounded his forehead like iron fists. He had scoured the ship’s hull—staying ahead of Newton and the judge, never allowing them to catch up. Not one cabin, galley, or pantry had been unturned in his wake.
Willow was nowhere.
He’d even brokered a glimpse into the captain’s quarters, feigning concern for his missing “brother.” After allowing him to look, the captain suggested Wilson had simply run off again … pulled another adolescent trick; to whit Julian had an inexplicable urge to tromp the man upside his head, but instead turned away and left to question the crew.
In the end, it all proved futile. Somehow, Sala and his girls had managed to get Willow off this ship without anyone seeing her. Even searching the dock had proved useless. Now he was back where he’d last held her … seeking something he might’ve missed. But he found nothing which would point him in the right direction.
He still smelled her on his clothes from their embrace this morning, still tasted her skin—fresh from her bath. She’d told him how much she loved him, begged him not to leave her.
He lifted his face just enough to squint at the overcast light streaming through the portal. A fine mist had started outside and fogged the glass, a benign companion to the mania which rose like steam from the backs of his eyes.
Willow had once told him he had no idea how terrifying it was for a child to be held captive … to feel helpless. Powerless. Well, he damn well knew such futility now.
He had lost her to that bastard. After his pretty promises of protection, he’d let her be captured. Her mother and father’s noble sacrifices were for rot. In one careless, unthinking moment, he’d robbed Willow of the chance they’d died to give her, and landed her back within the grimy paws of Carmelo Sala.
She must be so terrified.
A spasm tore through Julian’s gut. He yelled and kicked the chair beside him. The wooden leg refused to bend, sending a shooting pain through his ankle. Fury engulfed him—a tide of disdain triggered by his own uselessness. He leapt up and grabbed the chair, ripping it from its screws and thrusting it across the room. It crashed into the wall with a satisfying scrape as the offending leg snapped.
Something took over then … something primal that paid no mind to logic … that wouldn’t give him pause to assess the situatio
n and reason out the next step. Something that begged immediate release.
He jerked the drawer from the desk and chunked it hard into the air, garnering a long splinter in his finger which drew blood. The drawer’s contents rained across the parlor as it went sailing. It hit the opposite side of the room with a sharp crack, denting the wall and clunking to the floor.
Newton and the judge stumbled in from the bedchamber. Julian didn’t look up. He continued his rampage, tossing more drawers and curios around until he had a pile in the midst of the parlor tall enough to cast a bird-shaped shadow on the carpet. The image reminded Julian of Willow’s tattoo, and fed the inferno in his chest until it burned all the way down into the soles of his feet. He stood staring at the shadow with his back turned to his companions and panted, his clothes sweaty and disheveled, his mind fuzzy, and his thoughts dark.
“Master Thornton. Contain yourself! You have an audience.” Judge Arlington’s command fringed the edges of Julian’s consciousness. He’d heard him call out during the tirade—a drone as benign as a horsefly’s buzz. Only now did the words break through. Julian shoved his finger in his mouth and sucked out the blood-slicked splinter, refusing to respond.
“This is so unlike you.”
Julian whipped around and glared at the judge. “Beg pardon, but how would you know what I’m like? You’ve been acquainted with me all of a week, sir.”
Judge Arlington stared back, his white moustache drooping, almost touching the tip of his chin where his neck bubbled out over his collar. Julian’s own neck throbbed. The man couldn’t possibly know him. For Julian no longer knew himself …
“Use your sense, lad.” The judge tried again. “We know where Sala and the girls are going. To the fair, to the competition.”