by Alma Katsu
Les gave a fake groan, but the sparkle in his eyes made Dai warm. Even when he hated a con, it still felt good in the moment, to be in it with Les. To be on the same side.
“Oh, all right, all right, I’ll do one—only one!” Les turned to Ethel, holding her gaze. “I sense that there is a man waiting for you back home, Miss Fortune,” he said slowly, as if the thought were gradually dawning on him. Dai swore he had the skill of an actor; where in the world had he learned to control his face like this, so serious but with a faraway, almost pained look?
Miss Ethel’s younger sisters gasped, though other members of the audience exchanged skeptical glances. “Oh, that’s true!” Mabel Fortune said, clapping her hands together. “She’s got a fiancé waiting for her in Toronto. They’re going to be wed as soon as we return.”
“But this fiancé is quite a bit older than you,” Les said sternly.
“Yes, he is,” Ethel Fortune replied. “What of it?”
“I meant nothing by it . . . but I see many suitors surrounding you, Miss Fortune.” His hands fluttered, like he was sifting through thoughts as they came to him through the air. “Many young men have tried to win your heart. Some are still trying.”
Ethel’s sisters giggled again while Ethel herself grew red in the face.
“There is one in particular . . . A young man who is very . . . special to you.” Les closed his eyes and touched his forehead, as though he were concentrating very hard. A swami who could command spirits, make them whisper answers in his ear. “He is very fond of riding, isn’t he? Quite the horseman. And I believe his initial are . . . R . . . J . . . no I’m sorry, is it R.K.? I can’t quite get it. . . .”
Mabel Fortune shrieked. The high-pitched note echoed off the crystal chandelier drops, the wineglasses. Heads turned from across the dining room.
Their table exploded in chatter. Ethel Fortune retreated behind her handkerchief and refused to confirm Leslie’s pronouncement, despite the pestering of their guests. But no confirmation was needed, really: Ethel Fortune’s bright red cheeks were proof enough.
It had been so easy. Les had found a box from a fancy London saddlery containing a fine hand-stitched riding whip, on the handle a silver button engraved “RJK.” A note slipped inside, written in Ethel’s hand. The only present for the fiancé among Ethel’s many artifacts was a cheap silver-plate gentleman’s toiletry set. It wasn’t even engraved.
Me, me, me, the other women at the table clamored, thrusting themselves toward Les, all painted lips and eyes and skin smooth and white as poured cream. After whipping them into a frenzy by his last stunt, Les held them off with a cunning smile. Les had proven his genius for deceit: three of them had stood in the Astors’ stateroom, dazzled by a rich man’s finery, but only Les had seen the opportunity. Dai didn’t know if he should be amazed or frightened.
In the midst of this, Les slipped Dai a quick nod, his signal to scout for their next victim. The journey would end in a few days and they needed to identify their targets as quickly as possible. The daughters of well-to-do American merchants might be gullible enough to believe in Leslie’s telepathic powers but had little to offer as payment beyond a piece of jewelry or a peck on the cheek (though Dai was afraid that Les would be only too willing to take those pecks). But there were a number of fairly wealthy men on board who might be bored or curious enough to fall for Les’s spiel. Dai made his excuses and rose from the dining table. It was his job to eavesdrop, to make small talk with first-class passengers, and ask probing questions. The most gullible tended to like to talk about themselves; it was a fact learned in the con game.
He headed to the first-class smoking room, where most of the men retired after dinner. The room was enveloped in a bank of thick, acrid smoke. Dai didn’t smoke and, like many athletes, thought it bad for his wind. Simply surveying the room was unpleasant.
There was a good number of men there, though it was nowhere as full as it would be once the second dinner seating was over. Smokers sat in companionable pairs and trios, lifting glasses of brandy and whiskey between puffs. Men played cards at tables toward the back. As he walked the fringes of the room, Dai had a brief worry that they were out of their depths here. This wasn’t like running a card game on the street. He recognized few of the faces. He was pretending to be looking for someone while he eavesdropped, and avoided the waiters, sure they would ask what he was doing in first class. But no steward approached him and so he kept his head down and kept moving. Maybe the suit had worked its magic and he was blending better than he thought.
When he judged no one was looking, he picked up a half-empty whiskey glass and carried it around as if it were his own, to better melt into the background. He milled about, listening in on conversations, looking for, what? Signs of gullibility, desperation, anything that could be exploited as a weakness. A “hook,” Les liked to call it—a way in. Dai thought of it more like a vulnerable spot, an Achilles’ heel. Their coach, George Cundick, taught them the same: to watch not just for their opponents’ strengths, their patented moves, but what those moves hid. The way they’d favor one angle due to a weaker back leg.
Go for the weak spot.
George had given them both their lives, their livelihoods, a way forward in a world that didn’t always offer solid paths to success for boys like them. Everything George had taught him, Dai held sacred.
Go for the weak spot.
Dai concentrated extra hard to decipher the American accents, of which there were many. Americans, it seemed, would talk only of business back home—small-town interests, feedstores and lumbermills, a steel foundry—and other dullnesses. A sport called baseball. No one spoke of boxing. These were all stolid, potbellied men, content to puff on cigars and stare glassy-eyed into space, waiting for their wives to send for them. He almost wouldn’t feel bad feeding one of them to Les.
He was about to approach an older, portly gentleman with a propensity to laugh after everything that came out of his own mouth when a holler went up from a table nearby.
Dai turned to see a group of men arguing over cards. Among them was Mark Fletcher. In fact, he was trying to calm the other four men down. Someone must have called out an unfair play. Dai had seen Mark about yesterday—he’d seemed a nice enough young fellow, if slightly out of place among all those industrialists. Dai thought him an odd match for the wife, who definitely came from quality.
Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out a ladies’ bracelet, laying it on the table. It was modest though unmistakably of good quality. A strand of delicate gold links with a heavy ornamental clasp. It could only have belonged to his wife.
Dai felt a quick, almost familiar wash of shame, as though he’d stolen it himself. He watched as one after another the men at the table peered at the bracelet and shook his head, each in turn, refusing it as payment. Mark had no choice but to scoop up the bracelet and return it to his pocket, toss his hand on the table, and leave.
Dai found him a few minutes later at the bar nursing a drink. “Ah, fancy running into you here, Mr. Fletcher. I didn’t take you for a smoker.”
“Nor I you.” Mark fished a bill out of his pocket and put it on the bar as the bartender came up with a second drink. Whiskey neat. “What are you doing here?”
“I was supposed to meet a man who claimed to be in the boxing business in America, but it looks like he didn’t show.” Dai realized with a pang that lying came easily to him these days. Les would be proud. He caught the bartender’s eye and nodded at Mark’s drink. He’d ditched his fake drink but decided he would have a whiskey to be sociable, even though it would be pricey.
They drank in silence for a moment as Dai struggled for something to say. Only the most banal thing came to mind: “Where is your lovely wife this evening?”
Mark sighed. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of ice. “She slipped away from the dinner table.”
“Ah. I
hear wives can be independent creatures. I wouldn’t know myself. I’ve never been married.”
Mark finished his first drink and reached for the second. “I’ve barely been married a year and I can’t say I recommend it.”
“It can’t be as bad as that.”
Mark chuckled ruefully but offered no explanation.
“She seems to be a lovely woman. Surely you love her or you wouldn’t have married her.”
Mark made the muscles in his jaw pop. “To be honest, I’m not sure listening to one’s heart has ever gotten anyone anywhere good.”
“I’m no expert on it myself.” He wasn’t sure why he was talking about this with Mark Fletcher. The man was practically a stranger. But Dai felt close to him at that moment. He knew what it felt like not to trust your own heart. So many times, Dai told himself he was a fool. And yet he stayed. There was no release from love, anyhow. There was only learning how to live with the hurt.
Dai tipped the glass to Mark in a salute, then swallowed the last of his whiskey. Warmth spread through him in waves. “You married her because you love her,” he went on, growing bolder as the heat blossomed inside him. “You chose her, and now you belong to each other. There’s no going back from that, no matter how hard . . . how bad things get.”
“You make it sound like punishment,” Mark muttered into his glass.
Dai laughed, surprised at himself. Mark laughed then, too.
“That it is, Mark Fletcher. That it is—sometimes. But it’s also the most mysterious, most wondrous experience a man can have.” Dai waved off the bartender as he came to refresh his glass. He’d decided he couldn’t use Mark as a—well, as a mark. The coincidence made another laugh bubble up.
Mark at last smiled—and Dai could see that he was a very handsome young man, when he chose to show it. And he had it so easy, though he didn’t seem to know it, married to that lovely woman, da to a beautiful healthy baby. He’d followed his heart and had landed in clover. Men like him, Dai thought, ought to be able to find happiness, if anyone could.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A sharp rap at the door woke Annie from sleep—thick and gauzy, full of rain and the mutations of memory into dream: emerald fields of clover slashed through with city streets; the ocean crashing against the cliffs of Ballintoy; the ocean baring white fangs; the ocean stretching out white arms; the ocean calling, crying, the voices trapped inside it—
She blinked and rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t imagine she’d been asleep very long; it felt as though she’d just peeled off her uniform and crawled into her narrow bunk. Her body felt small and bare in her thin nightgown. In the dark, she heard Violet moan across the room. Whoever was outside the door had awakened both of them.
She opened the door to see Alexander Littlejohn, Chief Steward Latimer’s second, leaning in the doorway. He was in charge of the night shift, overseeing the small team that readied the ship for the following day, straightening deck chairs and polishing handrails, restocking supply stations, emptying ash cans and spittoons. Littlejohn squeezed his hat in his hands, apparently more than a little apprehensive knocking on stewardesses’ doors in the middle of the night.
“I’m sorry to be waking you, Miss Hebbley, but the call bell in the service room’s gone off for you.” Annie and Violet exchanged a look: it was highly unusual for passengers to ring for their stewards after a certain hour, and if they did, usually one of Mr. Littlejohn’s team answered.
“Which cabin?” Annie asked as she reached for her shoes.
“It’s Mrs. Astor.”
That wasn’t her room at all. Littlejohn had made a mistake. “Well, then you want Violet.”
Littlejohn sighed. “I know that, Miss Hebbley, but why do you think I’ve come down here? Mrs. Astor asked specifically for you. You know they’re friends of Ismay?” He was referring to J. Bruce Ismay, chairman of the White Star Line, aboard for the Titanic’s maiden voyage. “What Mrs. Astor wants, Mrs. Astor gets.”
Annie hurried down the passageway in just her nightgown and a light overcoat. The ship was so very dark at night, the flicker of the hall lights dancing in and out of her vision. Urgency coursed through her. The last time she’d been called to help the Astors was the night of their servant boy’s death.
She felt for the brooch but remembered it was in the pocket of her work apron. She felt unmoored without it, somehow.
What reason could Madeleine Astor have to ask for her? And the look on Violet’s face . . . Clearly, she suspected Annie was trying to steal one of her passengers, hoping for generous tips at the end of the trip, no doubt. It didn’t matter that Annie swore this wasn’t the case and that she barely knew Maddie Astor. She couldn’t erase that hurt look from Violet’s face.
Mrs. Astor was already wearing a fur-trimmed coat when Annie arrived. There was also a shawl over her shoulders and her shoes buttoned on her feet, lace-trimmed cuffs of her nightgown peeking out from her sleeves. Otherwise, the stateroom looked normal for this hour, dark and still, with the husband and Airedale, Kitty, probably fast asleep in the next room. “I’ve got insomnia.” She gestured to her belly, which Annie knew was full with child, though underneath the heavy, tentlike coat she wore, you couldn’t quite tell. “I need to take a stroll, and I want you to escort me,” she said.
Why me? Annie wanted to ask. Why not one of your servants or your husband or even Violet? This whole episode was strange, very strange indeed. Stranger still was the way Madeleine’s eyes seemed so distant, as if she were sleepwalking . . . which reminded Annie that she herself had sleepwalked only last night . . . which gave her the brief flash of worry that she might be dreaming all of this. Perhaps she was simply sleepwalking again? Could it be that none of this was real?
It certainly didn’t feel real. At this hour of the night, with dark dreams still hugging the edges of her thoughts, Annie could swear she could feel the sway of the boat beneath her more sharply, could feel the way they were suspended above depths and depths of seawater merely by the hubris of man’s progress, of invention. There was no sensible reason that a ship of this size should float. She had no understanding of physics, and could not fathom how it was possible.
But that was modern life: full of impossibilities.
And if life was a series of impossibilities . . . Annie shivered. It meant anything was possible, that you could be haunted or pursued, or succumb to madness at any given moment. All or none of those things might be true.
Maddie’s hand on Annie’s arm was light but firm, and Annie couldn’t help but feel that they weren’t just casually wandering the halls, that this was more than just a relaxed midnight meander.
Was Maddie leading her somewhere?
“I wonder, is something in particular bothering you?” Annie asked. She tried to reassure herself—her nerves were unjustified. This poor girl, actually younger than Annie but married and with child, was probably just lonely. Maybe she was distraught over the death of the boy, Teddy. He was closer to her age than her own husband, after all.
“It’s the pregnancy, I’m afraid. I’m too uncomfortable to sleep. Warm milk doesn’t help, reading doesn’t help . . . the only thing that helps is to take a long walk. My mind is . . . Have you ever read Shakespeare, Miss Hebbley?”
Annie felt the question like a pinprick through her clothing. It stung. Girls like Annie did not read Shakespeare. They were lucky to be able to read at all.
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, never mind that, but there’s this line in Macbeth—oops.” She put her hands over her mouth. “You’re not supposed to say the name of the play out loud, Jack told me it’s bad luck, not that I’m superstitious. Anyway, there’s this line I love,” she whispered as they turned a corner into another vacant alleyway.
“Yes?” Annie was, quite honestly, mystified by everything Maddie was saying.
“O, full of scorpions is my mind. Isn’t it jus
t perfect? To describe those restless thoughts we have at night?”
The image was disturbing. Though Annie had never seen a scorpion, she knew what they were. “Yes, Mrs. Astor,” she said, even though she didn’t agree—just the thought of a heap of venomous creatures writhing and twisting and crawling over themselves made her skin prickle.
“Please call me Maddie,” the girl replied. More of that American familiarity, like it fooled anyone. They were not equals.
Behind a door came the faint sound of a man snoring. Such an odd sound, gentle and rough at the same time. Familiar and yet disquieting. Angry and yet reassuring. It reminded Annie of her father, a terrible snorer who could be heard throughout the house. A tyrant who could make his wife and children cower with a few snarled words.
Walking with Maddie on this night was like being a fairy, a sprite, or an elf, drifting noiselessly through a house after everyone has gone to sleep. Looking for a child or a gold coin to steal. Or maybe it was most like being a ghost, trapped on another plane, held captive apart from the living.
She looked for numbers posted over the doors as they passed, but it all muddied together. She couldn’t place them. Where were they? Maddie had said she wanted Annie to accompany her so she wouldn’t get lost, but she’d insisted on leading and Annie was now so mixed up that she wasn’t sure she’d find their way back.
“Now tell me, Miss Hebbley, where do you come from? That’s not a British accent I hear.”
Do not allow yourself to become overfamiliar with the passengers. “I come from a little village in Ireland. You wouldn’t know it.”
“You’re probably right, seeing as how I’ve not been to Ireland. What about the ordeal of pregnancy? Do we share that in common? Do you have children?”
For reasons she couldn’t recognize, the question bothered her, caused a swirling chill in her gut. “No, ma’am,” she answered slowly. “I mean, Maddie. There is no child. . . .”