Sera sneaks over to the table, gathers the sheaf of papers, and hands the stack to Tess. “Hide these. Protect them with your life.”
“Yes, all right.” Tess stuffs them down the front of her shirt and staggers to her feet, trying to lift Lady Daneska in her arms. “But we have to get off this ship. Now!” She stumbles, and I rush to help her.
Sera grabs the lantern from the table and backs away from us, making for the starboard gunwale. “One of Captain Grey’s men is bound to have a spyglass trained on our ship. I’ll signal them before they kill us all—the Prince included.”
There is a farewell in her expression, a sad note I cannot bear. “No, come with us. We can signal them from the ladder.”
“Too low.” She shakes her head. “They’ll see me better from the bow.” She slants a fierce look at Tess. “Go! Get them off this ship. Hurry!”
I reach out. “Wait! Sera—” But she dashes off into the darkness.
“Maya!” Lord Kinsworth runs across the deck and grasps my arm. “Are you all right? I was afraid he’d shot you.”
“Ben!” Relief rings through me. I let him pull me into an embrace. He’s breathing hard, his coat is missing, and his shirt is slashed in too many places. There’s a gaping cut on his arm, another on his chest, and so much blood on him I can’t help but wince. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m all right.” He shakes off my concern. “But Prince George is wounded. We need to get him to safety.”
“Right.” Tess staggers to her feet, trying to lift Lady Daneska in her arms. She stumbles, and I rush to help her.
Kinsworth frowns. “Why’re you bringing her? Leave the traitor here.”
“She saved my life,” Tess says through gritted teeth, trying to carry Daneska to the starboard rail. “I’m not leaving her here with that monster.”
Prince George hobbles up behind Lord Kinsworth, bleeding from a gash on his shoulder and another on his leg, leaning heavily on Lord Harston. Ben is right, our duty is to the Prince Regent. “But. . .” I plead with Ben. “Lady Daneska used to be one of us. We can’t leave her.”
“The ladies are right, Kinsworth,” Prince George mutters. “Can’t abandon Lady Daneska. Harston can help me down.”
Lord Harston rubs his chin. “One of us needs to guard from the deck. If anyone were to attack while you were on the ladder, Sir . . .” He shakes his head
“I would be honored to assist Your Highness on the climb down.” I let a little of the lioness stalk across my tongue, just enough to assure them of my confidence. “I can place your feet just as Lord Harston did on your ascent.”
Ben frowns at me.
“Ah, splendid. That’s settled.” Prince George nods at him. “Off you go, lad.”
Kinsworth exhales loudly. “Very well. But I will climb back up as soon as I get Lady Daneska down.” He sweeps our wounded traitor out of Tess’s arms and strides to the side of the ship.
Tess hurries in front of him. “I’ll help you get her settled in the boat and tend to her bleeding.” She scrambles down the steep ladder as swiftly as one would a staircase.
Kinsworth swings over the railing onto the wobbly rungs cradling Daneska in one arm as if she weighs next to nothing. But I notice he holds on by curling his forearm under each slat as he descends. The cut on his arm must be severe enough that he doesn’t trust his grip. And his right leg appears to be injured, too, because it trembles precariously each time he steps on it.
Tess steadies the ladder from the boat below.
Glancing toward the bow, I see Sera’s lantern waving back and forth, a pinprick of courage piercing the black night.
Our turn. Prince George stares over the precipice as if the great height makes him nervous. I ease past him onto the ladder, darting down the top four rungs. “Your Highness, we must hurry. If you will but step down, I will place your feet on the slats just as Lord Harston did.” I reach up to help guide him onto the ladder, but stop when the barrel of flintlock points at the Prince.
“He stays here.” Ghost thrusts his gun at Prince George’s head. “Dead or alive, he’s coming with us to France.”
“I think not!” Lord Harston whips out his sword and wedges himself between Ghost and the Prince Regent. “Go, Your Highness. Climb!”
“Fool!” Ghost lunges at Harston, so swift and so close there is neither time nor space for Harston to maneuver his saber. It clatters to the deck when Ghost grabs the Prince’s would-be-protector by the throat. With one hand, he lifts the hapless lord and flings him over the gunwale.
“Harston—” Prince George mutters, frozen in place.
Lord Harston claws wildly at the air as he tumbles like a broken carriage wheel into the sea. With an enormous splash, he crashes into the waves, narrowly missing the prow of the rowboat.
Ghost picks up the sword Lord Harston dropped, shifts the pistol to his left and nudges Prince George with the muzzle. “Back away from the ladder. And mind your toes, unless you’d rather lose them.” He raises the sword like an executioner about to chop off the head of my rope ladder.
Below me, Lord Harston is thrashing in the water. Kinsworth lays Daneska across one of the thwarts and rushes to the bow, extending a paddle to save his uncle. He shouts for Tess to untie the mooring line. With only a few seconds to act, instead of stepping carefully down each rung, I grasp the ropes on either side of the ladder and let go with my feet. I slide seaward so fast the twine cording burns through my gloves and bites into the flesh of my palms.
Even so, it is not fast enough.
Ghost chops the rope nearest him. In one mighty swoop, he slices straight through it. The entire apparatus swings away from the ship. I clutch the single twine cord still holding me.
I must’ve yelped. I’m not sure. Lord Kinsworth glances up at me and fear screeches across his face.
“Hang on!” He tugs the paddle into the hull, grasps his uncle’s hand and yanks him over the prow. “Hold on!” he shouts again, and charges toward my swinging ladder, bounding across the boat, making it rock wildly.
Tess was untying the mooring lines, but now she, too, scrambles to the stern, straining to catch the dangling rope. Except, my lifeline veers out over the water in a sweeping arc.
“Maya!” Sera calls from up on the ship where she is perched on the railing. “Jump!” she shouts and puts words into action. There is no frenzied flapping as when Lord Harston plummeted into the ocean. Sera leaps, arms wide as if relishing the pleasure of being airborne. At the last moment, she straightens, her skirts billow gracefully, and like a sleek seabird diving for a fish, she splashes into the water below.
My tether has reached the height of its outward swing. Any second, momentum will carry me back over our rowboat. Ghost’s sword is raised to slash the remaining rope. Sera is right. If I do not jump now, I will fall, smashing into Kinsworth or Tess, breaking or overturning the boat—killing all of us.
That will not do.
I let go.
Upon These Waves, I Cast My Heart
Falling.
The last thing I see is Kinsworth’s face. His normally relaxed features widen in alarm. The boat tips precariously as he dashes across it, and he bellows—a thunderclap of panic that distorts sound and bends the air around us. If it were any more forceful, it might have bent matter itself.
It is the last sound I hear before plunging into the waves.
The ocean swallows me up.
Quiet.
Dark.
Cold.
Saltwater stings my skinned palms, but they quickly cool. The water here is much colder than it is in the cove at home where Tess taught us to swim.
Home.
How surprising that I should think of Stranje House as my home. And yet, it feels right. Home is a place of belonging. And I belonged there. Miss Stranje and the others accepted me and cared for me despite my peculiar gifts. I did not have to be invisible there.
It is quiet underwater. Eerily still.
Wait! That is not true.
How foolish I am. It is not quiet here. Nor is it still. The sea is so full of vibrations I simply cannot sort them all. And the ocean itself has a voice, a voice so vast and deep and overwhelmingly ancient it nearly stops my heart. Air—I need air. Bubbles cascade from my mouth and nose, floating up to the surface. I push off my slippers and follow them.
Remove your shoes—that is what Tess taught us to do if we should ever find ourselves in deep water. She learned the importance of doing so from firsthand experience. She’s right. It is much easier to kick without them. I also unwrap my sari, letting it float to the bottom of the sea, leaving me in the lightweight gold silk underdress. Reaching as high as I can, I cup my hands and climb up mother ocean’s watery breast, swimming to the surface.
Crimson fingers of light filter through the briny darkness—hints of dawn. I kick and crawl harder and harder until, at last, I surge up through the waves and shake salt and seaweed from my eyes and ears.
A swell lifts me high enough to see Sera in the distance, battling the current, stroking with fierce determination as she nears the rowboat. The gig appears to be about fifty yards away from me. A distance, with any luck, I should be able to manage. Before the roller drops me in a trough, it carries me even higher, high enough to see Lord Kinsworth, bloodied and limping, step up onto the stern transom, tipping their boat dangerously. “Maya!” he cups his hands and calls for me as if I am lost. I wave and shout back. He sees me and points, gesturing wildly at the ship. “Look out!”
I turn and see the sloop’s sails are unfurled and flapping in the wind. The ship is moving away. Too late, I spot one of the cannons turning its gaping black mouth hungrily in our direction.
An earsplitting crack explodes the sky.
My thoughts shatter.
God save us!
The blast punches through the air, sending tremors heaving through the water. Orange smoke flares overhead, spewing sparks across the surface. The cannonball plunges into the water a few yards to my right, striking with such force it rocks the ocean. Waves spray high into the air, tossing me up, flinging me into the convulsing sea as if I am weightless flotsam. A moment later, the ocean fluxes, sucking me back, yanking me into an undertow.
Tumbling into the dark depths, I have no idea which way is up. Once again, I must chase my own escaping bubbles to find the surface. Erupting from the waves, I inhale precious air, except it is tainted with the burnt sulphur taste of black powder.
Why would they waste munitions firing at us? Has Napoleon guessed we stole the accord? That may be why they want to drown us. But would Ghost command his men to sink a boat carrying Lady Daneska? Is he that callous? Surely not. Whatever the case, if one of those cannons hits our rowboat, we are all done for.
Save yourselves! Row! I want to shout at them, but I think better of it. It is doubtful they could hear me above the roar of sea and cannons. Even if they did, they might think I am calling for help. They are in trouble enough. Sera is barely hanging onto the stern. A drenched bedraggled Lord Harston seems to be trying to pull her aboard. Tess is manning the oars, hopefully maneuvering out from the line of fire. All is lost unless they get to safety.
And Ben is perched precariously on the stern, almost as if he plans to . . .
Oh, no! He can’t mean to—
But he does.
“Don’t!” I yell—too late. He springs forward, diving in my direction. His splash is but a droplet in this massive sea. It scarcely makes a ripple across the surface, and yet those small pulses fill me with worry. Something is wrong. His inner music wobbles, the off-key slur of surprise, a bow sliding sideways across cello strings.
The cannon blast tossed me farther from the boat, and this wretched current is carrying me away from them. I strain to raise my head above the waves, gulping nauseating mouthfuls of brine in the process, but there is no sign of him.
Where are you?
He breaks through the surface, gasping and pummeling the water like a windmill in a valiant effort to paddle toward me. An instant later, a wave topples over him. He reaches skyward as if clamoring for help. His mouth opens and closes, gagging.
He cannot swim!
I race in his direction. Why did he dive in? Would he drown himself trying to save me? Silently I repeat Tess’s scold to Daneska. What were you thinking? Except I know the answer. Lady Daneska named it.
Love.
With a groan, I spit out saltwater, grit my teeth and battle the current. Ignoring the pain in my palms, the numbness in my legs, and forgetting that I need air, I swim harder and faster than I have ever done.
With a terrifying whoosh, an arrow from the Mary Isabella flies overhead. It misses Napoleon’s sloop and lands in the water a few feet past the stern. The sloop’s sails are trimmed and billowing out. The ship tacks southeast, cutting through the waves. Napoleon and Ghost are escaping.
And Britain’s Prince Regent is their captive.
Two more explosions rip through the early morning air, firing in rapid succession. Cannonballs soar in an arc high above us, whistling in the direction of Alexander’s steamship. There is so much noise I can scarcely hear Kinsworth.
He bolts up from the waves, sputtering and choking, floundering in his attempt to reach me. Sera stands up as if she plans to dive back in and help him, but Lord Harston restrains her. He directs her to look out in the distance and points at me. As if I am the answer. Me. The worst swimmer at Stranje House.
Lord Harston hollers to gain Kinsworth’s notice and casts a length of rope out toward his nephew. But Ben ignores it. He bobs and splashes, doggedly intent on drowning in my direction.
I race toward him, kicking my feet and extending my arms, exactly as Tess taught us. Even so, my dress drags like a sodden anchor and the current is so strong I feel as if I am a tiny ant trying to scale the Himalayas.
I am coming.
Keep fighting, my love.
If only I were stronger. A dozen or more strokes and I might be able to reach him. Just a few more yards. Almost there.
Almost.
The next roller tumbles over him. His hand shoots up through the surface but then drifts under as if in final surrender.
“Ben!” I scream his name. “Ben!” I cry even louder this time.
So close.
Kinsworth was right there—not more than a few yards in front of me. But now he’s gone.
Vanished.
Tell me where you’ve hidden him, I beg mother ocean. But she does not answer. Instead, I hear my grandmother’s voice. Panic will not serve you, child. In times of trouble, quiet your mind and listen.
Impossible in this churning ocean.
No, my little lion. Hush. And listen.
So, I close my eyes for a moment, steadying my heartbeat, and breathing as slowly and regularly as possible, stroking evenly and peacefully through the tumbling toiling sea. I dive under, listening for him.
In this early light, the sea has turned a dark poisonous green, as murky and unfathomable as death itself.
And yet, I hear him.
I can scarcely believe the sound. It is Kinsworth calling to me. Not with his voice, it is the boy inside him, the one who runs away, only now he is shouting for me. His cello playing my name over and over.
I follow the sound.
I am coming.
The rising sun burnishes the waves with a coppery glint, and in the water ahead, it silhouettes the shape of a man.
Ben!
He is floating as if he has given up. But as I approach, he looks up, and his music practically sparks a fire in the water. I swim under him and try to push him up, but he is too heavy. He reaches out for me, but I must dodge him. If he should seize hold of me too tight, he’ll drown us both. Circling behind him, I grab his shirt with both hands and tug him with all my might toward the surface. Finally, his head juts up above the waves, and he lunges upward, starving for air.
I try to help him stay afloat, but he is too big, his muscles too heavy, and his clothes and sho
es are dragging him under. I dive down and pry off one of his half-boots.
After removing only one of his boots, both of us are desperate to breathe. Kinsworth grabs at the water, trying to climb to the surface. I help pull him up, and when we near the surface boost him as high as I can. As soon as I feel his lungs swell with air, I poke my chin up, too. Coughing and gasping, I take in one much-needed breath before we are dragged under again. It feels as if I am nothing more than a tiny nightingale trying to tow a fully-grown man. Both of us are fading in the cold and weakening for want of air.
We cannot keep this up.
Except we have no choice. Even our enemy cannot help us now. Napoleon’s ship is already a furlong away. The steamship is almost the same distance in the other direction. And I’m not sure Tess and Sera can even see where we are.
Lady Jane would say the odds are against us. Georgie would make some sort of calculation, and nod sadly. “It does not look good.”
Not good at all.
They are right. We are drowning in this freezing cold ocean. I don’t see how we can go on. Despite the stinging saltwater, I open my eyes to look on Kinsworth one last time, to say farewell and memorize his features to take with me to the next life. We are close, face to face in this dark grave, and his lips curve in the bravest smile I have ever seen.
His cello slows to a melody that squeezes my heart with sadness. A song of regret. A descant of farewell. He, too, knows we are going to die. His fingers float up to stroke my cheek. Cold, his fingers are so cold. Even so, his love for me vibrates with a warmth that ignites my soul and ripples through this wicked wondrous sea.
The storm inside me is gone, no longer fueled by anger or grief. In its place, a powerful calm arises from something stronger than grief, more potent than anger. Love. The lioness roars inside me. She leaps up to protect. I cannot let him die.
I will not.
I smile back at him—not in farewell. My lips are promising him we will live. My soul sings to his. I will teach you to swim. I show him my hands, forming the smooth long cup shape Tess taught to me.
Harbor for the Nightingale Page 25