Whispering Twilight

by Melissa McShane

  “Pray, do not be concerned for me. What is to be done?”

  Mr. Rawleigh’s lips thinned in a grim line again. “I do not wish to frighten you, but…the ship is sinking.”

  Bess’s heart thumped harder, and her hand closed tightly on Mr. Rawleigh’s sleeve. “I presume we will not sink with it?” she said, trying for a light tone but hearing her voice shake.

  “Certainly not. But there are dangers—the seas are rough, and the ship’s boats cannot…” Mr. Rawleigh went silent. “I cannot assure you that we will survive.”

  “You know I will always prefer the truth, Mr. Rawleigh.” Bess looked up at the grey square that was the lowering sky. Rain lashed her face, cold and hard like a thousand icy needles. “Tell me what to do.”

  Mr. Rawleigh climbed the steps and bent to offer Bess a hand. “I will take you to the boat. We are not so far off the coast, and there should be no trouble in making landfall.”

  “But you said we were driven off course. What coast is that?”

  Mr. Rawleigh did not respond at first. Finally, he said, “We do not know. But we have no choice.”

  Bess stood on the deck and braced herself against its slant, more perceptible now. The howl of the wind and the crash of the waves made his words nearly unintelligible. She shouted, “I understand. Show me where to go.”

  The rain sheeted down in buckets, soaking Bess before she took three steps. Between the pounding of the rain and the screams of the wind, the storm seemed a living creature, one enraged at the presence of humans in its territory and determined to see them at the bottom of the ocean. Bess suppressed that flight of fancy and let Mr. Rawleigh help her to where one of the ship’s boats hung in its davits, swaying wildly with the motion of the ship.

  As she watched, the boat’s movement stilled until it appeared to be held in place by an invisible hand. Then it slowly descended out of sight, so rigid in comparison to the movement of the ship that Bess realized some of the ship’s Movers had it under their control. It seemed the one calm thing in the world.

  Bess’s soaked hair straggled limply over her shoulders. She pushed its sodden mass out of her face and said, “Are we to board, Mr. Rawleigh? I apologize, but I do not think I can climb a rope.” She looked around, but could not see the second boat. “Has the other boat already gone?”

  “Smashed as we prepared it for launch,” Mr. Rawleigh shouted in her ear. “The sailors are attempting to repair it. And Movers are bringing the captain’s gig forward.”

  “Take care, Miss Hanley,” a new voice said, gruff even as the speaker pitched his words to be heard over the storm. Captain Vallance stumped into view, his craggy face impassive. “You, help the lady. I’ll want you—” he gestured at some of the sailors who stood nearby—“to accompany Miss Hanley. Mr. Rawleigh, you’re to take charge of the boat.”

  “Captain,” Mr. Rawleigh began. The captain shot him a quelling look, one with a warning edge Bess was near enough to witness. She glanced again at where the boat had descended.

  “But surely—” she said, then shut her mouth. It was obvious even to her that this boat and the captain’s gig could not carry the entire crew. A sick feeling that had nothing to do with the ship’s wild motion filled her, warring with her fear. She looked again for the other boats and saw nothing but the storm.

  Another loud crack rang out, louder even than the storm, and the ship lurched. Something grabbed Bess around the waist and legs, an invisible force too large to be a man, and she screamed as she was hurled over the side of the ship and plummeted toward the ship’s boat. Behind her, something hit the deck with a sound like an explosion, audible even over the storm. Bess flung her arms over her face, felt her spectacles slide and then fall off, and saw the dark blur of the boat rushing toward her at a tremendous speed.

  Then she jerked to a halt and found herself hovering inches from the boat for the space of two breaths, long enough to realize what had happened. One of the Movers had Moved her away from the ship to the dubious safety of the boat. In another moment, she fell the last few inches and cried out as she cracked her head and forearms against the bottom of the boat and one of its seats.

  Someone put his hands under her arms and hoisted her up. “Stay low!” the sailor said, and half-ushered, half-shoved her toward a spot in the bow. Bess felt around for her spectacles, though she knew it was a futile search. Everything around her was moving smears of grey and white. She turned in her seat, keeping a firm grip on the gunwale, and saw more blurs, these man-sized, handling the oars, and others descending from above on ropes Bess could not see.

  Then someone shouted words Bess could not make out above the roar of the wind and the waves, and the nearest grey smear slid away from them. The boat was moving away from the ship. The Mary Peirce groaned again like a man in agony, and wood once more cracked, the sound of a heavy foot on thin ice. Bess looked over her shoulder and saw the two nearest sailors pulling hard at the oars, grim determination darkening their blurred features. Everything beyond them was erratic movement almost indistinguishable from the storm.

  She clung to the gunwale as the boat rose up the curve of a wave and flew down the far side, sending up a second wave of water that crashed over her. Once more she felt herself the captive of some great monster intent on sending her into the ocean’s depths. She heard no more screams, heard nothing but the crash of the waves and the whistling howl of the wind and the pounding of hard rain that battered her like hailstones.

  Praying desperately, she bit back a scream of her own as the boat tilted back so far she was flung into the oarsmen behind her, her grip on the gunwale failing. She clenched her legs around the bench she sat on and wrenched herself upright as the boat crested the impossibly high wave and tipped the other way. It felt like being in a wagon racing uncontrollably down a steep hill, one that somehow sped uphill as fast as it descended. She had never been so wet in her life.

  How long they were tossed by the storm, she had no idea. Her world narrowed down to her hands, clutching the sodden wood, her legs, gripping the bench, until her whole body ached with tension. She became so accustomed to the repeated climbs and descents she grew numb, past fear into a sort of dull anticipation that this time would be the last, that this time the boat would capsize and spill its fragile human cargo into the implacable grip of the monster.

  And yet every time the boat remained upright. She did not dare loose her grip to look behind her and see how the sailors fared, not that she would be likely to see anything. Her spectacles were no doubt permanently lost, and she was effectively blind. That, too, failed to rouse her fear. She would die as easily if she were blind as not.

  Something dark and shapeless loomed up before them. The boat slammed into it, flinging Bess forward again and drawing a scream of surprise and terror from her. The boat tipped sideways unexpectedly and with a final lurch flipped over, dumping Bess into the ocean.

  She screamed again and scrabbled at the boat’s strake, which was too smooth to allow her to grip it. Her fingers slipped off, and she sank beneath the waves. Thrashing desperately, she reached far into her past, to memories of bathing off the coast as a child, and propelled herself awkwardly up until her head broke the surface. Briny water filled her nostrils, and she coughed once, then sucked in a waterlogged breath before sinking once more.

  This time, when she rose above the surface, a wave crashed down on her, driving her deeper. In her terror, she struck out again, flailing her arms and legs and wishing she were not so tangled in her skirt. She inhaled again and held her breath as another wave overcame her. I will die here, she thought. The idea filled her with unexpected anger. She had not come all this way to die off an alien coast.

  This time, as she tried to swim for the surface, her foot brushed something hard but yielding, like wet sand. It was wet sand, she realized; specifically, the ocean floor. She was near the shore. She sucked in another watery breath and deliberately submerged, seeking purchase on the land, beneath where the waves crashed and
knocked her about. It was not deep where she stood, and had the weather been calmer, she likely could have waded to shore. Instead, she scrabbled along like a crab, clinging to the wet sand and the plants that grew from it until she was knee-deep in the surf and the terrible waves could not overpower her.

  Sobbing tears of mingled frustration and joy, she staggered, half-walking, half-crawling, past the edge of the waves and beyond until, exhausted, she fell to her knees and then lay prone on the wet sand. Rain poured down on her battered body, and she rolled onto her back and opened her mouth, craving fresh water. The rain tasted salty, like tears, and she almost spat it out before realizing the briny taste was the seawater clinging to her skin and lips. She tried to wipe her eyes clear, but immediately discovered the sand clinging to her fingers as it scratched her eyelids, so instead she let the pounding rain rinse her eyes and ears and hands.

  With her eyes closed to bring sounds better into clarity, she listened for the shouts or cries of desperate men, but heard nothing but the roar of the surf and the hiss of the rain striking the sand. Her body ached with exhaustion, and she found it impossible to rise, so she lay on the beach with her sodden skirts tangled around her legs and the rain beating down on her and sent up a wordless prayer of thanks that she was still alive.

  After what seemed an eternity, she realized the rain was lessening, no longer pattering over her body as it had done. With great effort, she rolled to her hands and knees and then stood, waiting for her legs to stop shaking. When she finally felt stable, she turned in a complete circle, assessing her surroundings. The world was grey and tan, smeared like bland, wet paint. The sun was invisible behind the clouds, giving her no assistance in orienting herself. There was motion in one direction—the waves, striking the shore—and the sounds of the surf were louder when she faced that way. In the other direction, beige emptiness stretched out as far as she could perceive. She took a few halting steps toward it before the foolishness of such an action stilled her feet. She could not simply wander off into the unknown. She needed to find help. She could not be the only survivor.

  “Help!” she called out, turning once more to face the shoreline. “Is anyone there? Help!”

  No response came. The wind blew harder, chilling her in her soaked gown. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to control her shivering. “Please, someone! Anyone!” she cried.

  This time, she heard an answering cry. Her heart leaped before she realized it was nothing but a sea bird, returning from where it had no doubt been swept inland by the storm. She shivered again, harder this time. She had to move if she wanted to warm herself.

  She turned so the sound of the waves was to her right and headed…was it south, or east? She did not know the direction the coast ran here, but surely it was more likely to run north to south. She had no idea where she might find other survivors, whether it was wiser to go north instead, but she had to make a decision, and south was as good as anything.

  The wet sand moved uncomfortably beneath her feet, one of which, she realized, had lost its shoe. She kicked off the other shoe and let the sand squelch up between her toes. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but her calves ached already from the inconstant surface she walked on. She hoped she would not step on anything sharp, or anything living—the thought made her shudder from more than cold and wet.

  She saw the log before she tripped over it and took a few steps to the side to avoid it. In the next moment, she realized it was not a log. She ran to the man’s side and dropped to her knees next to him, reaching for his hand. He did not resist her grasp. Terrified, she bent to lay her cheek beside his mouth. No breath tickled her face. She waited for the count of five, in case she was mistaken, but eventually had to fold his arm across his unmoving chest and sit back on her heels. She was too overwhelmed to weep for the dead sailor, and too weary to weep for herself.

  Bess finally stood and clasped her hands together, and said a silent prayer for the dead man’s soul. Then she walked on southward. If he had come from the boat, perhaps the rest of the crew had found their way to shore in this direction. And perhaps some of them had survived. She spared a thought for Mr. Rawleigh, who had always been so kind to her, and hoped he had not drowned.

  Though the rain had passed, thick clouds still covered the sky, and if the sun shone through them, it was too faint for Bess to feel its warmth. She rubbed her arms vigorously. Walking did help her feel warmer, but not enough to be comfortable. If she could only dry herself…but the constant wind seemed to do nothing but chill her further.

  Calming herself, she focused on her knowledge of Mr. Thorpe, and addressed him: Mr. Thorpe, I apologize for the abruptness of my message, but we have been shipwrecked. I believe the Mary Peirce is lost. I am alone and know not whether there are any other survivors. I regret that this is the news I must give you. She paused, realized that there was nothing else she could tell him, and concluded, Pray do not tell my parents. I wish the news to come directly from me.

  She realized she had stopped walking to Speak and found she could not bear to move on. The cries of seabirds, barely audible over the noise of the surf, drew her attention upward to where they were pale moving streaks against the grey sky. They flew off toward the ocean, fading from her sight until they blended with the clouds blown seaward by the wind. She felt strangely bereft, as if they had abandoned her. Her chest ached with a hollow pain—

  “I am a fool,” she said aloud. A Speaker was never truly alone. She must be more addled by her experience than she realized. She tilted her head back, realized that gesture was pointless, and turned her attention to the gleaming net of sparks of light that was her reticulum.

  Though her reticulum was large for a Speaker, most of it was composed of gently-born ladies of her own social class, all of whom were a great comfort to her, but none of whom could help her in her immediate need. Regretfully, she dismissed the Mughal and Hindoo contacts she had made in her years in India. They were, almost without exception, intelligent and capable men, but none of them knew anything about this part of the world. She knew no one stationed in South America, nor in North America, for that matter, no one who could be of immediate assistance. But she did have one contact she could rely on without question.

  Clarissa, she Spoke. Clarissa, I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but I am in great need.

  No immediate response came. Bess waited. Clarissa Emrey, a fellow Extraordinary Speaker, would certainly have heard her, but her attention was likely taken up by other conversations, not all of them silent. She had chosen to stay with the War Office when her mandatory four years’ service was over, and was General Omberlis’s personal Speaker. It was…Bess had lost track of time during her ordeal, but it was likely almost eight in the evening in Lisbon, and Clarissa was no doubt at supper, or an evening engagement.

  A quivering sensation tickled her temples. Bess. What is wrong?

  The question filled Bess with an inappropriate desire to laugh. Everything. I have been shipwrecked on the coast of South America and I do not know where I am.

  Clarissa’s horror filled the connection with a quavering tension Bess felt in the base of her spine. Bess, no! You are uninjured, though?

  I am. I need to know which way to go. I can see very little, so I am afraid to move far.

  You are outdoors. A Bounder cannot reach you.

  No. Bess tried not to feel despair. Can you help?

  There was a pause, but Bess could feel the contact had not been broken. I will summon who I can, Clarissa finally said. It is well into evening here, and I am not at the War Office headquarters. But we will find you, Bess, I promise we will.

  I know. I have faith in you. I am in no immediate danger.

  I will contact you when I know more. Stay strong, Bess. Now Clarissa did end the contact. Bess waited for the hollow feeling to subside, but fear filled her despite Clarissa’s words. She had never felt so alone as she did right then.

  Chapter 5

  In which Bess renew
s a reluctant acquaintance

  Bess breathed in slowly, trying to banish the fear. She examined her reticulum again. Her closest friends would soon begin contacting her as they did every evening, those who were not otherwise occupied, at any rate, and so much had happened in the past few hours Bess did not know how to begin to tell her story. The thought of repeating it over and over to her friends made her feel weary again.

  One obvious contact came to mind, filling her once more with dread. Mrs. Kearsley, her parents’ housekeeper, would be awake and not occupied with anything, but contacting her…perhaps she should not have Mrs. Kearsley convey to her parents the news that their only daughter was lost on a strange continent with very little hope of rescue. Bess knew her mother well enough to realize this news might send her into a nervous decline, particularly if Bess could not assure her a rescue was imminent. Better to wait until Bess had more information, and then she would contact her parents directly.

  She might address a small group of friends simultaneously, a skill only an Extraordinary Speaker had, but she could deliver only the simplest message in that manner, and then she would be barraged by her friends for more information. She might contact Honoria, or Maria, or Eleanora, or even the excitable Rose, but she felt unequal to deciding which of them should hear the news first. Clarissa would contact anyone else in the War Office Bess knew to Speak to. I have never felt so helpless, she thought.

  Miss Hanley? Why did you address me?

  The Voice was abrupt, without the warning tingling in the temples that Speakers normally used to presage Speech. Startled, Bess Spoke, Mr. Quinn! I beg your pardon. I did not realize—I did not mean to Speak that thought.

  I believe I told you I did not wish to Speak with anyone. Can a man have no privacy, even within the confines of his own head?

  Bess clenched her fists and suppressed a desire to lash out at him across their contact, sending a burst of painful Speech into his mind. I hardly think I have invaded your privacy as thoroughly as you imply. I assure you it was unintentional. I have no desire to communicate with someone as…as oblivious as you are, if you cannot perceive my emotional state.