Before the Broken Star

by King, Emily R.

  Above all the happiness, my heart beats a vacant ticktock.

  Chapter Eight

  The other wedding nuptials are prompt. At the conclusion of each one, the groom kisses his bride. Harlow accepts a peck on the cheek from Cuthbert, luring him in with a docile smile and then kneeing him in the groin. The Fox and the Cat snigger, but Vevina chortles loudest. She has effectively dodged marriage.

  Captain Dabney allows his men to open bottles of spirits for the festivities. The musicians strike up a tune on the tin whistle and drum. I stand off to the side while Callahan and Quinn dance under the lanterns. He spins her, one hand in hers and the other on a glass of whisky. She is a braver version now than the girl who came aboard. Her resilience is a relief. She will need a strong constitution to endure Dagger Island.

  Claret and Laverick twirl over to me.

  “Dance with us,” the Fox beckons.

  “I didn’t celebrate when I was thrown in prison. Why would I now?” I leave them and march up to Callahan on the dance floor. “I’m ready to go.”

  He sips his whisky. “I haven’t finished my drink.”

  I snatch his cup, down the last of the spirits, and shove it back at him.

  “Ladies don’t drink,” he says, giving his empty cup a double take.

  “I’m not a lady.”

  Years back, Uncle Holden traded a grandfather clock for several cases of whisky from a distiller in the highlands. Every night before bed, he drinks a cup of whisky tea. When I turned twelve, he began making me one too.

  Lieutenant Callahan passes his cup off to another sailor. “Quinn, go dance with Laverick and Claret. My wife needs to rest.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I snap.

  He winks at Quinn. “My wife is testy.”

  Quinn giggles and scampers over to the Fox and the Cat. Callahan loops his arm through mine and leads me off the dance floor, his footsteps weaving.

  “You’re drunk,” I say.

  “Pleasantly numb. You should try it, melt some of that iciness. Or is it wood, since you’re Marionette? Why do they call you that? Is it your red gloves?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Ring!

  “There’s that noise again,” he says.

  “What noise?”

  “The bell I hear when you’re around.”

  He’s too observant for his own good. Fortunately, he is also drunk and may not recall hearing my regulator in the morning. On our way to his cabin, we pass a group of sailors who make suggestive comments about our wedding night. I keep my attention forward until we enter his quarters.

  Built-in shelves line one wall, stacked with hardbound volumes. A violin case is propped between the bed and the narrow wardrobe. His desk is tidy, and the room smells of clean linen. His collection of possessions is scant but expensive and well cared for. A book rests on the bed—the tale of the Creator and her seven worlds.

  “You like mythology?” I ask.

  “It’s a family memento.” He picks up the book and shelves it. “My ancestors were believers in the Otherworlds. Two generations back my great-grandfather on my mother’s side transcribed the oral tales into a text for posterity.”

  Stories about the Otherworlds—the notion that ours is one of seven—are common. They speak of secret passages to far-off lands and magical creatures beyond our sight.

  “My mother told us stories about the Otherworlds,” I say.

  “Most children would say the same.”

  I don’t miss his tone of sadness. “Except you?”

  “My mother passed away when I was young. I hardly remember her. This book is one of the few possessions I have of hers.”

  A fishbowl is secured to the writing desk near the door. I peer through the glass at a goldfish swimming in its dome.

  “That’s Cleon,” the lieutenant says. “Tarah scooped him out of a neighbor’s pond. I took over care of him after she passed.”

  I spot a map of Dagger Island pinned to the wall, a grayscale print of the original that hangs in the queen’s palace. I touch the signature at the bottom right-hand corner.

  My father’s name.

  “Brogan Donovan was the greatest explorer of his time,” Callahan says. “I would have liked to meet him.”

  Hot tears swell behind my eyes. I have tried to find a reproduction of this map as a memento, but they are scarce in number. “Where did you get this?”

  “Governor Markham gave me a copy when I served as his personal clerk.”

  A mix of disgust and validation swamp me. He is close to Markham. “How long did you work for him?”

  “My first post was aboard his ship. Killian was an admiral then. I was transferred to the Lady Regina after he was promoted to governor.” Callahan walks past me and draws my attention to a lower shelf. “I thought you’d like to see this.”

  “My uncle’s clock,” I breathe. I touch the painted daisies on the timepiece. My heart beats in rhythm with it, as though recognizing they were crafted by the same master.

  “It’s our clock now,” says Callahan.

  I swivel toward him. “You shouldn’t have married me.”

  “Most women would be grateful, even flattered.”

  “You highborn blowhard. I told you I didn’t want to get married, and what did you do? You assumed I would be so taken by you that I would forget my senses and bow in gratitude to you for sacrificing what’s left of your reputation and forcing me into wedlock?”

  He cranks his jaw left and right.

  “Why did you do this? Don’t say out of obligation or for my protection. No one can fully protect another person. One will always fail the other.”

  Callahan trails his fingertips down the spine of his mother’s book. “I didn’t act out of arrogance, though I admit it may appear so. I have my reasons.”

  “Creator forbid you tell me.”

  “I will if you quit shrieking.”

  “You think this is shrieking?” I say, my voice pitching higher. He arches a brow, indicating my response should serve as my answer.

  He deserves my outrage. He also deserves having a pillow thrown at his head, but I restrain myself.

  “My parents were a love match,” he says. “My mother was my father’s whole world. Her death destroyed him. I swore I wouldn’t give another person that much influence over me.” Callahan searches for my understanding, his expression earnest. “You said you’re averse to marriage. This civil arrangement will suit us both. You won’t have to play wife to Dr. Huxley, and it doesn’t conflict with my views. I’ll care for you as a husband, and in return, I require only your honesty.”

  Only my honesty. He must be joking. Absolute sincerity is a greater demand than I am willing to meet, and why would I? It’s still unclear what he aims to gain from this union.

  Callahan sits on the corner of the bed and removes his jacket. As he rolls up his sleeve, he reveals a rope burn across his forearm. “I caught it in a line this morning. Bring the bottle of whisky from the drawer there, please.”

  I locate the bottle in his desk and pass it to him. “You need a surgeon.”

  “I doubt Dr. Huxley will attend to my wounds anytime soon.” Callahan uncorks the bottle with his teeth and splashes some of the liquor on the cut. He hisses a breath, then takes a long pull from the bottle and offers it to me.

  I wave in refusal. “Stop trying to garner my sympathy. You think I’ll feel sorry for you and patch you up and nurse you back to health, but I won’t.”

  “You don’t have much compassion, do you?”

  “Compassion is a waste of heart.”

  “If that were true, you would be spending the night with Dr. Huxley.” Callahan gulps another glug of whisky, his hair falling in his tired eyes.

  I take the bottle and recork it. “Do you have bandages?”

  He looks up, surprised, and then points to the bottom drawer. I find the bandages and hand them over. Callahan wraps his wound and kicks off his boots. Lying back, he makes room for me on the other
half of the bed.

  I can think of no circumstance in which sleeping beside him is acceptable. I should have had that drink.

  “Lie down, Everley. I won’t touch you. I keep my promises.”

  His every other word is slurred. After the lantern is turned down, his drunken self may change his mind and attempt to exercise his husbandly rights. He would be wise not to try that unless he wants the bottle of whisky smashed over his head.

  Though I’m inexperienced, I know love isn’t essential for coupling. The people I have observed paying for streetwalkers seek purely physical relations. I will never experience that intimacy. No amount of curiosity or loneliness justifies the risk of someone discovering my clock heart.

  I set the second pillow on the floor and fetch the spare quilt hanging over the desk chair.

  Callahan rises beside me. “Why are you here?” he asks, his blue eyes vivid in the muted light. “I know you lied in court. You aren’t a streetwalker.”

  I’ve no hope of lying without triggering my regulator, so I repeat, “Marrying me was a mistake.”

  “I have many thoughts about the past twenty-four hours, but that is not one of them.” He takes the pillow and blanket from me. “The bed is yours.”

  Callahan settles on the floor in the narrow gap between the bed and wall. I turn down the lamp and lie on the bed, my back to him. The bedsheets smell of the lieutenant, clean and warm. I hug a section of the blanket to my chest to muffle my ticker and wait for him to fall asleep. He has made several promises and reassurances tonight. Maybe I will eventually believe them.

  About half an hour later, my mind lets go of the strain of the day. As I doze off, a whisper fills the dark.

  “Good night, Lady Callahan.”

  The sound of a door shutting wakes me. I go from lying down to sitting up in half a second. Callahan’s temporary bed has been cleared off the floor. He stands by the cabin door, dressed for the day in plain work clothes and carrying a steaming pail of water.

  “This is for you.” He sets down the pail, his gaze averted. The neckline of my shirt shifted during sleep. I rearrange the cloth; thankfully, my ticker and scar were covered. “I’ve laid out clothes like the ones you’re wearing now, or should you prefer, a dress. Trousers your size are difficult to find at sea, and these have no bells in the pockets.”

  “Bells?”

  He makes a ringing noise, imitating my regulator.

  I maintain a neutral expression and turn my attention to the garments. The men’s clothes are folded in a pile on the desk, and the blue dress is draped across the foot of the bed. Much to my dismay, I cannot wear most gowns of fashion. The low, square necklines show my scar. In addition, this dress likely came from the crate of garments provided by Markham. I would rather invite a spider down my bodice than put it on.

  “I’ll wear the men’s clothes,” I say.

  “That’s what I assumed, so I left a section of rope for a belt. There’s soap and a washcloth, and you may borrow my comb.” Callahan puts on his tricorn hat and ducks out.

  After he is well and gone, I climb out of bed and prop the desk chair behind the door to stop anyone from walking in. Washing with a pail of water is my normal routine. The last time I soaked in a tub, I was a child. I bathe quickly, scrubbing hard with the washcloth and dunking my hair in the warm water. The soap lathers well and smells of palm oil, and soon, I do too.

  I dry off and dress, securing the breeches with the section of rope, and then pull on my red wool gloves and remove the chair from the doorway. As I comb my hair, I peek inside the desk drawers for papers or notes with information about Markham or my father. Finding nothing of interest, I open the wardrobe cabinet. The lieutenant hung up his dastardly blue uniform.

  He reenters the cabin behind me. I shut the wardrobe cabinet and spin around. He sets down a food tray filled with a bowl of dried beans, a side of hardtack, and a cup of water.

  “Here’s your breakfast. Midday meal and dinner will be brought to you by another crewman, or you may dine in the hold with the other women.” He puts away the soap and comb and then hangs the dress I declined to wear in his wardrobe cabinet. “Our cabin is small, so keep it tidy.”

  “Is that a rule, my lord?”

  “A request.” He straightens a couple of books on the shelf that I moved and then picks up the dirty pail of water. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Actually, there is one thing. May I have a portion of wood and a carving knife?”

  Callahan startles, as though he expected me to have a more ladylike pastime. “I’ll see what I can arrange.” He opens the door, and a chilly wind sneaks in.

  “Don’t go out of your way for me,” I say. “I can take care of myself, Lieutenant.”

  A ghost of a smile lifts his lips. “Call me Jamison.”

  He goes, shutting the door behind him, and the frigid air he let in settles in the cabin. I help myself to the bottle of whisky and huddle under the bedcovers with his mother’s book of tales. After living belowdecks with all the prisoners, this quiet is divine.

  A sailor brings me the midday meal. Also on the tray are several blocks of wood and a rope knife. I spend the rest of the day carving while the wind raps at the door.

  Jamison returns an hour or so after nightfall and kicks off his boots. I lie facing the door, pretending to be fast asleep. He inspects the figurine on his desk that I carved of a cat, and then spreads out his bedding on the floor and turns down the lantern. It is a long while before sleep visits me.

  Life at sea falls into a predictable pattern of mundaneness. Each day varies little. Jamison is always gone when I wake. His blankets are folded and set aside, and I have no memory of hearing him leave.

  As the weather warms, Quinn visits our cabin often. She has taken it upon herself to feed Cleon a pinch of fruit flies from a jar that Jamison keeps for feeding the fish. Some afternoons I visit the women in the hold, while other times I invite Laverick, Claret, and Quinn to our cabin to keep me company while I carve. On warmer days, we sit on deck and snack on crackers that the Fox and the Cat pilfer from the galley. The sailors made us a rope swing that I push Quinn on when Harlow isn’t occupying it. Two or three evenings a week, Vevina organizes side bets between the sailors over which of them can scale to the crow’s nest the fastest.

  Jamison spends his days meeting with the captain, delivering assignments and schedules to the crew, overseeing the health and care of the prisoners, and settling disagreements. He returns to our cabin after dark and falls into his bed on the floor.

  I searched our cabin again for information about the governor and came up empty. My father’s map and my uncle’s daisy clock repeatedly bring back to mind why I am on this voyage. I often dream at night about what I will say and do when I confront Markham. Each nightmare ends in bloodshed, either his or mine.

  It will be his.

  Chapter Nine

  Seventy-five days after Jamison and I wed, the weather warms to the point where, so long as I stay in the sunshine, I can go outside without my cloak. Nonetheless, I pull on my red gloves and venture out for a walk with Quinn.

  The lass races ahead while I indulge in the briny air and deep-blue waves. Meandering the web of rigging and sails, Quinn and I come upon Dr. Huxley. He draws up short and quickly leaves in the opposite direction. We have not spoken, and I see no reason to break our silence now.

  Vevina stands at the helm alongside Captain Dabney. He has been instructing her how to navigate the charts, discern the stars, and operate the marine chronometer. She clutches his arm and he speaks privately in her ear. Vevina has begun to reside in his private quarters, spending most of her time at his side. Since she rarely gives her full attention to one man for long, I suspect she’s up to something, though I cannot begin to know what.

  I let them alone and follow Quinn to the stern. We come here often to watch the ship’s wakes grow farther apart until they are absorbed into the horizon. Quinn brought the wooden figurines I made for her�
�a cat and a girl. She lies on her front and plays with them.

  Cuthbert dallies near the mizzenmast. I don’t like how he stares at her, so I shift between them, blocking his view. In another few minutes, he wanders off.

  The day is warmer than yesterday. I emerge from my cabin at the same time Vevina leaves the captain’s quarters wearing a new gown. This is her third since we left Dorestand, gifts from the captain, I’m sure. We cross the deck together, passing Jamison and two other men arming a cannon with a spear.

  “You’re going to work that man to death,” Vevina remarks.

  “I haven’t done anything to him.”

  “The lieutenant is distracting himself. Trying to forget he’s married to you may cripple him.”

  Jamison’s limp is more pronounced than usual. He hasn’t explained how he got it, and I have not asked. Perhaps he damaged his leg from overworking.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  “Assembling the harpoon. A whale was spotted off our stern this morning. The crew think the Terrible Dorcha is trailing us, so the captain is taking precautions.”

  The Terrible Dorcha is a monstrous whale notorious for bashing apart ships and swallowing men whole. He’s distinguished by his harpoon scars along his back. Seafarers believe that Dorcha hails from the Otherworlds, namely the Land Under the Wave, an entire realm born of water. The Land Under the Wave is said to have pearls as large as a man’s head and endless beaches of gold sand. Sea tales, my mother would say, yet my father never dismissed the mariners’ stories as lore.

  I keep a weather eye on the horizon. According to superstition, Dorcha is sighted the most during tempests. It is said the whale ushers in storms that act as portals to the Land Under the Wave, and he travels the stormy doorways from our world to his. People have attached foolish fears to the whale. Even so, I am glad the sky is cloudless.

  Vevina and I join the other women lounging in patches of sunshine. Harlow smokes a pipe she must have stolen from her husband while Laverick and Claret comfort Quinn, who is crying against the Cat’s shoulder.