“Good morning, Dr. Cooper.”
“Good morning, Samson, and thankfully it is!” She looked across the wheelhouse at Pickett, who held papers and a spyglass in his hands and glanced at her with a quick smile.
“Did you rest well, Captain?”
“Oh, indeed. Like the dead.”
“Good.” There was something off about his demeanor, and she wondered if another problem with the airship had cropped up. “Everything repaired and in good working condition?” She lifted her brows and smiled brightly, hoping he appreciated the effort it took to do so. Her head was stuffy, and her hands and feet were still cold and tingly.
He set down the spyglass and gave the charts another quick glance before tossing them on the countertop. “Yes. Everything seems to be working perfectly. We are off course, though.”
“Oh, dear. I feared as much. How far off course?”
“Four hundred miles north.”
“Four . . .” Her eyes opened wide. “Four hundred?” How much extra time would it take to reach Port Lucy, then?
He must have read her thoughts. “It has added several days to the journey.”
She chewed absently on her lip and nodded. “Well, then, several days it is.”
“I’ve been thinking of your comment yesterday—that the delays could prove troublesome for the other passengers. Samson and I are mapping appropriate island sites to stop at for the three days over full moon, should it become necessary.”
She exhaled slowly. “And we all know it will most assuredly be necessary.” She looked out the windows at the blue sky, which had seemed so glorious the moment before. “Three days over the full moon,” she murmured. “It’s not so horribly bad. Three days is not much in the grander scheme of things.” Except adding the four days from being blown off course meant Isla had a week less to locate Malette and find the cure.
Pickett crossed the room to stand next to her, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. She was the last person who had a right to complain; she was not even a welcome passenger.
“Isla.” He stood close, hands in his pockets, warmth radiating from him, and she wasn’t sure if the source was physical or emotional. For someone who had spent the bulk of her life feeling as though the weight of her world was a burden she must carry alone, the unspoken support was overwhelming.
Her eyes pricked with tears that must have been due to the bright sunlight. “You’re a good man, Daniel Pickett, with a kind heart. Please know I shall do my best, and the very worst-case scenario awaiting me means I receive six good solid hours of rest each night. Not such a bad fate, is it?”
“Not a bad fate at all.” But he didn’t smile with her, or laugh. The moment was not as light-hearted as she would have liked. “Go and have some tea and a morning biscuit, and I will join everyone momentarily.”
She nodded and fidgeted, tapping her fingertips together. Something hung in the air between them, and she didn’t know what it was. “Very good. I will do just that.” She hesitated, but eventually turned for the door.
“Try not to fret,” he said behind her. “We will find your solutions. I’ll help you.”
She looked over her shoulder with another false, bright smile. “I will be fine; please don’t concern yourself. You have an extremely busy life yourself, a dangerous one. My issues pale in comparison. I shall see you later in the morning, then.”
She descended the stairs with a heavy heart but was determined to put on a brave face. She straightened her shoulders and glanced at the wheelhouse as she crossed the deck. Daniel stood at the windows, watching her, and she offered a smile that he didn’t return, merely nodded.
She smelled breakfast and heard the pleasant rumble of voices before reaching the wardroom. Everybody on board dealt with hard things. As much as she wished life would be simple, just for once, she realized it never was for anyone.
The day passed uneventfully, which stood in stark contrast to the chaos of yesterday. Isla spent her time with the other passengers; even Nigel Crowe, who kept mostly to himself, made random appearances in the library or lounge. He observed in silence, as was his habit, and the other passengers were left wondering what he was about. A sense of unease played in the back of her mind whenever he was with the three passengers. She tensed when they spoke, wondering if that might be the time they gave themselves away.
She played chess with Mr. Quince and compared interesting animal anecdotes with Mr. Bonadea. He missed his wife and children, and Isla hurt for him. She determined to aid Emme’s cause more actively when she returned home. There must be government officials who could be swayed to see reason. Most predatory shifters were law-abiding citizens who never ran afoul of the law or caused harm.
Lewis was especially solicitous and checked the wound on her head. He told her about some of the war experiences he had had with the captain, stories both amusing and horrifying. He was handsome and charming, but guarded, consistently keeping parts of himself separate. Hidden. She sensed if people pried too much, asked too many questions, he withdrew completely. Still, they were becoming comfortable friends.
There was a notable difference, however, in the pull she felt toward the captain. Pickett was something else altogether, and she was at a loss to understand it.
She didn’t see much of Daniel during the day—he was occupied in the wheelhouse—though she occasionally spied him returning from the engine room or inspecting the heavy rope coils that connected the ship to the huge balloon that kept them aloft. He had informed them all about the delay caused by the storm and the ship malfunctions, and she assumed he would notify the shifters separately about his plans to stop over the Full Moon Phase. He couldn’t very well discuss it with Crowe present. She suspected Crowe was merely waiting for the right crumb to fall from the table and then he would pounce.
As evening became night, she stopped by the wheelhouse to bid Pickett good night, but he wasn’t there. Samson told her he would pass along her message, so she retired to her chambers, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t disappointed she hadn’t seen more of him during the day.
She was settled for the evening in her nightgown and reading a book Mr. Bonadea had loaned to her when she heard a low, quiet rumble of voices in the captain’s cabin, followed by a knock on the connecting door. She sat up in bed and pulled her blankets close, surprised.
“Come in?”
The door opened, and Daniel poked his head inside. “We must speak with you. Is that all right?”
She stared. “Who is we?”
He had the grace to look sheepish. “Everyone but Crowe. And the ’tons. Will you join us in here?”
“I . . . Very well, give me a moment to dress . . .” She trailed off when he shook his head.
“Do you have a housecoat or nightgown covering? We don’t have much time before midnight.”
She nodded.
He closed the door, and she got out of bed and hastily shrugged her arms into her robe, tying the ribbons.
Why on earth did they want to speak with her now? She assumed it dealt with the upcoming moon phase, and she hoped she could put their minds at ease. She knocked on the door, then entered to find Pickett, along with Lewis, Mr. Bonadea, and Mr. Quince. Their collective presence loomed large in the cabin, and, dressed in her nightclothes, she felt awkward.
She shook herself mentally as Pickett pulled out one of the two chairs at the table for her; Mr. Bonadea gave Mr. Quince the other. She was a seasoned hunter and counselor. She had seen and handled more things in her lifetime than most. She could have a discussion with four adults, even if she was dressed in her nightclothes and—she glanced at the clock on the wall—less than half an hour from succumbing to involuntary oblivion.
She met Pickett’s eye after checking the time, and he nodded. He moved to the edge of his bed near her chair, and she looked around at the group. “Shall I steal a snack from the kitchen, an
d we can comb each other’s hair? Perhaps discuss the upcoming Season and who will likely court whom?”
Lewis laughed, and Pickett bit the inside of his cheek. He tipped his head in acknowledgment of her teasing and spoke quietly. “We are all here because you require assistance but will never ask for it.”
She stared at him and then at each of the others, who looked at her with kind expressions. Mr. Quince’s eyes held the sheen of tears. Warmth enveloped the room, and she caught her breath.
“I don’t know what—”
Pickett held up a hand and cut her short. “You do know what I mean. You must find a cure for this curse, and time is of the essence.” He glanced around the room. “Five heads are better than one, and we must discuss this now so that Crowe is unaware. For obvious reasons.”
She cleared her throat, uncomfortable, and wished she could crawl out of the room unnoticed.
Lewis leaned comfortably against the hull. “Suppose you share details—all of them—from the beginning of the curse. We must know what we are facing.”
She frowned. “I could never, would never, ask this of any of you. We each have our own challenges, and I can solve—”
Mr. Quince waved his hand in her direction. “The details, please, my dear.”
It was the first time he had referred to her as anything other than “doctor,” and she imagined him to be a grandfather she’d always wanted but never had. Rather than blubber sentimentality, she nodded.
“Very well.” She rubbed her forehead, swallowing past the uncomfortable lump in her throat. “My younger sister, Melody, is seventeen years old. She is the life of every party, and she attracts her share of male suitors, although my mother and I both feel she is emotionally immature.” Isla paused. “She is so young, despite being of marriageable age, and impulsive, and impetuous, and the absolute bane of my existence.
“Last year, Mr. Brixton, a young man new to the area, nearly twenty years old, took an avid interest in her. He was a shifter, newly coming into it.”
The men exchanged glances.
“She began spending time with him more frequently and less with other friends. The more she devoted her attention exclusively to him, the more irritated I became with her. I had no worries about the fact he was a shifter. It’s what he did with his time during the rest of the month.” She paused. “I could never get a satisfactory feel for who he was at his core, and he left me uneasy for Melody’s sake.”
She drew a breath and shook her head. “I learned through an associate that he was heavily in debt, he gambled incessantly, and he had broken two engagements to young women in the countryside. Ruined them completely.”
Mr. Bonadea’s eyes narrowed. “One of my fears for my own daughters—the cad!”
Isla nodded. “Melody and I are close. My mother was so busy establishing the boutique that it fell to me to raise my sister. When I took this issue to our mother for support, she tried to speak to Melody, but the girl is so stubborn that she wouldn’t hear a word.
“So, I sat her down one evening just over a year ago and told her that I forbade her association with this man and that I would cut short her pin money and other social activities if she did not end the relationship. It was the week before the nearby village’s autumn celebration, which is quite a big event in the area—dancing, merriment, bonfires, chaperones turning a blind eye with a wink, that sort of event. You understand.”
They nodded.
“She was quiet for that week leading up to the celebration. I thought she might have listened to me, taken me at my word. I was overjoyed. I was convinced she finally believed me and trusted my judgment about this wretched man she’d insisted she loved.
“Festival day approached, and I attended with Melody and our cousins, but we had to leave at ten o’clock that night. I’d received word that a shifter who had intentionally committed several murders as a wolf was seen near Whitechapel, and it might be our only chance to apprehend him.”
Isla drew in a breath, irritated that it shook. “I went home to scribe my employees and another hunter from the area. We made plans to meet at midnight. Melody said she wanted to fix a snack for me before I left, and when I told her I needed to leave, she looked so hurt. I decided I could spare ten minutes and then leave.”
Her lip trembled, and she bit it. She shoved her hair back from her face. “She fixed us tea and gave me a scone she’d made earlier. She made a point of serving my tea in my favorite pink teacup—the one that belonged to my mother when she was a child.”
Isla shook her head. “She’d slipped a powdered concoction into the drink along with a large spoonful of sugar when I wasn’t looking. She sipped her tea, and I sipped mine, and I choked it down because she’d seemed so delighted with herself and with us . . .”
Mr. Quince sniffed.
“I was about to gather my things to leave when I felt heavy, exhausted. I thought I might fall to the floor, and my vision clouded. Melody helped me to the parlor, where I collapsed on the sofa. That is the last I remember until morning. When I awoke, I was sluggish, felt as though my head had been used as a drum. The first thing I saw was Melody. She was sitting next to me, her face splotchy and tearstained, and when I looked at her, she sobbed and threw her arms around me. She admitted she’d put a ‘sleeping aid’ in my tea so she could sneak back to the festival and meet her beau. But when she returned home hours later and couldn’t awaken me, she became frantic.
“She said she’d been introduced to a Dark Magick witch in the sorcery quarter and paid six months’ worth of pin money and an emerald bracelet belonging to my paternal grandmother for a spell that would put someone into a deep sleep for a night.”
Isla frowned and looked at her hands. “My skin had a blue tinge that faded fairly quickly, but I was so cold, so frightened. It was nothing compared to Melody’s panic, though, so I assured her all was forgiven, that I would discuss the matter with Mother to determine a consequence for her behavior. I was more concerned that she’d venture into the sorcery quarter again.
“I went about my day, and before long, felt my customary self. My colleagues had missed the man we were to arrest, so we determined to gather more information and try again. We apprehended him at eleven o’clock that night. I went to my offices downtown, sent my employees home, and worked on the case notes for the Yard. I finished late, intending to hail a ’ton-operated hansom, but I never made it that far. I collapsed in the alley behind the building and awoke the next morning, exactly as I had the morning before. Groggy, limbs heavy and cold, a blue, translucent tinge to my skin.”
The men stared at her, silent. A muscle in Pickett’s jaw flexed, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “You were fortunate you were left alone in that alley.”
Isla nodded. “Most assuredly. The crime rate around the offices is not exorbitant, but we have the occasional attack for money or jewelry.” She shook her head with a small, bitter laugh. “I made my way home and cornered Melody, demanding full details about what she’d given me and the woman who had provided it. She knew nothing about the contents of the spell; she had ordered it from a witch named Malette, who told her it would take a week to prepare and instructed her to return then.”
Lewis whistled, low. “It’s no wonder the spell continues. Preparation that involved is usually reserved for large-scale curses.” He frowned. “Is this Malette known to you?”
Isla shook her head. “My friend Hazel is from a Light Magick family, but she is not a witch in the traditional sense. She has studied the art and history of it, and she recalls details like a well-programmed ’ton. I took the problem to her, and she immediately went to work researching the spell. We went to the sorcery quarter to find Malette, but she had disappeared. Her trail was completely nonexistent.” Isla smiled. “And I am a very good tracker.”
She continued. “Hazel dug and dug. She told me early on that we would need to find Malette, tha
t any cure must be generated by her or come directly from her notes. Night after night, the spell continued. Melody was beside herself—it was supposed to have worked for only the one night.” Isla sighed. “And I was correct about that beau of hers. He left. Broke her heart.”
Pickett had been silent throughout her tale, mostly studying the floor, feet crossed at the ankles and arms folded across his chest. He looked at her now, his expression giving nothing away. “How did you learn Malette is in Port Lucy?”
Isla nodded. “Hazel finally bribed the right person. We learned that Malette had disappeared almost immediately after selling Melody the spell. Hazel told me she had feared from the beginning that the spell may contain a deadline. A ‘point of no return’ after which any cure would be useless. She calculated the duration of the time needed to form and prepare it, noted my symptoms, studied the bag that had contained the powder, and questioned Melody about anything she could tell her about the smell of the stuff, sensory observances, that sort of thing. Hazel’s best guess is one year from administration to No-Return.”
The silence again hung thick in the small room.
“And you’d never met this witch? Are you certain?” Daniel knit his brow. “I might think she had made a mistake in her measurements or combination, but it took a week to prepare. Seems awfully extreme for someone she didn’t know.”
Isla shrugged. “I’ve wracked my brain, dug for answers about her without making anyone suspicious, but I cannot remember ever knowing her.” She paused, attempting levity. “Perhaps I have already passed No-Return, and this whole voyage is for naught. Perhaps the curse is permanent already, and I’ll just sleep well each night.”
Lewis shook his head, his expression something close to pained. “I do not believe you have passed it yet. You’re still waking up every morning.”
Isla registered Daniel’s swift glance at his friend. “We don’t know that,” Pickett murmured.
Isla blinked. “Are you suggesting after No-Return, the spell will kill me?”
Kiss of the Spindle Page 10