For now.
Irritated at the thought, Pepin swung his legs off his desk and strode toward the door, trying to tell himself that he didn’t actually care about going out in what passed for sunlight in the weird, floating world of the Rose. He told himself that his dark, expressionless form didn’t actually bother him. Pepin grimaced ruefully and exited the cabin.
He met several quick glares and disdainful huffs from the ghosts scrubbing the decks nearby. One made a fist and cracked his knuckles.
Pepin rolled his eyes, though no one could see it. He knew the men hated him. He knew they would kill him the moment they had the chance. However, was a little subtlety about these particular sentiments too much to ask? It wasn’t his fault the Fee created the Rose to move at speeds proportionate to the misery of her inhabitants. Blaming him was most unfair. William and Frank were the only two who showed him any respect. Even then, were they simply biding their time, waiting to betray him?
Pepin shrugged the thought away as he climbed to the quarterdeck. There, striking a pose with feet braced and arms crossed, he eyed with affected disinterest the men below him on the main deck. Some were on their hands and knees, scrubbing furiously at the red boards. He had given them the choice of scrubbing until the boards shone white or practicing curtsies for five hours. Sacrebleu, one of them was trying to curtsy! Pepin burst into laughter at the sight.
He heard muttered curses and swearing from the men behind him. They were angry. Fine. This would only make the ship move faster.
Beside him the tiller moved of its own accord, as if a huge, invisible finger nudged it from side to side; and the ship cut through the water with speed far greater than any normal vessel could attain, as if the Fee themselves were slashing through the ocean and creating an easy path. Pepin shuddered, thinking back to his last conversation with them. The Fee must truly want Mademoiselle Lester to enter that shack . . .
Mademoiselle Lester. Cecile. What was she doing right now? Pepin had sent William and Frank to watch over her, but she had struck him as an extremely thoughtful type. William and Frank . . . if they shared a single thought between them, it would be a miracle. What if they failed to carry out his plan?
What if she read the omens? What if she realized . . . ?
In a flash, Pepin was clattering down the companionway, his dignity cast to the four winds. He cursed his stupidity; why had he let William and Frank guard her? He should have watched over her himself. He should have postponed his lazy meandering to another day.
A day when he would no longer be a monster.
Chapter 5
AFTER DESCENDING A series of ladders, Frank and William led Cecilia at last to the stinking bilge of the ship, the same level in which she had first awakened in a cell on the Rose. Cecilia vaguely recalled climbing only one ladder during her ascent the day before, but she shoved this puzzle into the recesses of her brain for later contemplation. Captain Pepin’s warning that she shouldn’t venture into any of the lower decks rang in her memory. Nevertheless, she bravely followed the two ghosts until they stood at last before a certain door.
“’Ere we are!” Frank announced, indicating the door with a sweep of one arm.
He reached for the handle, but William grabbed him and jerked his hand away, then glanced back at Cecilia apologetically. “This room can be somewhat disconcerting. Rest assured, you are on the ship, and nothing is going to happen to you.”
Cecilia stared at William before shifting her gaze to the red door. “What do you mean? Is it dangerous?”
“No,” William said. “Just . . . eerie.”
This was little enough comfort. But Cecilia was offered no chance to dwell on her anxiety before Frank thrust the door open, causing William to stumble to the ground, swearing.
Cecilia took one glimpse through the doorway and forgot everything else. She dashed into the room, spinning, her braid bouncing around her shoulders and threatening to come undone.
London glistened around her. She knew it was London, though she couldn’t say how she knew. She’d never been to a great city before, but Father John Francis had told her stories of the city of his birth. Stories which had led her to dream of a beautiful place like no other. And this felt like London as she had dreamed it would be. The cobblestone street glistened with a recent rain, reflecting the clouds in the creamy sky. Beautifully old and even older buildings lined the streets and towered each above the next, vying for her admiration. It was exactly how she had imagined it.
Cecilia blinked at this thought. No, not exactly. There were no people. Only buildings and streets and skies.
She stared at the cobblestone street then rubbed it with the toe of her shoe. It was flat. The stones held no variation in height, though they looked like they did. Cecilia walked over to a building, and her hand touched a solid wall that should have been empty air.
Cecilia closed her eyes and stepped back. When she dared look again, she could see that all was not as it seemed. Here, a brief image of herself flickered in the gray sky . . . there, a glint in the stone, illuminating the building that should have been behind her.
It wasn’t London. It was a room, but a room that was a mirror. A strange mirror . . .
The Fee.
She shuddered and turned to question Frank and William, pausing when she noticed that they had not yet entered the room. Frank inched across the threshold, out of the dim redness of the rest of the ship and into her London, his gaze darting to every corner, a frown etched between his brows. William’s eyes were shut tight. He opened them briefly before slamming them shut again, twitching his head as if trying to negate an argument.
“What’s wrong?” Cecilia asked.
William’s eyes popped open. Frank snorted. “What’s wrong? That’s a good one. Don’t see how you’re holding up so well when you’ve never . . .” Frank paused. He groaned. “Aw, don’t tell me. First the food, now this room? What do you see?”
“London,” Cecilia said, glancing back at the street—no, the mirror. “It’s beautiful,” she added to herself, her whisper strangely loud in the silence.
“I would hardly describe London that way,” William said. He opened his eyes. They widened, and he shuddered but kept them open. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing London now.”
“What do you see?” Cecilia asked. “Is it bad?”
Frank’s frown deepened. “It’s bad,” he murmured. He offered no further explanation.
“Well then!” William said, abruptly changing the subject. “This makes everything easier! My lady, do you see the chest in the far corner of the room? It will be hard to spot at first.”
Cecilia glanced at the corner. She saw only a swinging silversmith sign and the street. Wait . . . the street did look a bit odd. The depth wasn’t right.
Cecilia, moving a little uncertainly, made her way to that strange, warped corner. As she drew nearer, she discerned the shape of a chest. Kneeling, she groped for its latch. She opened the chest.
The lining of the chest was the same red as the rest of the ship. Cecilia scowled at the color, hating to find it here in her vision of London. But she forgot the garish hue when she noticed the book—a shabby, leather-bound book at the bottom of the otherwise-empty chest. Cecilia plucked it up.
“Aye, that’s it!” Frank said. “Bring it here, miss! We’ll tell you about the omens with it!”
Cecilia started for the door then halted, holding the book against her heart. The two ghostly sailors seemed far too eager. Had they brought her here to fetch this book for them because they were too afraid to enter the room themselves? Were they lying to her?
Remaining where she stood, Cecilia carefully rested the book across her arm and opened the binding. “I think I’ll take a look first.”
William started forward then yelped and leaped back as soon as his boot crossed into the room. Frank’s brow furrowed. “Miss Lester, please come out. We’ll explain it all to you.”
Ignoring their protests, Cecilia lowered her gaze to th
e worn pages before her.
They were crammed with hurried writing in blotchy red ink. Barely legible words covered every inch of every page, down the center, along the sides, upside down. Some were crossed or blotted out, others written with smearing ink, and others with hardly any ink at all, pale and small. She struggled to wrest any order or meaning from the bizarre scrawls, and after a few moments noticed that every line of writing contained a name followed by two phrases. Cecilia began reading the lines she could decipher, the ones written with a bold and decisive hand.
Lawrence T. Witten: Impatience for his wife—Silence the Solid Woman
John “Jack” Peterson: No Compassion for Life—Murder the Solid Woman
Michael Forest: Torture—Maim the Solid Woman
Adam P. Brown: Manipulating selfishly—Betray the Solid Woman
Rojo Cortez: Cowardice under pressure—Abandon the Solid Woman
Cecilia gasped and lifted her gaze from the book. She stared at William and Frank. They blinked mournfully back at her. “Why the Solid Woman?” she asked. “Why do these all involve something horrible happening to the Solid Woman? To . . . me?”
They made no reply.
She glowered at them and pressed herself against the far wall. Staring at the pages again, she struggled to recognize some sort of organization or pattern in the names, seeking the captain’s omen or William’s or Frank’s. But she recognized none of the names.
However, she did notice that the majority of the names were crossed through. She wondered at this, and then realized that it must be because they had died. There weren’t as many sailors aboard the ship as there were names in the book. How men made of water and ink managed to die, she could not imagine.
She continued to scan the names, flipping through pages hastily, trying to ignore the rising panic in her stomach at all of the atrocities the omens outlined.
Torture the Solid Woman. Drown the Solid Woman. Assault the Solid Woman.
With a shuddering breath, Cecilia started to slam the book shut. But something stopped her. There on the page was a name that was neither crossed out nor blood-red. It was fading, almost invisible, written in black ink that appeared comfortingly ordinary. She might have missed it had she not been so weary of red.
Charles “Curly” Tanner: Liar—Almost Solid
“Who’s Charles Tanner?” Cecilia asked, closing the book with shaking hands. She snapped her head up to glare at William and Frank, but then shrieked and stumbled backwards, tripped over the hidden chest in the corner, and collapsed against the wall.
The captain stood behind William and Frank.
Pepin forced his breathing to steady, trying to make himself appear less forbidding and thus alleviate the sudden darkness his appearance had caused in the room. Cecilia looked ready to faint but for the defiant gleam in her eye. Her curiosity regarding the omens was only natural, and her swooning would serve no purpose.
The two imbeciles before him, on the other hand . . .
“Franklin. William.” Pepin was pleased at how soft his voice sounded. The two pirates shuddered and tilted their heads to glance at him out of the corners of their eyes. Pepin crossed his arms and leaned casually against the wall. He examined the mirror room as though only just noticing it. “Why would you bring Mademoiselle Lester to such a dreadfully dull part of the Rose? This is hardly a considerate gesture of hospitality.”
“Uh . . . well . . . you see, sir, we . . .” Frank stammered. William trod on his foot, causing the oaf to shut his mouth.
Pepin raised an eyebrow. “Mais non, I do not see. William, would you care to explain?”
William, to give him credit, put on a brave face. Though it could be only so brave while wet, dripping, and framed by slimy black hair. “She wanted to know about the omens,” he said.
“You could have explained them without coming here.”
William’s watery skin rippled. “Didn’t think of that, sir,” he replied, his voice wavering, betraying the fear he was no doubt attempting to quell.
Pepin waved a lazy hand. “Fair enough. You’re both fools. Run along now. Mademoiselle Lester will be along shortly.”
William and Frank stood for a moment before gathering whatever senses they possessed and scurrying away from him. Cecilia clutched the book to her chest. Pepin frowned at this. Her expression struck him as odd. Her lips quivered, and a lock of thick hair slid over one eye. Cecilia was scared, and for some reason this seemed wrong.
No, he knew why it felt wrong. The dark hair, the trapped look, the helplessness . . . She looked like his mother on that day so long ago . . . .
“We’re simply going to talk,” Pepin said, focusing on the situation. She didn’t relax. Indeed, she looked as though she might be ill, so dark were the hollows around her eyes. “Are you well, Mademoiselle?” he inquired politely.
Cecilia nodded. She tightened her hold on the book as though fearing he might snatch it from her. At last she broke the strained silence, saying, “Why didn’t you tell me all of the horrible things about the omens? What are you planning to do to me?” Her voice shook.
Pepin adjusted his stance. He must appear less threatening. He could not have her throwing herself overboard. “I did not tell you because I did not want you to be frightened. Cowards prey on weakness. The pirates aboard this ship would have sensed that you were easy loot and would have attacked. By acting as though the omens did not bother you—for what else would they have assumed we were discussing last night?—you made them wary. What with your being solid, they might have assumed you had unknown powers that could fend them off.”
Cecilia shifted her weight, looking down at the floor of the room. She scuffed her shoe along the ground, tracing a pattern only she could see. Pepin observed her, tilting his head to one side, wondering what she made of this strange mirror room. The men saw terrors, their nightmares made reality. When Pepin had first arrived on the Rose and was given her captaincy, the Fee had suggested locking men into the room to make the ship sail faster. Pepin had agreed. The ship had skimmed the water like a skipped stone, gliding and glorious, the fastest Pepin had ever traveled in his life. He had loved every second of it.
Until he unlocked the door to be greeted by a seething Jack and a pile of gaunt blue bodies. The poor sailors had nearly died of their own terrors all because Pepin wanted a little speed! Even now he saw the Book of Omens clutched in Jack’s hand, sizzling black blood dripping from its leather cover to the floor and vanishing into the nothingness that was Pepin’s nightmare.
Pepin forced his thoughts away from that rather disheartening memory to focus on more amusing matters, such as Cecilia’s current confusion. She continued to stare at the ground for several more seconds, various emotions flitting across her features—sadness, anger, disbelief. She jerked her head up and looked directly into him, almost through him. He shoved away the urge to shudder and met her gaze.
“Unknown powers,” she said, her voice level. “I’m a worthless, penniless, and friendless woman, barely out of childhood. What powers might I possibly have?”
Pepin smirked at her analysis. He would hardly have described her that way. Exquise! Magnifique! Charmante! would have been his chosen adjectives. “Oh, you have no powers in reality,” he said with a shrug. “But sailors are a superstitious lot.” He indicated the book clutched in her hands. “What did you read inside?”
“You know very well what I read!” Cecilia exclaimed, her voice losing the control she had gained during her brief silence, growing higher in pitch. “You know that all of those men want to hurt me! No doubt you want to hurt me!” With an effort she mastered herself, her jaw firm and tight with tension. “You’re just waiting to do it.”
Pepin chuckled dryly. “I swear to you, Mademoiselle Lester, I have no intention of hurting you.”
“Then tell me your omen,” Cecilia said.
Pepin fidgeted. “C’est une situation délicate. Embarrassing.”
Cecilia’s eyes narrowed. Hair fell over he
r face again. “Tell me.”
Pepin sighed. He dropped his head and waited a few moments before standing straighter and meeting her eyes with what he hoped was a cool, clear, open-hearted gaze. “My omen . . .” His voice trailed away. He took a step forward into the black chasm of the room. The pit surrounding him seemed to fade under the intensity of Cecilia’s gaze. “My omen says that to be free of this curse, I must fall in love with the Solid Woman and she must love me in return. Only then will I be free.”
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