The Hummingbird Heart (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 2)

by A. G. Howard

  She had a passing suspicion that he might have come to steal a map or two. Christoff had told her of Newton’s obsession with any sort of geographical chart or topographical depiction, of his tendency to sneak into first-class rooms and steal maps to foreign lands. He had quite a collection already. She supposed he liked to imagine travelling to such places.

  Willow’s musings ceased as she heard it: a soft knock drifting from the bedchamber. Newton heard it as well, for with a start, he sprinted through the opened adjoining door. Willow jumped to her feet and followed. Upon her arrival, she found the boy digging through drawers in the black oak wardrobe.

  Willow waited next to him, mesmerized by the faint tap. “Whatever is making that sound?”

  Furrowing his tiny forehead, Newton paused, up to his elbows in folded squares of men’s under things. Willow wasn’t sure why, but seeing the intimate articles made her stomach and throat flutter, as if blind moths butted her from within, trying to find their way out.

  Newton dragged one arm free to point at his booted feet.

  Willow frowned. “What … shoes?” That made no sense. How could shoes be making such a sound? Newton must have misunderstood her question. “You mean to say we came in here for shoes? What’s wrong with the ones you already have, little widget?”

  He scrunched his face at her in obvious annoyance. His thick lashes shifted down and he plowed through some union suits. Their backside flaps unfolded to hang out of the drawer like fleecy tongues. Willow considered getting a pair of the long underwear for herself, but decided she’d have nowhere to stash it for the walk back to steerage.

  She reached up to twist her hair around her finger, meeting only skin. Her nerves jittered. If they didn’t make haste, someone was sure to catch them here. She could tell by the determined set to her accomplice’s jaw that he would not leave without his prize.

  Willow flung open the wardrobe doors to help him look. A shot of nervous energy skittered through her as she recognized the clothes hanging on the rod. No mistaking them … she’d seen each and every vest, jacket, and trouser donning Julian’s flawless physique at one time or another.

  When her hand passed across the vest he’d worn yesterday, her mind spun out of control.

  She wanted to drag it from the hanger … to imagine his body filling the fabric again. To smell his scent still warm upon the lining. But it wasn’t his scent that teased her nostrils; it was the woman’s perfume again. The lingering floral aroma took on an entirely new connotation knowing who this room belonged to.

  It couldn’t be the perfume of a scullery maid; the fragrance was expensive and ambrosial—gardenia with wispy notes of sweet black licorice. It appeared Julian had been entertaining a lady. His first night on board, and already he’d fallen beneath some rich debutante’s spell just like Nick had warned. A surge of righteous indignation flamed through her. She would plump Julian’s peepers the next time she saw him. Give him two black eyes to match his black heart.

  She caught Newton’s arm, disgusted by the moisture gathering along her lower lashes. “We must leave.”

  The boy shook his head, insistent. Pointing to his feet, he silently begged for more time.

  Before Willow could respond, two voices broke outside in the corridor. She winced, slapping at her tears. “Hurry and find the shoes,” she said to Newton. “I can’t be seen by the unfaithful sot that bides here.”

  Willow’s trousers rubbed between her thighs as she rushed into the parlor and pressed her ear to the door.

  A woman’s timbre rose, rich and throaty, from the other side. “Has he any idea how they got here, in his room no less?” A practiced trace of seduction softened the edges of every word.

  “No,” another woman’s voice answered in a younger, lighter tone. “But he said they didn’t even appear to be damaged by the water. They must be invincible. Just like the story said.”

  The older woman tsked. “Invincible, ha! I guarantee those latchets are removable and priceless. I cannot believe he simply left them there. At the very least he should’ve snapped them off, after all she went through.”

  “He said he tried. He insists they ran from him.”

  “He’s delusional. Superstitious,” the first one answered.

  “Have some compassion … he was weeping when he told me. You of all people should understand. You know what she meant to him. What they both meant…”

  Willow shivered and drew back from the door as a chill drifted over her. Then, feeling a contrast of warmth, she glanced down. Newton held a wooden box in his hands. A shuffling sound came from within the container. In a matter of seconds, the shuffles grew to loud thumps.

  Frozen in disbelief, Willow mouthed, “Quiet,” to her accomplice, thinking he must be causing the raucous.

  Newton lifted the lid. His lips mimed unheard words, soundlessly scolding the contents. Catching a glimpse of yellow shoes moving within like a captured rodent, Willow grabbed her collar, nauseous.

  She must have fallen asleep on the promenade deck. This was all a nightmare. Most likely she would wake up within the brig, arrested for stowing away on the ship. She took solace in the thought. Better that, than to admit she’d lost her mind.

  She continued to watch her companion in disbelief. In spite of his efforts to tame them, the shoes would not still.

  “I hear something.” The provocative woman’s voice broke from the other side of the door, closer now, as if she spoke against the wood. “Are you sure the occupant is out for the day?”

  “Yes. I saw him leave the barber’s salon,” the youthful voice answered. “He went off in the direction of the service quarters.”

  “But I hear something—”

  “The maids are coming,” the second woman interrupted. “We must go.”

  Willow pressed an ear to the door, listening as their footsteps faded away down the corridor.

  She turned to Newton, determined to make a run for steerage before the maid arrived. He had dropped the box and held the shoes in his hands. Seeing them displayed in the light, the glistening latches caught Willow’s eye … mesmerized her. They moved across her vision like dancing stars. A strange feeling overtook, a yearning to wear them … to feel the shoes alive against her skin.

  Unable to fight the impulse, Willow leaned against the wall, worked off her cumbersome boots, and snatched the embroidered accessories away. She slipped them onto her naked feet.

  When she looked up from admiring the latchets, a semi-transparent woman stood beside Newton in her undergarments—an outdated chemise, stays, and petticoat—all the same buttercup shade as the antique shoes. The stranger was dripping wet, making puddles on the floor. Yet she hovered in place without casting a shadow from the sunlight behind her. Willow propped herself against the wall, her breath a heavy stone caught in her lungs.

  “About time you notice me, you beef-witted dandy.”

  Mouth agape, Willow regarded the woman from her long, dripping hair to her bare heels that were lifted several inches from the floor, as if she still wore the shoes. Water drizzled from her toes. “Who are you?” Watching Newton reach up and hug the woman, making contact enough to wrinkle her petticoat and leave wet spots on his clothes, Willow flung out a hand. She stared in disbelief as her fingers skimmed through the woman as if she were smoke. “What are you?”

  The woman raised a well-arched eyebrow and flapped her hands so her elbow-length sleeves ruffled, flinging water droplets that dissipated in thin air. “I’m a bird-of-paradise. Can’t you tell?” She simpered. “Boo!” Willow yelped and the woman laughed until her translucent face appeared flushed.

  Speechless, Willow tried to calm her heartbeat. She dragged a shoe’s toe through one of the puddles beneath the woman, only to have it dry up instantly, as if absorbed into the floor. If Willow hadn’t heard the story of Julian’s uncle … had she not known about the ghost-flower and come to believe in it, she might have fainted dead away. Here she’d longed for years to speak with her deceased paren
ts. Now instead, she was face to face with a dead, soggy, debutante, judging by the stylish lace petticoat and the extravagant shoes upon Willow’s feet.

  Something about the woman’s features comforted Willow. The delicate nose, the softly pointed chin. By the way Newton held the ghost’s hand and smiled, it was obvious he felt quite comfortable around her. He acted as if he’d seen and touched her countless times before. Not only that, he liked her.

  The cloying scent of perfume became overpowering. This was all getting to be too much. Willow’s knees nearly buckled. “I don’t feel well.”

  “If you’re going to wretch, aim away from the shoes.” The ghostly woman scowled at her. “I don’t wish you to be soiling them. And don’t be thinking you’re going to whisk me off anywhere. You, too, Newt.” She frowned down at the boy, quite uppity for someone who was eternally half-dressed. “I’ve decided I’m to stay here until we dock. This room has a new occupant and he’s …” A winsome expression crossed her face. “He’s all that is amiable. So put the shoes back in the box and leave them.”

  Newton shook his head vehemently. He pointed to the ghost, then to himself, then laced his hands together over his heart.

  “I love you, too.” The woman’s voice softened. “But it’s nice here. I’m weary of chasing that Italian adulterine. I’ve found a new playmate.”

  The clouds of skepticism cleared enough for Willow to realize the playmate the woman referred to was Julian. “Has … has this room’s occupant seen you, by any chance?”

  The opaque woman laughed. “Of course not. His feet are too big to fit in my shoes. And he has no chance of seeing or hearing me any other way.”

  “But Newton … he does. He can even touch you. And he’s not wearing your shoes.”

  The little boy glanced from Willow to the ghostly woman, an unspoken acknowledgement of Willow’s observation.

  “Ah. And therein is the rub, aye?” The ghost laughed again—a sound as harsh and disorienting as hail hitting a tin roof.

  In spite of the ghost’s annoying reaction, a rush of relief chased away Willlow’s earlier anger at Julian. He hadn’t brought a woman to his room after all. Least not a live one, and not intentionally. But why would he have within his possession such shoes?

  A knock busted on the stateroom door, startling Willow. She teetered in the tall, curved heels on her feet. In her haste to right herself, she toppled a small table and a pewter vase filled with peonies clanked to the wooden floor.

  “Master Thornton? I’ve come to tend your room.” A scullery maid’s voice echoed from the other side of the door.

  “Come back later,” Willow managed to croak the words in a deepened voice. “Not feeling well.” She thrust out a few hoarse coughs for good measure.

  “As ye wish, Sir.”

  The sound of the door across the hall opening and closing prompted Willow to peek outside. From one end to the next, the corridor was empty. Ghost or no ghost, they had to leave before Julian returned.

  “Let us go, Newton.” Willow tried to step into the hall, only to find that the shoes felt weighted, as if bags of sand were tied to the heels. She turned around to see the hovering woman glaring at her, arms crossed.

  “As I said. I’ll not be accompanying you.” The spirit’s eyes glimmered with an otherworldly light. “I’m hoping the new occupant might bathe tonight and give me at peep at what’s under his dappers. He’s fine as fivepence, that one.”

  Willow glowered. “If you think I’m to leave you here with my…”

  “Your what?”

  “My dear friend. If you think that, you’re nothing but a pea-goose in petticoats.” Willow tugged at the shoes but they grew snug, tightening around her feet as if someone squeezed them.

  The phantom smirked. “You’re not taking those off or leaving this room.”

  Newton made a grunting sound in the back of his throat then bent down and yanked the shoes off of Willow effortlessly. The floating image vanished in mid-retort. As Willow worked the men’s boots back on, she glanced at Newton. “Thank you, Newton. We have to get back to steerage.”

  The boy’s eyes filled with tears. His tiny hands clasped over his chest again.

  “Oh, don’t you worry,” she grumbled. “She’s coming with us whether she wishes it or not.” She had no inkling what the relationship between Newton and this quarrelsome scantily-clad phantom might be, but it was obvious he needed her.

  Willow stuffed the stolen costume into the box, padding the shoes so they couldn’t move. Snapping the lid in place, she took Newton’s hand. The container started to shake and tremble, trying to escape her hold. Willow secured it against her chest as they rushed down the corridor. She breathed a sigh of relief, glancing over her shoulder once to watch Julian’s room fade around the corner.

  The instant she turned back around, she plowed into a man as big as a bear and knocked him to his knees.

  Ten

  Julian sat in the bustling first-class dining room, reluctantly waiting for his luncheon companion. It seemed such a waste of time. He had more pressing issues to pursue. He’d only kept this luncheon appointment in the hopes that Mr. Sala might offer some insight into the boy who had stolen his hair. If he did, Julian might finally have a clue as to Willow’s whereabouts.

  Upon hearing Judge Arlington’s chuckle from across the room, Julian swiveled in his cushioned chair. Seeing one another, they both waved. Julian restrained the impulse to go over and talk to the judge. He would need to be mentally settled when he broached the subject of his amusement park.

  For the moment, business was as far from his mind as eating. Even the smell of fresh baked apples and veal cutlets drifting from the table a few feet away failed to stir his appetite. He couldn’t stop wondering if Willow might be suffering from lack of sustenance.

  The beauty of the room was lost on him. Small oval-shaped windows, their sheer curtains drawn back with sapphire tassels, reflected sunlight off of the white linen tablecloths all around, illumining them like patches of snow. The centerpieces—glass vases filled with transparent marbles and vividly dyed feathers—glistened. Julian averted his eyes from the glare.

  However, the formality of the tablecloth that draped the entirety of the circular table did serve one purpose: it made it easier for him to hide Willow’s hair. He patted the auburn curls, hung over his lap like some boneless pet. Having been tucked in his vest for a time, they were more waves now … limp and frizzy and nearly reaching the floor. No matter. He’d already decided to trade the barber the phantom shoes, as soon as he had a chance to retrieve them from the stateroom. He didn’t care a whit about the diamond crusted buckles. Not when Willow might be aboard, being forced to sleep in steerage where men and women were crammed together with little privacy and even less jurisprudence. The thought of some uncultured swine touching her…

  With a start, Julian’s eyes snapped open as he realized his fingers clenched the hair, much less gentle than they had when he’d kissed her. He eased free from the tangles.

  His exploration of steerage had never taken place. He’d run into Captain Everett and asked for a look at the loading manifest. There had been an abundance of trunks and boxes brought on board, any of which could’ve provided the ideal haven for a limber circus performer. By the time Julian finished looking over the list, he was due for lunch with Mr. Sala.

  So many questions tormented him now. Had someone scalped Willow of her hair? Had she sold it of her own accord so she wouldn’t have to sell other, more precious parts of her selfhood? The thought that Willow might be somewhere on the ship getting into trouble right at this very moment twisted his stomach like a knotted rope. He would get any information from Mr. Sala he could then head straight to steerage, post haste. He needed to find her … to talk to her … to shake her.

  “Ciao.”

  Julian’s head snapped up at Mr. Sala’s greeting. He levered out of his chair just enough to pump the Italian’s hand once while still keeping his lap draped by the tabl
ecloth. “Ciao.”

  Mr. Sala took off his wide-brimmed hat. He wore a strange expression on his face—a look of disquiet, rather like the one he’d been sporting earlier today in front of his room. He had cut his hair since Julian had last seen him—cropped off the back so it clung close to his neck and just below his ears.

  Mr. Sala apologized for being late, not offering any reason, then took the seat opposite Julian. From all around them, the chink of silver against china played an almost rhythmic cadence. Julian borrowed the tempo to ease his mind, to gather his thoughts.

  Bad enough the rumors that surrounded this man. Combined with Julian’s unrelenting concern for Willow, it was bound to be a disastrous scouting venture. Julian’s chest burned with the effort to hold in the battery of questions he wanted to ask. He had to be tactful, else he might raise suspicions and endanger Willow if she was indeed a stowaway.

  “Might I take your order?” A waiter in a lavender vest and pale yellow shirt filled their goblets with red wine. The crewmember’s wiry frame shaded the sun from Julian’s face. Julian proceeded to translate for Mr. Sala, ordering them each a portion of mutton in caper sauce along with some fried cucumbers.

  Upon the waiter’s retreat to the kitchen, Julian met Mr. Sala’s intense black gaze, at a loss to start the conversation.

  The Italian’s lips trembled in the midst of his olive skin. “Why is for the wig? You wear for costume … tonight?”

  Mr. Sala’s knowledge of the hair in his lap bewildered him until he looked down to find a long, glimmering lock had twisted around his ankle where the tablecloth failed to meet the floor. But even more startling than the sighting was the man’s use of the English tongue. Julian sat rigid against his cushioned chair. “You speak English.”

  The man attempted a smile, his lips pulling the cleft in his chin until it disappeared. “Si.” The smile faded instantly as his gaze turned downward toward Julian’s lap, as if trying to see the hair through the tablecloth.

  Julian balled up Willow’s curls and tucked them within his vest. “Why the pretense earlier? Everyone on board believes you’re incapable of having a conversation. This morning, all of the confusion … it could’ve been solved without my help.”