by A. G. Howard
So … cloaked here in this isolated darkness—with Engleberta, Christoff, and Newton whiling away the afternoon in play as Mr. and Mrs. Helget slept soundly in their bunks—Willow decided to converse with the ghost on her own.
Scrunched close to the wall, Willow shoved the costume to one side of the box and slipped the antique shoes on, wiggling her toes to savor the slickness of the satin lining. She tossed Newton’s blanket across her legs so no one would see her feet should they pass by. There was a flash of cold air then a hint of perfume when the ghost appeared. She stood in front of Willow, squeezing excess water from her long, dark hair.
As if just realizing she had company, she grimaced. “Oh botheration! Could you not have left well enough alone? To go from a stateroom to this swivel. Have you any idea how I abhor it here?”
Willow started to bid the woman to speak quieter, then remembered no one else could hear her. “You abhor it?” Willow whispered. “How do you think the rest of us feel? We’re the ones trudging through the filth. Least you’re…” Willow clamped her mouth.
“Dead? Deceased and half-dressed? Eternally indecorous?” The ghost rolled her eyes. “Ah yes, that is a lovely consolation.” She shook the lace of her petticoats.
“Um, sorry. It must be … difficult.”
“To say the least. An eternity of the gapes.” With that, she yawned loudly and plopped down on an empty bunk nearby. The canvas sunk and a wet spot darkened the weave.
Intrigued by the netherworld’s odd rules, Willow attempted her first question. “Might I ask why you’re half-dressed and wet?”
“No, you may not.”
Biting back her annoyance, Willow tried again. “Your name then?”
Shoulder blades propped against the wall behind her, the ghost smiled and studied her shaped and buffed fingernails. “I’ve always been partial to Nadia. What say we go with that?”
Willow tamped the scowl that wanted to break. “All right, Nadia. I’d like to know of your relation to Newton.”
“And why do you wish to know?” Nadia’s voice held a bite of defensiveness.
“Because he’s my friend. I’ve been taking care of him, and he of me, since we met.”
“Yes, I’ve been watching you. You appear to be a sufficient companion.” Nadia’s mouth curled on a snarl, as if it pained her to admit such.
Willow tucked Newton’s blanket around her thighs. “It is as I suspected, then. You can see him, and he you, even when your shoes are in the box?”
“Only if the shoes are in the same vicinity as Newton can I see him, or vice versa. Otherwise, it’s a bit more difficult. I’m tied to the shoes, and cannot be away from them. If there is distance between Newton and the shoes, or anything solid between us such as doors or walls, then we can only hear one another’s thoughts.”
“So that’s how you knew it was Newton outside the stateroom door when he knocked? You read his mind and knew to open it?”
Nadia held up a finger in a scolding gesture. “Ah. But I didn’t open it. I merely unlocked it. I might be able to trigger a few gears in a lock’s mechanism, but I haven’t the corporeal presence to open a door.”
Willow glanced again at Nadia’s indented bunk, wondering as to the canvas’s reaction to the ghost. “I’m confused.”
Nadia laughed. “As am I.”
“You can interact with the physical world somewhat, though?”
“I can affect some things mentally. But I’m most powerful if my shoes are out of the box; one of my favorite tricks is flouncing around in people’s clothing to make them think they are having delusions.” She laughed. “I’ve found it’s easier not to question the rules of nature as they apply to me now. What was your name again? Wilson?” The ghost laid all the way down, her left arm flung over the canvas bunk’s edge. Her hammock started to sway. “You’re quite a curious little fancy boy.”
“I’m not a boy.” Willow forgot to whisper. Mrs. Helget’s interrupted snoring a few bunks away stiffened her muscles. Only when the German woman shuffled to a more comfortable position and returned to sleep did Willow relax again.
“Of course I know you’re not physically a boy.” Nadia’s softly glowing eyes ran along Willow’s frame. “But the clothes a person chooses to wear often speaks volumes of their true identity.”
Willow’s cheeks flamed. Her palm cupped the short hair fringing her nape, far too conscious of her loss of femininity over the past two days. She never would’ve thought such a thing would bother her. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever known herself at all. “Fine then. Judging by your sparse attire, I would say you are at least a century old and you’ve given up style for comfort. So, you must be Newton’s,” Willow counted on her fingers for effect, “great, great, great, great grandmother. Am I safe in that assumption?” She wasn’t about to admit that the woman looked very close to her own age.
Nadia swung her legs over the hammock and sat rigidly, frowning. She thrust out her nubile cleavage. “I am no one’s century-old grandmother. Do I look like a frumpy, warted old hag to you?”
Willow smiled at Nadia’s reaction. It appeared the ghost’s vanity superseded her acrimony. Perhaps all Willow needed was a few well-placed honeyed words to get on her good side. “I was trying to make a point, that’s all. You are quite lovely and fashionable, even with your lack of clothing. But you must have a connection to Newton. To be able to touch him. To communicate.”
Nadia settled her hands primly in her lap. “I am his half-sister.” Her gaze flitted to the open staircase at the other end of steerage where Newton and his friends had moved.
The children played around the bottom step in splashes of yellow light that filtered in from the upper deck. Engleberta and Christoff’s pale, bald heads reflected the glare like the marble gazing-globes in Master Thornton’s winter garden. Willow felt a twinge of home-sickness at the thought.
Nadia stretched out her legs. “I never knew my mum. But Newton’s mum died during his birth. Newton had hemophilia and we almost lost him as well, had he not had a blood transfusion. I was the only family member available, since our unfaithful sot of a father was on one of his ‘business trips’. It was me that saved Newt. My blood flows in his veins. That is why he can touch me, even now. We share the same life essence.”
Willow nodded. “So … where is Newton’s father now?”
Nadia scowled. “I took my brother from him. Stole him clean away.”
Willow’s shoulders tensed; this hit too close to her own tragic loss of family. “You took him from the only parent he has? Even if the man is not perfect … do you not understand the bond … the connection between a child and their parents?”
Nadia shoved her hammock so it would swing faster. “You know nothing of our father. He would have corrupted Newt.” A shudder blurred the ghost’s image, as if she shook with rage at the memory. “He was rarely home anyway. I’m the closest thing that little boy has ever had to a parent. I’m the one he bonded to. I taught him to draw pictures so he could speak his mind despite his still tongue. I taught him to understand English, and to write his name. I’d meant to teach him how to write and read other words, too, until I…”
Willow sensed sadness in the ghost’s broken explanation. “So your father never found you or Newton before your demise?”
In a flash of greenish light, Nadia’s gaze regained its earlier haughty demeanor. “Our father thinks we are dead. Both of us. He has thought us dead for well on a year now.”
Willow’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t frame any response.
“The fall that killed me nearly killed my brother,” Nadia offered. “‘Tis why he’s terrified of heights. He doesn’t like water much, either. You should see how I have to bribe him to board ships.”
Willow pondered this. Did this mean little Newton had been in the care of no one other than a ghost for all these months? The accident he experienced, it explained some quirks she’d noticed: the way Newton gripped the stair railings until his knuckles were
white as he ascended or descended to differing levels of the ship; the way he refused to climb the luggage piles with Engleberta and Christoff, and how he stayed far away from the railings on the promenade deck when the other children fought over who got to look at the ocean lapping the ship’s hull. It also came close to explaining why Nadia appeared to be perpetually wet. Perhaps they’d fallen off a bridge.
Willow drew the cover up to her chin, shivering. Poor Newton. Experiences on the brink of death, whether personal or of a close loved one, could have a very negative effect on a child’s psyche.
Her focus trained on the stairwell where Newton and his friends had ventured behind the partition, out of sight. The Helget children’s voices carried over, barely discernable for the loud hum of the ship’s motors. Worry draped like an icy cloud over Willow’s heart, and she considered if she should check on the children, until Nadia interrupted her musings.
“It is a tragedy that tied me to those shoes,” Nadia resumed her spiel. “But it’s mine and Newton’s shared blood that enables him to keep me here between earth and heaven.” An odd expression crossed her opaque face—one of regret or deep sadness. She almost looked tired, if that were possible for a ghost.
Willow wiggled her toes within the shoes. “You mean to say, Newton is holding you here against your will? You’re not here by choice?”
“Is your garret empty, gapeseed? I’m a half-naked spirit tied to an object. Do you think I wish to be in such limbo? I cannot find peace until Newton releases me.” She held her hands in front of her so the chemise’s sleeves draped like wings from her arms. “Until then, we are bound together; and to keep from going mad, he helps me with my pranks. Entertainment, as it were.”
Something Willow herself could relate to. Hard to believe she shared any characteristics with a ghost. “Pranks. Does this have anything to do with Newton stealing and selling that wealthy man’s hair?”
Nadia’s mouth clamped shut.
Willow dropped the covers and stood. The blanket pooled over her feet. “Arresto dell'OH! Don’t you play the innocent lamb. I was wondering how he could possibly have managed it without stealing the key or picking the lock. You helped him get in while the man slept. Have you any idea how much trouble he could get into? Have you heard the rumors about Mr. Sala?”
The phantom snorted. “Mafia…”
“Yes. The mafia. What do you know of Sala? Why did you pick him?”
“I know enough to assure you he is—” before she completed her answer, Nadia glanced up at Mr. and Mrs. Helget who had both been awakened by Willow’s raised voice.
Knowing they couldn’t have understood her without their children translating, Willow forced a smile and nodded at them. Then the sound of nervous chatter turned her to the trio of children scampering in her direction.
“A man!” Panting, Engleberta bounced into the hammock where Nadia sat, the force of her realness rippling the ghost’s image like a reflection in a puddle. Willow was surprised to see the canvas had already dried.
“We met … a man,” Engleberta said—breathless. “Looking for you, Wilson.” Excitement thickened her German accent.
“The nerve!” Nadia’s form reappeared standing behind the breathless Newton. “Regardless that these children are immigrant brats … someone should teach them some manners! I was sitting there first.”
Willow cast Nadia a scalding glare then turned again to Engleberta. “What man?”
“He had your hair in his pocket!” Christoff chimed in, his prepubescent voice cracking.
“Asked if we knew who it matched to…”
The Helget parents blinked, their expressions still fuzzy with sleep. Willow knelt down beside Engleberta, the blanket pooling across her feet. “And what did this man look like?”
“A real gentlemen. Fine clothes … hair the color of sunshine.” Engleberta smirked dreamily.
“He needs a shave,” Christoff was quick to add. The boy wiped his chin with a filthy hand, leaving a smear of black. They’d been playing in the soot pile again.
“Still, he’s pretty as a painting. And you’ve a smudge on your face, Christoad.”
“Men ain’t pretty, Berta,” Christoff chided as he wiped his chin, making the smear worse. “But he’s smart. Has spectacles to prove it.” The youth curled his forefingers and thumbs over his eyes in demonstration. When he drew them back, he favored a raccoon.
Julian. Pulse tapping like a woodpecker in her neck, Willow fell back on her hips, sitting full onto the filthy floor. How could he have come to suspect her presence? If he was whiskered, he must not have been to the barber shop yet for a shave; so how had he stumbled upon her hair? “What did you tell him?”
Christoff grinned. “Since you said you was hiding from someone on board, I telled him the hair was Berta’s. That our mum and da selled our hair so we could eat.”
In response, Engleberta rubbed her bald head, marring it with a sooty print. “That tied his tongue good, it did. He even gave us a handful of farthings. Think he felt sad for us.” Engleberta held out the coins. “I’d say he has lots to spare. Asked if we’d seen a pair of shoes gone missing from his cabin—”
“That’s not the best part,” Christoff interrupted. “He’s gonna give one of us lowlies his first-class stateroom and free meals in trade for them. He’s off to draw a picture. Gonna pass it around steerage for to spread the word.”
The brother and sister laughed but sobered as their parents slipped from their bunks, barking out German as they wiped the children clean with handkerchiefs and took the coins from their hands, obviously seeking details about the money.
“Aren’t you a narcissistic little chit?” Nadia’s voice pulled Willow’s attention away from the boisterous family. “Thinking you’re the only one our Julian was looking for. He’s looking for me, as well. And seems quite desperate to find me. Now that he’s put a reward to it, come nightfall, there’ll be no hiding place down here safe enough for those.” She gestured to Willow’s hidden feet.
Willow gnawed on her fingernail. This would put a definite crimp in her plans. She turned her back to the Helgets to assure they couldn’t see her speaking to the ghost. “That nubkin. He’s always been too smart for his own good.”
“Well, I find intelligence to be a very appealing quality in a man.” Nadia smirked. “Good to know, since it appears I’ll be rooming with your ‘dear friend’, after all.”
On his sister’s snide remark, Newton regarded the blanket over Willow’s feet, sadness etched into his face.
“You’re a heartless wretch. Do you know that?” Willow glared at the ghost. “Can you not see how your apathy hurts your brother?”
Nadia frowned. “I’m not meaning to wound you, Newt. I wish just a little fun … it’s the least you can do, keeping me here so long.”
Newton shrugged without looking up.
Sitting in her hammock again, Willow dragged the blanket up across her thighs. She glanced around at the other bunks, thankful most everyone still slept. If what Nadia said was true, it was only a matter of hours until a stampede of immigrants would burst down the stairs in search of the shoes. No bunk, trunk, or box would be left unturned in the effort to win a key to luxury.
As Willow considered her options, Newton’s soulful gaze tightened around her heart with the precision of a noose. She understood his desperation not to be separated from his sister again. She knew all too well the pain of living without a family. Uncle Owen, Aunt Enya, and Leander had been a wonderful substitute. But she still had moments when the void of shared blood overwhelmed her with an ache that could not be staunched.
“Rest easy, little widget,” she whispered to the boy as he helped her slide the shoes off beneath the blanket and ease them into the box. Over the past day and a half, Willow had become quite adept at changing clothes beneath a blanket. “I’ll not let anyone take your sister from you.” Willow kept her gaze locked on Nadia as the ghost disappeared with a disgruntled sneer.
Willow a
nd the boy settled together on the hammock with the shoes between them, covering themselves and the box with the blanket. She curled her arm around Newton’s sparse frame and drew him close, nuzzling her nose in his dust-scented brown waves. “You and Nadia shall accompany me to the first class deck when I attend the gala tonight.”
Drawing back, he looked up at her, his expression a mask of questions.
“No worries.” Willow squeezed his shoulders. “I know the perfect place to hide you both.”
Eleven
“A husband’s an insect, a drone, a dormouse…”
“A foolish matrimonial lump…”
“A cuckoo in winter…”
“An opiate for love…”
Julian stood against the back wall in the first-class music room, gazing over the heads of the crowd seated in plush chairs around the dimly lit main floor. The audience members—garbed in costumes and masks—sat laughing, captivated by a duo of Mr. Sala’s troupe as they performed on stage amidst a glow of brightly burning candles in tall brass sconces. Sporadic flutters of light and shadow upon the actresses’ powdered wigs and heavy makeup cast an air of foreboding about them, a contradiction to the frivolous piece they performed. Mr. Sala had chosen a scene from Act four of The Virtuoso—a satire by a seventeenth century playwright named Shadwell. Though well-rehearsed, the beautiful and talented actresses, one dressed as a man and the other more curvaceous one as a lady, failed to retain Julian’s attention.
The missing phantom shoes held him captive. How could those boys have entered his room? He hadn’t lost his key … and there was no sign of his lock being broken or forced open.
Be it a result of the sea air, or backlash from his and Willow’s kiss, he now wrestled a side of himself he’d never encountered. Skepticism—of a strange and foreign breed—had him second guessing every cerebral instinct since he’d boarded this ship. It was as if the whispers of his heart, the murmurs of his emotions, had become boisterous shouts, far overpowering his once indomitable sense of reasoning.