his.
“Tess Davies,” I say, just so neither of them forgets I’m standing here. “It’s a lovely ship.”
“Finest in the White Star fleet. Finest in the world, if you ask me.” George gestures toward the doors at the far end of the corridor, the ones blocked off that we’re not supposed to enter. “Would you like a bit of a tour? Haven’t time for much, but I could show you ladies around the lower decks. More down here than meets the eye.” When Myriam hesitates before answering, he quickly adds, “We have first-class amenities down here, so that will be useful to you, Miss Davies. Knowing how to get between different classes of the ship, I mean, since you’ll be running about so much.”
It’s nice to be called “Miss Davies,” as if I were a proper lady. And I don’t think he’s just trying to impress Myriam, either, at least not with that; real kindness and politeness shine from George’s blue eyes.
“It would be very interesting to see more of the ship,” Myriam says, as though George’s company hasn’t anything to do with her decision to come along.
George, anxious to please, leads us through F deck, showing us the third-class dining hall first. Long wooden tables reach from side to side of the enormous room. This, too, is bright and cheerful—better than the servants’ table downstairs at Moorcliffe by far. “And there are decks outside for you, too,” he says. “You won’t be cooped up all journey, like you would on most ships. Titanic has a lovely deck just for third-class passengers, so you can have a bit of fresh air.”
Myriam folds her arms. “Such special treatment to people who just had to be combed and picked over as if we were dogs.”
They combed the third-class passengers? Looking for lice, I realize. How insulting. Thank goodness George told me to enter through the first-class passageway.
The poor man can’t apologize fast enough. “Begging your pardon, Miss Nahas. It’s crude and unconscionable treatment, and you can be sure it’s not White Star policy. It’s those American laws. You wouldn’t believe the nonsense with quarantines and all they stick us with.”
“Well. If it’s all the fault of the Americans.” Myriam tosses her hair, slightly—but not entirely—appeased. “Of course, I’ll be an American soon.”
How will poor George get out of this one? I can’t help a small smile as I look at him. But the good man rallies quickly. “Then I suppose they’ll improve in a hurry, won’t they, miss?”
Instead of replying, Myriam smiles. I feel rather unnecessary, but I keep tagging along, more for mischief’s sake.
After that, he looks around a bit to make sure we won’t be witnessed, then takes us to a heavy door that brings us to the first-class section of this deck. “Can’t lead you through—more of those American regulations—but you can pass by here if you need to, Miss Davies.”
“Won’t I disturb the first-class passengers in their cabins?”
“No staterooms down here,” George says in a tone of voice that makes it clear no rich people would ride down this low, where you can feel the movement of the ship. “But special amenities for them. Like the Turkish bath.” I laugh, disbelieving. I half thought those only existed in old novels about exotic foreign lands. “Steam room and all,” he says. “Nice as any you’d find in Istanbul.”
“Have you been to Istanbul?” Myriam looks doubtful.
“Only once, Miss Nahas, and that too briefly. But I’m told by those in the know that the fittings here are the finest. Porcelain tiles, feathered fans, lounging chairs, you name it.”
“How well-traveled you are.” Myriam’s much more impressed by George than by the baths, and he actually seems to glow as he realizes it. I try not to roll my eyes.
“What else is through there?” I say, honestly wanting to know. Lord only knows whether Lady Regina or Layton will demand any of the services provided in this area.
George grins. “Want to play a game of squash?”
“Squash! On an ocean liner?” I start to laugh, and Myriam joins in; it’s both disbelief and delight. The Titanic is like its own floating world.
“Anything the heart could desire,” George swears. “And you don’t have to worry about the waves upsetting your game. See how steady she sails? We might as well be skimming over smooth glass.”
My laughter stops. “We’re already at sea?”
“Set out more than a quarter hour ago.”
“I’m late!” Good Lord, the Lisles will have been expecting me for nearly half an hour now. “I’ve got to go. Oh, blast, how do I reach the upper decks? Wait, no, I’ve got it.”
“Never fear,” he says as I use my key to open the locks that keep me out of first class. “You’ll be there in a flash.”
“Thank you!” I call behind me as I run into the first-class area of the ship. The door clangs shut. No doubt George and Myriam are perfectly happy to be left alone. Much happier than Lady Regina will be when I show up late again.
As I step into the lift, and the grated door shuts behind me, I see someone standing in the corridor—the dark figure of a man.
And in that first moment, I know it’s Mikhail.
The lift rises, erasing my old view, and I slump back against the wall to gather my breath. The lift operator, a boy a few years younger than I am, doesn’t appear to notice anything in particular. He’d have noticed a first-class passenger down there, wouldn’t he? He would have held the lift for him.
So it must have been my imagination. Mikhail wouldn’t have followed me down here.
He wouldn’t still be hunting me.
I try very hard to believe it.
THE MIDAFTERNOON SUN GILDS THE DECKS OF THE ship as if it were a golden ornament instead of anything real. I would swear that the Titanicglides above the surface of the ocean, because this is as smooth and idyllic as flying is in dreams. And the ocean now looks as I always imagined it: depthless, dark blue, crowned with foamy waves—
“Tess!” barks Lady Regina. “Don’t fall behind.”
So much for daydreams.
I walk a few steps behind Lady Regina, Layton, and Irene, carrying the ladies’ shawls should they need them. Apparently travel at sea can sometimes be cold, though this afternoon is anything but. The ship is heading toward Cherbourg to pick up the final passengers. So if the ladies will stay on deck until then, I can actually glimpse a bit of the coastline of France.
I try to think of such things: pretty metaphors about the ship, or the excitement of seeing another country for the first time in my life. If I think about those things, then I don’t have to think about Mikhail. I’m in first class now, his part of the ship. He could walk by at any instant, and then I will have to know, for certain, whether it’s just my imagination or whether—whether he’s truly hunting me.
Then
