“Where are we going?” I ask George. “Which officer is Mr. Andrews?”
George looks at me, somewhat awkwardly. We’re friendly, and yet we’re caught on opposite sides now. The worst of it is that I can’t blame him for what he’s doing; knowing only what he knows, he can hardly do anything else but protect the passengers. “Mr. Andrews isn’t an officer at all.”
“You mean he’s only a passenger?”
“Only a passenger! Hardly. Mr. Andrews is one of the senior designers for the White Star Line. He designed the ship we’re sailing on now.”
“That’s quite impressive,” I say, meaning it. “But why are we talking to the ship’s designer, of all people?”
“First of all, he’s the second most senior representative of the White Star Line aboard the Titanic. The most senior representative is J. Bruce Ismay himself, and if you think I’m waking up Mr. Ismay after midnight, you’re mad.” George touches his scratched arm—it’s still bothering him. We might all be at the doctor together, afterward. “More than that, though, Mr. Andrews—he’s sort of the person we all turn to. He settles arguments among the crew, deals with tricky situations. You can trust his judgment.”
I hope that’s true.
George is the one who knocks on Mr. Andrews’s cabin door; by chance, he’s still awake. When we walk in, he’s wearing a brocade evening robe over pajamas, but he receives us as politely as though this were high tea. “Please, everyone, take a seat.” Andrews has a light Irish brogue, and a broad, kindly face. When he smiles at me, I find myself smiling back despite everything. “I take it you’ve come for advice, Mr. Greene. Now, what’s all this about?”
“Mr. Marlowe brought a dangerous dog aboard, and it got loose tonight and killed one of the stewards. Bit a couple of other fellows, myself included,” George says. This is untrue—George was clawed, not bitten, though I can see how he might be confused from the shock of the fight. Nor did Alec bite anyone else. But all that pales next to the fact that a man is dead. “It ought to have been restrained. Now I can’t see keeping it aboard ship. Ought to be thrown overboard, if you ask me.”
“It’s my property,” Mr. Marlowe says. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve offered to pay all damages. The dog is mine, and I want it returned to me safe and sound. Tonight.”
Mr. Andrews’s eyes flicker over me, and I know he’s wondering what on earth I have to do with this situation. I can’t explain, but I say, “We oughtn’t to kill it. Not if there’s any other way. Should we, sir?”
“It is a deadly beast and must be put down. However, despite your commendable caution, Mr. Greene, we cannot throw it overboard,” Mr. Andrews says. “The dog must be tested for rabies.”
“Rabies?” George goes white. That would be the worst possible outcome of a dog bite—though he can little suspect how much worse it would’ve been had Alec actually bitten him. Then again, maybe not; rabies is fatal.
“I’m certain the dog’s not rabid,” Mr. Marlowe says.
Mr. Andrews says, somewhat tersely, “We must think of the injured men first. You realize the dog will have to be destroyed for the rabies test. I’m quite sorry, but that’s all there is to it.”
I think fast. The Titanicmight contain nearly every luxury known to man, from steam baths to a squash court, but I’ll bet anything there’s no veterinarian on board. “We can’t do the test until we reach New York City, though, can we, sir?”
“No, we can’t.” Mr. Andrews looks at me and Mr. Marlowe sympathetically, understanding that—however unlikely it might be—we are together in this. “Would it comfort you to keep the dog with you until we reach port?”
“It would, sir.” Mr. Marlowe is already breathing easier, and I know why. When we reach New York, he will procure some stray and have it tested for rabies instead. “After the dog is tested in New York City, I will turn over the report to the White Star Line, and of course to the injured men directly.”
“That seems reasonable,” Mr. Andrews says. “Mr. Greene, do you agree?”
“Reasonable, aye, sir, but perhaps not sufficient.” George shakes his head sadly as he looks at his torn sleeve.
“I think he scratched you,” I venture. “Not bit.”
“You might be right, and it’s glad I am of it, but that’s not much consolation.” Now that the immediate rush of fear has passed, so has his anger—but not his resolve. “If that dog of yours broke out once, he could break out again. What if he were to bite someone else? I couldn’t have it on my conscience, sir.”
Mr. Andrews bows his head slightly, considering this. The argument is shifting against us, and Mr. Marlowe and I look at each other in alarm.
Just then, there is a knock at the door. I expect some other minor ship crisis, arriving on Mr. Andrews’s doorstep to be resolved. I never expect Mikhail to walk in.
Although I manage to stifle my gasp, Mr. Marlowe goes quite pale. I clutch his hand. Mr. Andrews doesn’t notice; he’s too busy dealing with his new guest. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t believe I have the honor of your acquaintance.”
“Count Mikhail Kalashnikov, at your service.” Mikhail pulls out his card. “Though we have not been introduced, a few simple inquiries will confirm that I am the representative of a large organization. An organization that is a major shareholder in the White Star Line.”
My God. Alec told me the Brotherhood had power, money, and influence, but I hadn’t realized until now—they’re part owners of the ship itself.
“I heard of this unpleasantness,” Mikhail says silkily. His dark eyes rake over me, and I remember that I’m wearing no more than a thin nightgown and Mr. Marlowe’s coat. “It is best if I take charge. My organization is prepared to make full restitution to the injured parties. A physician on board will be assigned to tranquilize the wild animal until we make port.”
“You, take charge?” George doesn’t like the sound of this. “I’ve never heard of you before.”
Mikhail smiles his thin, unnerving smile. His teeth are too large for his mouth, too white amid the dark spear of his beard. “Then perhaps we should wake Captain Smith. I assure you—he has heard of my organization’s role in the White Star Line. He will confirm my orders.”
“I don’t doubt it,” mutters Mr. Andrews. “Mismanagement has plagued this project from the beginning.”
“Shall I pass your concerns on to Mr. Ismay and the rest of the leaders of the White Star Line?” Mikhail says. “If they hear that one of their designers likes to slander them on transatlantic crossings, perhaps they will reconsider whom they employ in future.”
This dismays Mr. Andrews not one whit. With spirit, he says, “If you think I could get no other work as a designer after building many of the finest and most elegant ships ever launched, you’re sorely mistaken, Mr. Kalashnikov. And if you think I’m the only White Star employee who ever grumbled, this must be your very first day aboard a ship!”
Mikhail stares, clearly unaccustomed to having anybody stand up to him. I like Mr. Andrews as much as I’ve ever liked anyone on only five minutes’ acquaintance.
Mr. Andrews continues, calm once more, “As it so happens, before your arrival, we had already reached an agreement that the dog must be tested for rabies, which can only be done ashore. So it remains onboard for the duration of our journey. If a physician can keep it tranquilized, and I have Mr. Marlowe’s word as a gentleman that this will be done, then the dog may as well be kept alive for the rest of the voyage. It may in fact be better for the purposes of the test.”
“That’ll do,” George says quickly. Though I can tell he still has doubts, he didn’t really want to kill someone’s dog in front of him, even if it did something terrible. Myriam has found a kind man.
“Entirely acceptable.” Mr. Marlowe rises to his feet. His movements are stiff; his eye is blackening quickly. Mikhail must have hit him hard. “Thank you, Andrews. You dealt with this situation handsomely.”
“Comes with designing a ship, sir. You take responsi
bility for all her operations—even the unexpected ones.” A flash of humor brightens Mr. Andrews’s face as he shakes his head, but then he frowns. “Quite a bruise you took there. In the struggle with the dog?”
“Yes,” Mr. Marlowe says hurriedly. “That’s it.” I can almost feel Mikhail’s smirk.
Mr. Andrews continues, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get a bit of sleep tonight. If possible.”
“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s good to know we have you to turn to.” George hurries out, with a nod in my direction.
Mikhail doesn’t look nearly as pleased, as well he might not, but Mr. Andrews isn’t the main focus of his attention. Mr. Marlowe is. I take Mr. Marlowe’s arm again, unsure whether I want to protect him or want him to protect me. In any case, we all walk out on deck together.
George hesitates before leaving us. “Good God. Tess, I’ve got something for you.” Stiff from his injury, he nonetheless fishes in his pocket and hands me a bit of crumpled paper. He leaves a bloody fingerprint on one corner. “A Marconigram. It’s irregular for anybody in third class to get them, so I said I’d walk it down to you. Forgot in all the insanity.”
“For me?” I don’t know anyone wealthy enough to send me a Marconigram, at least not anyone who isn’t on this ship. It must be a mistake, but I don’t feel like sorting it out right now. Instead I ball it in my hand and nod at George, who tiredly walks off, no doubt headed to the ship’s doctor.
As soon as we’re alone, I say, “How could you do such a thing? Hurt Mr. Marlowe, let Alec out without caring about the consequences?”
“How could I not?” Mikhail pulls out one of his cigars and smiles, as relaxed as if he were enjoying brandy with the other millionaires in the grand dining hall. “Mr. Marlowe, you and your son still fail to understand the risks of your situation. As long as Alec is not initiated into the Brotherhood, he must change every night. As long as he changes every night, he is a danger to himself and to others.”
“Only because you turned him loose,” Mr. Marlowe retorts. “We took precautions, dammit.”
“Did you not take precautions the night of Gabrielle Dumont’s death?” Mikhail replies.
I jump in. “Alec didn’t kill Gabrielle. You did. You set him loose to make him think he killed her. You threw me at him to try to make him kill me.”
Mikhail rolls his cigar between two fingers, leering at me as though every word I say pleases him. “And tonight he killed a man, did he not?”
Silence. Neither Mr. Marlowe nor I can answer. Alec would rather have died than done that.
“It’s like they always say in English: The third time’s the charm.” Mikhail steps closer to Alec’s father. It’s as if I no longer exist. “If your son joins us, he regains control over his nature. Over his destiny. He will gain allies throughout the world who will never desert him. And for such a small price! All Alec needs to give us is the loyalty we would give him in return. Along with a percentage of Marlowe Steel’s profits, of course, and the use of your considerable personal influence. But is that too much to pay for your son’s safety and happiness? Consider our offer, Mr. Marlowe. Talk to your son. Get him to see reason before it’s too late.”
With that, Mikhail saunters off into the night.
Mr. Marlowe walks silently with me back into the ship. Once we’re alone again, I say, “You mustn’t listen to Mikhail. You know they’d own Alec forever afterward.”
“It’s not my decision to make.” His voice is hollow. “Alec alone must make that choice.”
“But he listens to you—he loves you so much. Don’t lead him astray.” I want badly to tell Mr. Marlowe about the Initiation Blade, but if he breaks now—if he tells Mikhail about it and tries to bargain with it behind our backs—what little power it’s given us will be lost. “Please, sir. You’re hurt. You’re shaken. Anyone would be. Go to sleep now and think on it in the morning.”
“I’ll sleep after they’ve brought Alec back to my cabin.” He rouses himself from his stupor enough to pat my hand. “Thank you, Miss Davies. For everything. But now you—you had better get some rest.”
“Sir—” But he’s walking away from me now. I can influence him no more.
I hurry back to my cabin. The efficiency of the Titaniccrew can’t be denied; the blood has already been mopped from the floor of the corridor, and the walls have been washed back to a gleaming white. The poor dead steward is—where, I wonder? Down in the hold? Already buried at sea? Tomorrow morning, half the people who witnessed this madness will think they merely had a bad dream.
Myriam is in the other half. As soon as I open the door, hoping to tiptoe in, she launches herself off the bunk and grabs my hand. “We have to talk,” she whispers as she propels me down the hallway toward the women’s toilet facilities. “Now.”
The third-class women on this deck share washing facilities, with many WCs, many sinks, and an entire wall of shower stalls in one great white room. Dozens of us all use it together, which some seem to consider a hardship. At Moorcliffe, I’ve only got my chamber pot, so it seems nice enough to me. So late is the hour that Myriam and I are alone in the white-tiled space.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her. The hem of her nightshirt is too short for her statuesque frame, revealing quite a lot of leg. “And how it concerns you. No stories. Tell me.”
I know I should lie, but I’m too exhausted to come up with anything. So I blurt it out—the whole truth, about Alec, the Brotherhood, Mikhail, Gabrielle, werewolves, everything. What does it matter if I say it out loud? It’s not as though Myriam would ever believe me. The only danger is that she’ll now believe I’m completely mad.
Once I’ve finished, Myriam blinks once, then says, “I believe you.”
“What?” She’s not even all that surprised. “Do they have legends about werewolves in Lebanon or something? Do you know about them?”
“There are stories, which I thought ridiculous until now,” she snaps. “But you are not imaginative enough to invent such details on your own.”
I want to argue with her about my imagination, but if she believes me, I had better leave well enough alone. “Well, it’s all true. Myriam, what are we going to do? How can Alec get out of this?”
She holds up one hand. “Alec is a good man, and I know you care for him. But this is his burden. Not yours, not unless you take it on yourself. Tess, walk away from this. At best you will be hurt when he leaves you—and you know he must, don’t you? More now than ever before, now that this man has been killed. At worst, you could be the next one to die. Have nothing else to do with him.”
“I can’t. I know you’re right, Myriam, but—I can’t.”
“You are a fool,” she says, but almost tenderly.
“Tell no one.” I put force into my words; this is important. “It’s dangerous for you to know this.”
“As if I would tell anyone this. I do not want my first stop in America to be the nearest lunatic asylum.”
Exhausted and shaken, I want to wipe my eyes with my handkerchief, but that’s not what’s crumpled in my hand, is it? That’s the Marconigram, the one that can’t be for me. As Myriam watches me, equally puzzled, I unfold the bloodstained paper and see my name. Could there be another Tess Davies on board?
But as I read on, I realize this really is for me. A blade of pure terror shoves its way into my chest.
TESS I GOT CUT UP IN THE STREET TODAY. THESE MEN GRABBED AT ME AND CUT A SHAPE IN MY PALM LIKE A Y. IT BLED SOMETHING AWFUL BUT I’VE BANDAGED IT. THEN THEY GAVE ME MONEY AND SAID I WAS TO WIRE YOU. I’M MEANT TO TELL YOU THAT IF THE COUNT GIVES THE WORD, THEY’LL FIND ME AGAIN AND CUT MORE THAN MY HAND. WHAT DOES IT MEAN, TESS? ARTHUR IS TAKING MATTHEW AND ME TO HIS MUM’S NEVER FEAR. I AM SCARED FOR YOU AND WHATEVER YOU’RE MIXED UP IN GET OUT OF IT. WRITE ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS. I LOVE YOU. DAISY.
The Y shape must be the one I recognize from the Initiation Blade. The symbol of the Brotherhood.
Ch
apter 19
APRIL 14, 1912
They found my sister. They could kill my sister, and they will if Mikhail says the word.
I try not to think about it, but that just brings up another horrible image: the dead steward last night, lying in a pool of his own blood. Alec must be in such pain right now; I know his father told him the truth.
“Ow,” Irene whines as the hairbrush hits a tangle. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me when I pull your hair.” I try to bring my mind back to what I’m doing. There’s nothing I can do for Daisy now, nor for Alec, and I won’t get a spare moment to see him or ask how we can help Daisy any sooner by dragging and daydreaming through my work.
Irene’s “mystery illness” vanished last night after an enormous row between her and her mother; I wasn’t here, but both Ned and Mrs. Horne have whispered the news to me. As Mrs. Horne tells it, Irene’s an ungrateful girl who doesn’t understand the opportunities Lady Regina provides for her. As Ned tells it, Lady Regina’s so cruel to Irene that it’s all he can do to stick to his duty instead of telling the old cow off. I know which version I believe. Irene must not be able to bear the haranguing any longer, because she’s up early today and prepared to look her best.
But she looks as pale and weak as if she truly were ill. Her eyes don’t even focus on her reflection in the mirror. I venture, “Are you sure you’re all right, miss?”
“No.” She puts her head in one hand, and I realize she’s about to cry.
“Oh, Miss Irene. Don’t be sad.” I sit next to her on the little bench and put an arm around her. Normally she pulls herself together quickly enough, but this time she rests her head on my shoulder, and I can feel hot tears soaking through the sleeve of my uniform.
“I’ve got to get married,” she says, as if it were a death sentence. “Mother wants me married before the year is out. Soon as we can manage it.”
“I’m sure you can. It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it, miss? You might meet someone you like.” I’ve wished for it, for her sake: maybe some bookish son of a wealthy family who would like her sweet, unassuming ways. He could be in New York City, or Boston.