Chapter Eight
I woke up to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream, and it was a few seconds before I realized it was coming from my own throat. My eyes sprang open, but it made no difference. None. The black was impenetrable, the pitching violent.
The engine wasn’t running. Why wasn’t the engine running?
Even if the whooshing in my head had been shrill enough to drown out the sound of the turbines, nothing would have been able to disguise the vibration. The thrum had been relentless—rattling brains, teeth, and eardrums, just like the propellers of a plane—and its absence was terrifying.
I’d been dreaming that the SS Mallory took a direct hit, but now I realized it wasn’t a dream. The cabin rocked madly, almost as though the freighter was turning, rotating like a corkscrew as it slid below the surface.
“Ellis?” I cried out. “Ellis?”
I felt the blanket on either side of me, but he wasn’t there, which meant he was lying injured somewhere on the floor, thrown on impact. I had to find him fast, because the cabin had tilted so drastically I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to find the door.
I slapped the surface and edges of the bunk, hoping to identify which direction I was facing, and hoping Hank was trying to find his way to us as well, because I didn’t think I could drag Ellis out on my own.
When my hands hit a wooden headboard, I was momentarily confused. When I found a bedside table with a lace runner, I fell onto my back, gasping with relief.
I wasn’t on the SS Mallory. I was in a bed in a hotel room in Drumnadrochit, and the motion was all in my head.
I reached over and felt my way across the bedside table, seeking the candle before remembering that Ellis had taken it with him the night before. I got to my feet, thinking that if I could just find the dresser, I could then find the door. I had taken only a couple of steps when my foot landed on something and twisted out from under me. I fell on my hands and knees.
The door opened, and a female figure was suddenly in the doorway with light pouring in around her.
“Mrs. Pennypacker? Is everything all right?” she asked.
I blinked at her, wondering why she’d just addressed me by my mother’s name.
“My Lord!” She rushed over to help me up. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “I seem to have tripped over a shoe, of all things.”
Now that the light was no longer behind her, I could see that she was about my age, with a sturdy frame, pleasant expression, and thick auburn hair swept into a snood. She had a smattering of freckles, and her face was browned by the sun.
“Shall I get your husband?” she asked, looking at me with concern.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I just need a minute to get oriented. When I woke up I wasn’t quite sure where I was, and then…” I waved a hand at the carpet, which was strewn with the things I’d taken out while searching for my nightgown and toothbrush. “Well, I was in a bit of a rush to get to bed last night, and this morning I couldn’t see where I was going.”
“It’s the Blackout curtains,” she said, nodding decisively and walking past to the window. “They’re that dark you can’t see a thing, although I suppose that’s the point.”
She braced her fingertips on the inside edges of the window casing and coaxed out a solid square frame covered with black material. Light flooded the room.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” she said, setting the frame on the floor.
Strips of tape crisscrossed the panes of glass. After a second’s confusion, I realized they were in case of a bomb blast.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, trying to suppress my alarm. “Is that a wooden frame? I’ve always thought Blackout curtains were actual curtains.”
“Aye. We use traditional curtains too, but then you have to pin the cloth all the way around so no light can get past. This contraption is much easier on the fingers. Angus made them after the last time we got fined—twelve shillings it was, all because Old Donnie had the temerity to push the curtain aside for a wee moment to see if it was still raining. And the warden is a Wee Free, and he’s not from the glen, so there was no getting around that, I can tell you. Twelve shillings! That’s more than a day’s wages for a shopkeeper!” she said indignantly, catching my eye to make sure I understood.
I nodded emphatically.
“Now these,” she continued, “you could put the sun itself right behind them and not one ray would get through. Angus stretched the material tight, and then painted the whole thing with black epoxy rubber.” She leaned over to tap its surface. “That’s like a drum, that is.”
“Is Angus the one with the beard?”
“Aye.”
“And he’s the handyman?”
She laughed. “I should think not. He runs the place!”
A. W. Ross.
It made perfect sense but hadn’t even occurred to me, an assumption based entirely on appearance. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and felt ridiculous for judging. I looked like I’d been dragged backward through a hedge.
The ceiling began spinning again, and I dropped onto the edge of the bed.
“You’ve gone pale as a potato crust,” said the girl, coming closer to inspect me. “Shall I bring up some tea?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I’m still a bit dizzy from the ship, strangely enough,” I said.
“Aye,” she said, nodding gravely. “I’ve heard of that. People getting stuck like that.”
A jolt of fear ran through me, even as I arranged my face into a smile.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “My husband and I sail all the time. I probably just have a bit of a cold—you know, an ear thing. It will pass. Speaking of my husband, is he up yet?”
“He’s been downstairs this half hour.”
“Will you please let him know I’ll be down in a few minutes? I need a moment to pull myself together.”
She glanced at my luggage. “Well, with this lot that shouldn’t be hard. I should think you could start your own shop, if you wanted to. If you change your mind about having your tea upstairs, just give me a shout.”
“I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I asked, knowing perfectly well she hadn’t yet told me.
“Anna. Anna McKenzie.”