But I know he cast a spell on the important ones. A finding spell, so that one day—in case things went wrong—they would reach you and you would understand.”
“But I don’t understand.” My teeth were grinding so hard, my jaw had started to ache. “I have read the letters, Oliver, yet I still can’t fathom what Elijah was doing.”
Oliver jabbed a thumb to his chest—or he tried to. His movement was sloppy, and he swayed back in his seat. “I can try to explain them to you. I was there for everything.”
“No,” I snapped. “You are not allowed near my letters.” Especially not if they have secrets of necromancy in them. “And,” I added, “I still do not see why you were trying to find them in the first place.”
“No? I thought I was being very”—spit flew with the word—“clear. It was my magic that made the finding spell, so that means I can track the letters. I sensed the letters were boarding the ship, so I might have picked a pocket to get on board.”
“I don’t believe you.” I slid my uneaten toast away and pushed back from the table. “You were in my room just now, and you were searching through my things—not for Elijah or for me. You were searching for my letters.”
His eyes darted sideways, and he swallowed several times. But before he could weave some clever excuse, I stood and puffed out my chest. “I’ve heard enough from you, Oliver. I’m going to my cabin now, and if you follow me, I will scream.”
“B-but . . .” His lip quavered. “I thought we could . . .”
“Could what?”
He tapped his rum. “Grieve together.”
I rolled my eyes. “I dealt with my grief months ago. I’m not doing it again.”
I strode past him, giving his chair a wide berth, but I wasn’t far before Oliver called after me—his voice barely audible over the rowdy Frenchmen. “I’m sorry for going into your room. I won’t do it again.”
I paused, my left fist curling, and strode back toward him—but only far enough so he could hear me speak.
“No, you won’t go into my room again, Oliver. You won’t come near me ever again. I want nothing to do with you, do you understand? Elijah wasn’t the only necromancer in the family.” I thrust out a pointed finger, wishing with all my heart that my charade could be real. If only I were a necromancer. If only I were powerful enough to destroy those in my way.
But Oliver did not know I was bluffing, so I said with all the authority I could muster, “If you dare come close to me without my permission, I will use everything I know to destroy you.”
Chapter Six
I thought I would start bawling the moment I reached my cabin, but, in fact, being away from the depressed demon and his drink and walking with long, purposeful strides was enough to lift my mood —or at least to clear away some of the pulsing anger.
But not enough to calm my thoughts.
A demon? Bound to my brother by a necklace? An old man in Egypt?
I was more confused than ever . . . but I felt I could be certain of one thing: the drunk young man in the dining room was not Marcus.
I found Mrs. Brown in her dressing gown, lounging in one of the armchairs and reading. “Miss
Fitt,” she said with a nod.
I winced. “Please, just call me Eleanor.” Ever since I’d realized Miss Fitt sounded identical to
“misfit,” I had vowed I would never use my surname again.
She sniffed. “As you wish.”
“Where’s Lizzie?” I asked, crossing toward my bed.
“The bathroom, preparing her evening toilet.”
“Oh.” I peeked at what Mrs. Brown was reading as I passed: a book on manners. My lips twitched, and I wondered if it was the same book Daniel toted.
At that thought, an image of Daniel in a black evening suit materialized in my mind . . . and my mouth went dry. If anyone could fill out a dress suit well, I was certain it was he.
Clarence filled out his suit well too—
My lungs clenched shut, pushing out my air. I did not want to think of Clarence. Dwelling on his memory would stir up emotions I did not need.
I sucked in a shaky breath and dropped to the floor before my drawer. As I yanked out my nightgown, I checked quickly for Elijah’s letters—still nestled beneath my spare petticoat.
Right then the door swung open. Laure strutted in. “Ah, Mademoiselle Fitt! You were not in the saloon—you missed the most wonderful card game.” She stopped beside me and leaned onto her bunk, adding in a lower voice that smelled of wine, “Please tell me you did not spend the evening with the old goat.”
“The who?”
“Madame Brown.” She motioned to her chin and mouthed, “Beard. Like a goat.”
Despite my rattled nerves, I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, I spent most of the evening on the promenade deck.”
“Ah, do you feel better now?”
“Much.” I smiled.
“Magnifique. ” She bent down to her own drawer and withdrew a white shift. “Come, let us prepare for the night’s slumber. I wish to ’ave great dreams of true love and adventure.”
A little snort came from the armchair. Laure whirled around and wagged her finger in Mrs.