I’m not wrong…I’m not. She’d bet on the person who had jumped into the ocean to save her, not the one who’d trapped her in the past against her will. Any day, any century.
“Unlike you,” she said when she reached the door, “I’ll make my own decisions.”
But as Etta gave in to the urge to look back over her shoulder, to see if her words had landed the way she’d hoped, Sophia was already on her back again, eyes closed.
“Go on,” Sophia said as the door creaked open. “Try.”
ETTA STEPPED INTO THE HALLWAY, SHUTTING THE DOOR. She leaned back against it, searching for the rhythm of the repairs happening on the deck above her, the voices drifting up from beneath her feet. A song of work, one that spoke of labor and skill. The notes floated through her ears, arranging themselves to match the tempo and drive—
Stop it, she thought, fingers tightening on the fabric in her arms.
A breeze escaped through the open hatch, and brushed by her on its way toward the forecastle at the other end of the ship. The curtains there were gone now, and she could make out hammocks, plus a small area where a few men sat scraping food off metal plates. One turned, and the whole left side of his face was covered with a blood-soaked bandage. She turned back to the other cabin door, ready to be alone.
Who’s the coward now?
She draped the damp gown and underpinnings over her own built-in bunk to finish drying. She brushed at the thin crust of white salt clinging to the stiffening fabric before turning her attention to Nicholas’s jacket.
Mr. Carter’s jacket.
Something in her snapped. Why was she staying here—because Sophia had ordered her to? She could go up on deck if she liked. She could escape the smell of sickness, the cramped confines of the cabin, take in the fresh sea air and look into the distance. She’d make her own choices in all of this, no matter what Sophia said.
Only…Etta deflated the moment her fingers brushed the handle. He had asked them to stay below while the ship was repaired—and to stay out of the forecastle. It didn’t matter that the request must be partially powered by his desire to keep Sophia away from him. While she wouldn’t take orders from the other girl, Etta couldn’t bring herself to ignore Nicholas’s wishes. Plus, the deck had been littered not only with bodies, but weapons, and shards of metal and glass. Until they cleared it completely, it wasn’t safe, and she wasn’t about to get in the way of their work.
How do I do this without her? Think, think, think.…
Etta breathed in the calming scent of soap and cedar as she sat on the edge of her bunk, and realized with surprise that she was still clutching the jacket. Her hands were still wrapped in its warmth, at odds with the toes freezing in her shoes. With as delicate a touch as she could manage, she polished the line of brass buttons that ran down the front, and draped the large expanse of the jacket over her legs to smooth out the creases she’d left in the fabric.
Her fingers brushed a small line of raised stitching, where someone had mended a tear just below the shoulder. She wondered what had made it—an accident? Carelessness? A weapon?
Ask him. The words rose again and again until she couldn’t ignore them. Ask him for help. They had a common enemy; maybe he wouldn’t be so willing to do Sophia’s bidding when it came down to it.
Nicholas—Mr. Carter—disliked Sophia, but would that be enough to compel him to put her back…where? She still didn’t know the location of the passage she’d come through to get here. But—she sat up straighter, the idea racing from her head to her heart. The crew in the hold—they would know where they’d sailed from, wouldn’t they? Everyone on this ship was bound to know where she and Sophia had boarded from.
I have seen the rotten edges of his soul.
I know him for the deceitful swine he is.
Etta shook her head. The crew members were the key, both the ones working above and the ones below. If they got to know her, knew that she’d essentially been kidnapped, would they help her get away from Sophia? Would they be willing to bring her back?
She could figure out a way to play the perfect eighteenth-century girl, on her own terms. It would just be a matter of convincing the crew to like her.
Which, given her track record of friends…might actually be the most difficult part of this. She had acquaintances on the competition circuit, but she knew more about their technical skills as violinists than about their personal lives. And then there had been Pierce.
Etta’s throat felt thick as something lodged in the base of it. The familiar sting of tears, the pressure behind her eyes—thinking of Pierce now only made her think of Alice.
I’m going to save her.
Her death wasn’t a conclusion. It wasn’t the end.