Fateful

But I’m the one he’s looking at with those dark eyes.

And I’m the one he speaks to.

“You—had no more difficulties aboard?” Alec says.

My cheeks flush with warmth. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Lady Regina glares at me, as though she hopes her stare has the power to melt me where I stand. “Tess? Were you bothering Mr. Marlowe?”

“Not at all, ma’am.” Alec steps forward slightly, placing himself between Lady Regina and me. Is he defending me from her, or showing me how easily he can separate me from others? The thrill I feel when I’m near him is equal parts attraction and fear; I don’t know which emotion is true and which is an illusion. Maybe they’re both justified. “She was carrying a burden much too heavy for her earlier today. She required some help to reach her suite. Your suite, I mean.”

He didn’t tell them Mikhail was threatening me. Which of us is he protecting—me, or Mikhail?

“Tess often pretends to need more help than she requires. I hope you weren’t taken in.” Lady Regina laughs lightly. “It’s always the way, with servants. They shirk their tasks the moment you’re not looking.”

She’s trying to shame me, but I’m not ashamed. I know the truth—and so does Alec. He already knows so much about me . . . more, perhaps, than I care for him to know. It doesn’t make me feel any safer.

Despite her shyness, Irene pipes up, trying to change the subject. “Mr. Marlowe, have you seen John Jacob Astor? Is he really on board?”

“Indeed he is,” Mr. Marlowe says, obviously pleased with the change of subject. “With his new wife—who’s not much older than you.”

Lady Regina can’t resist gossip, and soon the entire party is walking forward again, the parents and Layton chitchatting easily, and Irene trailing in her mother’s wake. Alec remains a few steps back—not beside me, but closer to me than to anyone else. It’s as though I can feel his presence next to me, the deep, slightly uncomfortable warmth of standing too close to a fire.

As the others round the corner of the boat deck toward the stern, Alec turns to me. He’s so close to me now that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek.

His voice is rough as he says, “You told them nothing.”

“No.”

“About me or about Mikhail.”

“No. I swear.”

Alec’s eyes bore into mine as he leans even closer and whispers, “If you value your life, keep your silence. That’s the only thing that will save you. Do you hear me, Tess?”

“Yes.”

Then he walks forward again, as smoothly as though he had never spoken to me at all. Alec even smiles when his father waves him forward to stroll by his side. I don’t know what to think, but I follow behind, once again the obedient servant.

Was Alec trying to protect me, telling me that Mikhail would strike at me if I spoke to anyone about him? Or was it a threat?

Either way, he’s just confirmed what I’ve been trying to deny all afternoon. I’m in danger.

“How could you be so impertinent, Tess?” Lady Regina tosses her hat down on the sofa in the Lisles’ suite. “Putting yourself forward like that. Trying to monopolize Alexander Marlowe’s attention.”

“Mother, he spoke to Tess first,” Irene tries to point out, but Lady Regina ignores her.

The lecture goes on for some time, but I hardly notice. It’s all I can do to stand there and nod on cue; my mind is consumed by Alec’s threat. Or his warning—I still don’t know what it was. I can’t stop thinking of Mikhail’s cold eyes.

I tell myself that I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. I’ve told no one. Alec said that would protect me, and why would he lie? Keeping quiet and telling nobody my true story has kept me safe up until now. This is just one more thing to stay quiet about.

Lady Regina doesn’t stop venting her anger at me until late, and then I’ve got to prepare Irene for dinner. As I help her into her cornflower-blue evening dress, Irene can’t stop apologizing for her mother. “She’s only nervous,” Irene says, as if that cow were ever nervous about anything. “Mother’s been preoccupied with— with a lot of things lately. It makes her cross. Please don’t take it personally.”

“You’re not supposed to apologize to me for anything,” I say as I sweep her lank hair up in jeweled combs, which will at least give her some glitter. It helps that she’s finally old enough for us to put her hair up; that lets me hide how straight her hair is. “I’m your servant. I know my place.”

“Your place doesn’t have to mean being treated badly.” Irene sighs as she looks at her reflection in the mirror. “Oh, what’s the use?”

“You look nice tonight. You just have to brighten up a bit. Smile. Confidence is half the battle, miss.”

And she does look better than usual this evening—the color suits her, as do the dress’s simple lines. At any other time, I’d be proud of my handiwork. It’s my job, as ladies’ maid, to see that Irene is shown off to her best advantage. When her mother gets out of my way, and stops forcing Irene to wear ruffles that drown her slight frame and pale, “pure” colors that wash out her complexion, Irene is—well, no ravishing beauty, but at least pretty. I may have been made a ladies’ maid too young and with no experience, but I’ve learned quickly.

Tonight, though, I can’t revel vicariously in this triumph. It seems as if I can hear nothing but the blood rushing in my ears, and the memory of Alec’s whisper.

Keep your silence.

“Well, that’s not so bad,” drawls Layton as he strolls into her room. Irene frowns—she likes her privacy, but her brother respects that as little as he does anything or anyone else. “At least you won’t be an embarrassment tonight.”

Behind his shoulder, I can see Ned, whose freckled face is flushed with anger. He hates it when Layton picks on Irene. But he says only, “Will that be all, sir?”

“Quite all.” Layton is, indeed, impeccably turned out; his tuxedo is so well pressed and brushed that it seems to have been polished. “You are dismissed for the evening.”

“You too, Tess,” Irene says, with a small smile.

But then, from the next room, I hear Lady Regina call, “Tess, you stay here. Horne is busy with me. Get Beatrice to bed, would you?”

My stomach is empty with hunger and fear, but there’s nothing to be done. Whatever I’m ordered to do, I must do. “Yes, milady.”

By the time little Beatrice is washed and asleep, and Lady Regina’s finally done with me, I’m not afraid any longer. Although I still feel wobbly every time I think about Mikhail’s threat, or about Alec, hunger has taken over. It seems as though I can face up to anything if I can just eat.

But by the time I arrive back in third class, it’s well after tea time. What time is the second meal service over? I hurry down the long white corridor that I think leads toward the dining hall, and run into Myriam—who, rather interestingly, is accompanied by George.

“Haven’t you got a ship to manage?” I say before I can stop myself.

George turns out to look adorable when he’s flustered—at least to Myriam, who smiles sidelong at him. “Off duty this past hour, miss. Thought Miss Nahas and I might take a stroll on the third-class deck.”

“Of course you’re welcome to join us.” Myriam gives me a smoldering look that clearly means, Interfere with this and you die in the night.

She doesn’t need to worry; I have better plans. “Thanks for the invitation, but I need to get something to eat. Tea hasn’t ended, has it? I know I’m too late for the first shift, but—” I read the truth in their dismayed faces. “Oh, no.”

George straightens his uniform jacket. “Listen here. Go to the kitchens—the staff will still be clearing up. If you give them my name, they’ll be able to set you up with a plate. Plenty of leftovers, never fear.”

Maybe he said it just to get on Myriam’s good side, but I don’t think so. Honestly, I don’t care. “Seventh Officer George Greene,” I repeat, to make sure I’ve got it right. “Thank you!”

“Have a good night!” Myriam calls after me. She might actually mean it.

I hurry down the hallway, pushing past a few other after-dinner stragglers. But already I’m doubting myself. I don’t remember this turn at all, and the corridors feel like a maze. I’m not used to finding my way around new places, since I only just left the house I’ve worked in for the past four years and the village where I’d spent my whole life before that.

Glancing over my shoulder, I look for Myriam and George, but they’re already out of sight. Nobody else around me speaks English or looks likely to; two of the men closest to me even appear to be from China. So much for asking for directions.

So I head back the way I came, to the doorway that leads to the first-class areas of this deck. Maybe I can reorient myself and get turned back toward the dining hall.

As I reach the doorway, my stomach rumbles, and I hope I won’t be lost much longer—and the doorway opens.

Mikhail steps through.

My body seems to freeze in shock. He’s hunting me after all, I think—but that’s not right. He looks as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

Only for a moment. Then Mikhail’s face steels as he clamps his hand around my upper arm, hard enough to hurt. “You’d be a fool to scream.”

“Let me go.”

He pulls me back through the door—how does he have a key?—and I try to resist, but he’s stronger. Although I want to scream, I keep reminding myself of what Alec said: Keep your silence.

Now that we’re alone in the quieter first-class corridor, Mikhail leans close to me, pinning me against the corridor wall, clearly meaning to loom over me. But I’m too tall for that. It doesn’t faze him. “How interesting to see you again.”

“I’ve told no one about—about before,” I say. “I don’t plan to.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes are so cold. I can feel that shiver pass through me again; it’s hard being so close to his hunter’s stare. He frames my body with his arms. “When I first saw you, I thought you were simply a temptation. A deviation from my mission.” The box, I think through my panic. He was stalking me that first night because he was already after the Lisles. Mikhail leans even closer to me, so that I can smell the strange, animal scent of his skin. “Or perhaps a means of whiling away an hour or so before I took care of my business with the Lisles.”

I can’t tell if that hour is the one he wants me to spend in his bed or in my grave.

And then I’m so scared I’m not scared anymore. I’m furious. I shove Mikhail back, not caring whether I’ll get into trouble or whether I hurt him. “If you try to steal from me again, I’ll tell a ship’s officer. Now leave me alone.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. Not shoving him, not even threatening to tell. Mikhail’s expression changed the moment I said steal from me. The moment I revealed that I knew whatever he really wants is inside the Lisles’ safe.

He lunges at me, gripping my arm in one hand and covering my mouth with the other. My back slams against the wall so hard it knocks the breath out of me. If I thought he was strong before, I didn’t understand the half of it; Mikhail can hold me in place, as though I were helpless. His strength is beyond anything I’ve ever known. Almost inhuman.

“That’s a very sensible plan,” he hisses as I struggle to inhale. “But I can’t have my work here disrupted by a mere woman. So why don’t I make absolutely sure you’ll never tell?”

I go crazy. I claw at him, try to push him back, wrench my neck to the side so hard it hurts. But even when I manage to scream, I know nobody will come. The first-class section of the deck is deserted except for us at this time of night; the third-class passengers probably can’t hear through the door, and if they can, they won’t have the key to get through.

Mikhail grabs my hair, which hurts so much tears spring to my eyes. He’s dragging me down the corridor, and I keep trying to clutch something, anything to hold on to, but it’s useless. We reach a doorway, and he flings it open. Just before he shoves me though, I see the sign: This is the Turkish bath.

I fall through darkness, through heat, as I tumble onto my hands and knees upon a floor of moist green and white tiles. The steam of the bath still clouds the air, as though I’d been tossed into the fog. I can’t see, can’t breathe. The main light is from the hallway, and it outlines Mikhail’s body as he walks inside after me and slams the door behind him.

I expect to be beaten, or raped, or killed.

I do not expect the wolf.

Chapter 6

FIRST I SEE THE EYES.

They’re green-gold. Flat and reflective. It’s so dark I can hardly make out any shapes, at least not yet, but whatever light is in this room gleams in this animal gaze.

I gasp. Hot, vapor-heavy air burns my lungs and makes me cough as I push myself away from those eyes. But I hit something—someone. Mikhail. He’s standing right behind me.

Mikhail’s laughter echoes in the tile room. I scramble away from him, toward the corner, but the eyes follow me. As my own eyes adjust to the darkness, the beast’s enormous shape appears amid the swirling steam. Pointed ears, wide shoulders, muscled legs, thick red fur.

Wolf, I think, just at the moment it begins to growl.

“He’s hungry,” Mikhail says. He has no fear. “I thought it was high time I fed him. Don’t you agree?”

The wolf lunges at me, and I scream.

I manage to leap out of the wolf’s way, but only by inches—I can sense its weight and speed as it skids past me. I catch a glimpse of its long, white teeth. Quickly I scramble to my feet and run through the opulent bath, looking for a door that isn’t blocked by Mikhail. There isn’t one, but one wall is lined with small wooden booths—for changing, perhaps? I don’t care. They have doors, and maybe I can lock myself in.

When I run into the booth, I want to swear. This wood is so thin, so flimsy. But what did I expect? They’re not meant to provide protection, only privacy. It’s all I’ve got, though. I brace myself, back against the door, and wince as I hear the wolf running toward me—it’s going to slam through, right through the door and through me—

But the wolf doesn’t hit the door. It skids to a stop just short of the booth. I stare down at my feet, terrified it’s going to crawl underneath the small gap there, or just bite at my ankles. It doesn’t. Instead the wolf starts pacing, back and forth. Back and forth. I can hear it panting, its claws clicking against the tile floor.

Though I’m still so scared my whole body shakes, I finally have a moment to think. What is a wolf doing onboard? Surely no wild animals would be brought aboard a ship, or if they were, they would be caged in the cargo hold. This is Mikhail’s doing, obviously, but I can’t imagine why.

Is it the same beast I saw in Southampton? No—this one is sleeker, redder. But it is surely another wolf, and surely now even more dangerous. If only Alec would appear again to help me. Alec, or anyone. But there’s no one here besides Mikhail.

He laughs again, though now it’s quieter—slow chuckling. As though he’s seen all this a thousand times before, but it never fails to amuse him. “How long do you think that will protect you? Three minutes? Five?”

I don’t answer. I have nothing to say to that worthless bastard.

“The wolf is very close,” Mikhail says. “Close enough to smell your blood. But he doesn’t remember how to be a wolf any longer. If he did, he would have devoured you already.”

The wolf’s pacing slows. I can hear it breathing.

There’s a small bench in the little booth, and, keeping my hands braced against the door, I step atop it. That means the red wolf won’t be able to drag me down by my ankles. It also means I can see Mikhail. He’s still standing not far from the door—but he’s taken off his jacket. His white shirt has begun to stick to his body from the moisture in the air; he’s thick with muscles, so rippled and bulky that he looks nearly monstrous. No wonder I couldn’t fend him off. Now he takes off his shoes. As he sees me watching him, Mikhail’s grin widens, and he pulls open his shirt to reveal his hairy chest. I look away so as not to give him the satisfaction. It seems clear enough what he has in mind, but how does he expect to get at me with a wild wolf between us?

Mikhail says, “If he’s forgotten how to be a wolf, then I’ll have to remind him.”

He growls—a low sound like an animal’s. Just like an animal’s. Then he screams.

I turn back toward Mikhail, half expecting to see the red wolf attacking him. But the wolf remains in front of my door, its red fur standing on end, a low growl scratching in its own throat. Mikhail is screaming, louder and louder, naked now, his body exposed—

And changing.

It’s the steam playing tricks on me. The darkness. My own fear. But no. I see this. It’s really happening.

Mikhail’s body twists and contorts, shoulder blades spreading outward, back hunching so sharply it’s as if he broke his spine. He falls to all fours, arching his neck back as his face stretches with a terrible sound like the butcher sawing through gristle. His jaws grow. His teeth seem to be stabbing their way out of his gums. And his skin is darkening—no. He’s growing black hair all over his body. Fur.

A wolf, I think. Another wolf, as enormous as the first, but iron black. And this, I know, is the very wolf that chased me last night in Southampton. For the first time I realize that Mikhail is a monster, a thing out of stories told to frighten children, but it’s real. He’s real, and he’s growling, and he began hunting me before this voyage ever started, and now—now he’s coming to kill me.

The black wolf charges toward my stall, and I cry out in fear as I push back against the door, expecting him to burst through at any second. But then I hear another growl, and the impact of beast against beast.

I look back over the stall to see the red wolf lunge at the black wolf’s throat.

They’re like dogs fighting now—tearing at each other’s flesh, snapping and snarling. The steam is so thick that I can’t make out precisely what’s happening, but the black wolf is larger, and so I feel sure it will win. Yet the red wolf stands its ground, sinking its fangs into the black wolf’s shoulder and hanging on.

For one moment I think the red wolf must be defending me. But how stupid of me. It’s just trying to claim prey for itself.

“Help!” I scream. “Somebody, help!” My voice echoes off the green and white tiles, and I know nobody is close enough to hear. The vapor catches in my throat again, and I pull off my white cotton cap—damp from the steam—and hold it across my face.

The fight lasts for what feels like eternity, though probably it’s only a few minutes. I have no sense of time anymore; there’s nothing in the world but my fast, hard pulse and the trembling in my limbs. Exhaustion has weighed me down since this day began, and now, weakened by fear, I feel as if it’s all I can do to remain standing. But I keep myself braced against that door.

Eventually the black wolf retreats, walking backward from the red wolf, which is panting hard. I hear that sickening sound again, and the wolf twists violently, jerking up onto its hind legs; the iron-black fur begins to vanish, disappearing beneath restored skin. Although I know it’s Mikhail—that this has been Mikhail the entire time—it’s still a shock to see his cruel face once more. His shoulder is bleeding from bite marks, but it’s as though I can see him healing where he stands.

Then his eyes flick up toward mine, and I see that he still has the flat, animal gaze of a wolf.

Mikhail laughs as he grabs his abandoned clothing and begins putting it back on. “Look at you,” he says. “Too stupid to know what you’ve seen. To appreciate the miracle you’ve beheld. And all your pretty golden curls down in your face. Beautiful and foolish—very appetizing.”

“You’re nothing more than a freak from the circus,” I say, with more bravado than I feel.

It outrages him. Mikhail snarls as savagely as he did while a wolf. “You don’t know your betters. You don’t know a god when you see one.”

“You’re no god!”

“My compatriot has worked up an appetite now,” Mikhail says as he buttons his shirt. “And I think he wants you to himself.” He opens the door, letting in a brief shaft of light. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in the morning to gnaw your bones.”

The door slams shut again, and I hear a key turn in the lock. I’m as trapped as I was before, but now I’m alone with only the red wolf.

The wolf doesn’t come after me right away. Perhaps he’s as hungry as Mikhail said, but as he paces I see him limping, clearly in pain. There are droplets of blood on the floor from the fight between the wolves, and not all of that blood could be Mikhail’s. He’s injured. Badly?

Badly enough for me to escape?

Tentatively, I step to the floor, then slowly open the door of the booth. Just as I open it enough to step through, the wolf turns to stare at me. Its green-gold eyes are bright amid the steam. The wolf’s head droops low, like that of any hurt creature, and I remember everything the groundskeeper at Moorcliffe told me about wounded animals being the most dangerous.

I dare not risk it. Instead I dash back into the booth and shut the door again. The wolf steps closer, pacing in front of my door again, and then stopping there—close enough for me to hear its panting once more.

My whole body is shaking from weariness and fear, but I force myself to think rationally. The beast is wounded. Weak. Probably the wolf no longer has the strength to get through the door of the booth, and it’s too enormous to get underneath. No doubt it will recover—and be very hungry when it does—but that will take time. And time is on my side.

Gentlemen from first class will want to use the Turkish bath tomorrow. Probably the bath opens not long after the breakfast service. That means the attendant will come to make this area ready around breakfast time, if not earlier. Help is coming. All I have to do is wait.

The heat is unbearable. Sweat and condensed water have slicked my skin, and it feels as though I can’t catch my breath. I hesitate, because the thought of undressing makes me feel less safe—but the thought of wearing wet, heavy clothes in this suffocating heat is even worse. So I peel off my damp, sodden uniform so that I’m wearing only my thin vest and slip. That’s a little better.

I pull my knees up so that I can lie down on the small bench inside this booth, and crumple my uniform into a ball beneath my head. The wooden slats are hard against my side, but I don’t care.

Outside, the wolf lies down outside my door. I can see nothing except his red fur. He’s waiting for me. He doesn’t mean to let me get away, even when he sleeps.

The thought is horrifying, and it keeps me awake for hours as I tremble and cough. But eventually sleep wins, and I drift into dreamless oblivion.

April 11, 1912

I awake knowing only that I am stiff and uncomfortable, and that I want more sleep. Then I open my eyes, and my strange surroundings—and the unbelievable memories that explain them—jolt me to alertness. I sit upright and push my hands against the door almost before I remember that I’m doing it to keep the wolf back.

There’s light now—thin and gray. Dawn, then. There must be portholes to let the sunlight in. I look down, but the wolf isn’t lying in front of the door any longer. I can’t hear him panting, either, nor any claws against the tile. Might it have left? Died in the night? Or is it at least far enough away that I could run to the door and pound against it? Someone might be closer now.

With a shaking hand, I pull the door open, so slowly that it seems to take forever. No movement. No sound. So I dart out, thinking to run for the door that leads to the hallway and do whatever I can for myself—

—and I jerk to a halt within two steps.

Lying on the floor, entirely naked, perfectly formed, and dazed nearly to the point of unconsciousness, is Alec Marlowe.

The red wolf.