Passenger (Passenger #1) - Alexandra Bracken Page 0,19
clothes; dark hair perfectly pulled back and collected at the base of his skull in a queue; a face like a child’s—Nicholas mistrusted anyone who could stay so pristine on a ship, never mind in the midst of battle. It spoke of cowards.
“Easy, Nick,” Hall said, helping him sit up, “it’s only this ship’s surgeon’s mate.”
“Where’s Philips?” he demanded. “Or this ship’s surgeon?”
“Philips went below to tend to the men there. Their surgeon is no longer in possession of the lower half of his body. I believe he is presently indisposed with the business of dying.”
Nicholas shook his head, unwilling to accept that a child would be caring for her. “How long has he been out of strings? A year?”
Captain Hall raised a brow. “About as long as you, I’d wager.”
He didn’t like the liberty with which the surgeon’s mate was cutting her gown and stays open—
“Couldn’t be bothered to take off your shoes and stockings, I see,” the captain continued, storm-gray eyes flashing with amusement. “You took off like the devil’s hounds were on your heels.”
Nicholas glowered at Hall, well aware of his sagging wet stockings and the ruined leather. “I didn’t realize we are now in the habit of letting ladies drown.”
His words were forgotten when Nicholas caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned in time to see the surgeon’s mate raise a fist and bring it down, hard, against her stomach.
“Sir!” Nicholas surged up off the deck, swaying on his feet. “You dare—?”
The girl coughed violently, her back twisting off the deck as she spat out the water in her lungs. Long, pale fingers curled against the deck and she took several panting breaths, eyes squeezed shut. Nicholas’s eyes narrowed at where the surgeon’s mate had placed a steadying hand on her bare shoulder.
No one spoke, not even Captain Hall, who seemed as startled as the rest of them to have her so suddenly returned to them from the land of the dead. Persephone, indeed.
“Ma’am,” Nicholas managed to scratch out, with a curt bow. “Good afternoon.”
Her eyelids fluttered as she collapsed onto her back again. Her hair, darker now that it was wet, clung to the curve of her skull. The sailors seemed to step in as one, leaning forward to peer down at her, and were rewarded with a wide-eyed gaze as pale blue as the sky above them.
“Um,” she said hoarsely. “Hi?”
THERE WASN’T A PART OF Etta that didn’t feel raw and battered; the aching inside her skull did nothing to dampen the rank smell of blood and body odor, and something else that almost smelled like fireworks.
Looking from face to face—the knit caps, a crooked and fraying wig, a few wet eyes discreetly wiped against shoulders—her mind began the work of piecing it all together as if she were sight-reading a new piece of music. The notes became measures, and the measures phrases, until finally the whole melody drifted through her.
She was not in the museum. So, obviously, the rescue workers must have carried her out into the street, away from that strange explosion of noise and light. Her skin, hair, and dress were drenched through and through, because—because of the building’s sprinklers, right?
And the costumes…maybe there had been some kind of play going on in a nearby building and they’d rushed out to help? Etta wasn’t sure—what did firemen actually wear under their uniforms? No, Etta, she thought, they don’t wear loose white shirts, or buckle shoes, or hats straight out of Masterpiece Theatre. So…a play. Theatrical production. They’d either been caught in the explosion…attack, whatever it had been, or had some very authentic makeup.
Mom? She tried to get her mouth around the word, but her throat felt like it had been scraped with a razor. Alice. Alice had been shot—Alice was—she was—
Dead.
That couldn’t be right. That made no sense.
She brought a trembling hand up to rub the crustiness from her eyes, soothe the burn building behind her lashes. The sky was spread so wide over her, without a single building to block the view. Were they in the park? The smoke was still so overpowering, she couldn’t pick up the familiar blend of the city’s exhaust and the rancid-sweet smell of its festering garbage. No siren, no alarms, just…the creak of wood. The slap of water.
The bob and roll of the ground beneath her.
You’re not in the Met.
Etta shook her head, trying to clear the thought, fight the panic.