The Invitation(33)

Just as he is about to draw back the drapes, she calls to him. ‘Thank you, sire. Without your assistance I would perhaps have perished.’

There is no perhaps about it, he thinks, but does not say it. He did save her life. ‘You are welcome, signora.’

The storm appears out of nowhere the next morning, bruise-dark, the hue of the marks on the girl’s legs. The clouds gather themselves astonishingly fast, and there is barely time to reef the sails before the first gusts come upon them, whoomping against the fabric, shivering over the deck. The thunder feels extremely close and loud, almost personal. And then there is lightning, following only a moment behind. It forks into strands of fire, a phenomenon the captain has never seen at this time of year. The wind, too, is strange. He can’t work it out. Any Genoan knows the eight winds as well as he knows the names of his own wife and children. They are like a litany: Scirocco, Tramontana, il Grecale, il Ponente, Mezzogiorno, il Mare, Borrasca, Maestrale. But this one is schizophrenic, shifting, impossible to read.

He hears the confusion and dismay of the men all about him – can almost taste their fear. Luckily they are able to make their way to relative shelter from the wind and the swell in the deep waters close to the land. But, as the captain hears one of the men say, if the lightning struck them it could split a mast in two. There is not much to do other than brace themselves and hope that they can hold out. But then, after raging with peculiar ferocity for a short time, the storm retreats, to disappear as quickly as it arrived.

And the rumours start. They are a superstitious lot, sailors. Perhaps inevitably so, considering the vast and unknowable nature of the sea. Watching for omens is another way of navigating for some: no different, really, to reading the stars. The captain has brought a woman on board ship. Every sailor, even those who don’t believe in the other superstitions, knows that this is bad luck. Moreover, she is a strange, beautiful woman who was found in the middle of the deep waters, nowhere near to dry land. It looked as though she were drowning, but might that simply have been a ruse? Is she a mer-creature, then, as the captain’s third-in-command had at first suggested? Well, some of the men reason, they are certainly known to be found in these parts. What is commonly agreed is that the storm was a strange one, and it followed too soon after her having been brought on board.

The men like their captain. More than that, they respect him, and many among them feel they owe their lives to him. He is bringing them home unharmed – or as little harmed as might be hoped – to their wives and families, to their beloved city. He has always seemed clear-headed. A man to be trusted. But now the rumours start to attach themselves to him too. He is glassy-eyed and listless, they notice: like a sleepwalker. He guards the entrance to his cabin jealously, as though any man would dare enter without his permission. He acts, some say, like a man in love. Or, others mutter, like a man possessed.





Hal is aware, suddenly, of footsteps behind him. Remembering Gaspari’s words, he tucks the journal beneath him, out of sight. Then he turns and sees with a shock the white shape coming nearer through the gloom. There is something strange about the way she moves, but he cannot quite identify what. Her arms hang absolutely still at her sides, her feet appear to drag.

‘Mrs Truss?’

No answer. Though she is saying something: one word, over and over. It is an eerie sound. He feels the hairs on his arms prickle to attention. It is a name, he is certain: though not one he can decipher.

‘Stella?’ He stands, and takes a step toward her. She wears a nightdress that falls to mid-thigh but her legs, her long pale legs, are bare. Her hair is mussed, sticking up at the front from her forehead in disarray. And only now does he see why she doesn’t answer him. Her eyes are open, but filmy-looking, unseeing as a blind person’s.

What should he do? He has heard somewhere that you should not wake a sleepwalker. But it feels wrong to be watching her without her knowledge. It makes him a voyeur. He tries her name once more, softly. Finally, he sees the tremor of a response, and watches as the glazed look clears. She stares about herself in confusion.

She sees Hal. ‘What—’

‘You were asleep.’

‘Oh no.’ She moves her head, as if trying to shake the sleep from it. ‘Not here.’

‘It happens a lot?’

‘Sometimes. I have pills, that I’m meant to take, to help me sleep more deeply. I must have forgotten …’

‘I didn’t know whether to wake you.’

But she isn’t listening. She is looking down at her naked legs and feet below the hem of her nightgown. It takes some effort of will for him not to follow her gaze. He keeps it fixed, resolutely, above her shoulders.

Now she is looking back towards the steps, probably deciding how quickly she can get back to them. He thinks of how she must have climbed them with her eyes closed. She could have broken her neck.

‘Stay.’ He doesn’t know what makes him say it, and the urgency of it embarrasses him. To cover himself he says, quickly, ‘You should probably sit down for a couple of minutes, wake yourself up properly.’

She wavers. He moves across on the seat, to give her room. But she chooses the other sunbed, several feet away.

And to his surprise, she says, ‘Yes, please. I do feel a little strange.’

They sit for a while in silence. He can’t think of anything to say to her.