Brightly Burning(31)
“Oh,” Hugo said, clearly taken aback. “Yes, I suppose so.” Now he was the one clearing his throat. “I hadn’t realized Xiao or anyone would have talked with you about it.”
“Oh, well, I asked was what down here, and above decks. I was curious.”
“You are a rather curious sort of person, aren’t you?” Hugo stated. I couldn’t tell if he thought this was a good or bad thing, however. “Anyway, it’s getting late.”
It was all Hugo had to say; I followed him up to our quarters and made with hasty goodbyes. I had a sudden urge to draw. I turned on my tablet to find the last project I’d been working on—?that portrait of George. It was funny. I missed him—?he was my closest friend without a doubt—?but I no longer felt the harsh pangs of unrequited love. They’d diminished into a gentle hum, barely present unless I purposely tried to tap into my angst. It had been a silly, misplaced crush.
I opened a new document, began to sketch a new face. Strong nose. Heavy eyebrows, usually furrowed in thought. Lips quirked in judgment—?or interest? Blue eyes that burned like cold fire. I stayed up far past bedtime finishing him, blackening the page with the charcoal brush, capturing all his shadows and light. Eventually I was too weary to go on, but the portrait was nearly done. I fell into an exhausted sleep, Hugo’s face flashing against my closed eyelids.
Chapter Eleven
I woke to a different Hugo. Or, more accurately, I met him at dinner.
“Thank you for joining us, everyone,” he said, standing up from his chair and addressing us like an assembly. “Very rarely do we all gather in one place to break bread. Mari actually left her dungeon!”
All eyes turned to Mari, who grimaced and tilted her head in acknowledgment.
“Albert has prepared quite the spread,” Hugo went on, “and everyone should help themselves to some wine.” He topped off his glass and then passed the decanter to his left. “Except you, Jessa.” The table obliged him with polite laughter. Then we dug in to the food, which included pot roast and mashed potatoes. We ate in silence until Hugo started speechifying again.
“I thought we might engage in some thanksgiving,” he said. “Each of us say what we’re thankful for. I’ll start by saying how grateful I am for each and every one of you. I know without a doubt that the Rochester has the best crew in the galaxy.” I was used to Hugo being chatty, even a bit flirty, but this was sappy in a way Hugo wasn’t.
Then I realized that Hugo’s eyes were glassy, his brow lined with perspiration. I glanced around the table to find others had noticed it too. Hugo was intoxicated. Well . . . more than he usually was. Xiao shifted uncomfortably in her chair, sitting straight-backed as if ready to spring into action, should it be required. Orion stifled a laugh, as if drunk and effusive Hugo was the most hilarious thing in the world. Jessa was, thankfully, clueless in the way only a ten-year-old can be. And Lieutenant Poole’s expression was dark, concern radiating off her in waves. It was a look I’d not seen on her. Maternal.
We went around the table in turn to appease Hugo, rattling off things we were thankful for, while he clapped enthusiastically for each one. That got Jessa’s attention.
“Hugo, why are you acting like such a weirdo?” she asked.
“Jessa, don’t be rude,” I scolded.
“I’m fine!” Hugo slurred, taking a swig from his glass. “Just happy to be home,” he said. No one pointed out he’d been home for weeks. “And we have wonderful new crew, like Stella!” He leaned over conspiratorially and failed at whispering to Officer Xiao. “She likes books.”
My face burned hot, and I averted my gaze from meeting anyone else’s by fully engrossing myself in my food. Everyone who wasn’t Hugo united in an unspoken agreement to eat as quickly as possible, with Orion bravely being first to make a break for freedom.
“I should be putting Jessa to bed now,” Orion said, and for once Jessa didn’t protest. Hugo had oscillated from buoyant to dour by that point, frowning at them as they went. Albert and Mari quickly followed suit, but when I tried to stand, making excuses to turn in to bed early, Hugo was having none of it.
“Noooo.” He stood up from his chair, stumbling a step and grabbing onto the table for support. “We have a standing reading appointment. I still expect to see you in my study in ten minutes! Xiao, see that she makes it.” Making sure to take his glass with him, Hugo strode as confidently as he could out of the dining room, wobbling just slightly at the door.
“What’s going on?” I asked, dazed as I watched him go. Xiao threw a meaningful look at Lieutenant Poole, who shrugged.
“You might as well tell her,” Poole said. “She’ll have to dance around it for the next two hours. And with that,” she said, taking a serving of pot roast for the road, “I am off to see if I can find any of that liquor stash the captain’s obviously got himself into. Good night.”
Xiao took a minute before explaining. “The captain’s behavior . . . I’m not excusing it. But today is a difficult day for him. For all of us. Today is the fifth anniversary of the day Hugo’s father died. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
I did, with a cutting clarity.
“Following my previous brief, please refrain from topics related to the captain’s parents, today especially. And stop him from drinking much more, if you can.”