A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(19)

Chapter Six

I thought I would start bawling the moment I reached my cabin, but, in fact, being away from the depressed demon and his drink and walking with long, purposeful strides was enough to lift my mood —or at least to clear away some of the pulsing anger.

But not enough to calm my thoughts.

A demon? Bound to my brother by a necklace? An old man in Egypt?

I was more confused than ever . . . but I felt I could be certain of one thing: the drunk young man in the dining room was not Marcus.

I found Mrs. Brown in her dressing gown, lounging in one of the armchairs and reading. “Miss

Fitt,” she said with a nod.

I winced. “Please, just call me Eleanor.” Ever since I’d realized Miss Fitt sounded identical to

“misfit,” I had vowed I would never use my surname again.

She sniffed. “As you wish.”

“Where’s Lizzie?” I asked, crossing toward my bed.

“The bathroom, preparing her evening toilet.”

“Oh.” I peeked at what Mrs. Brown was reading as I passed: a book on manners. My lips twitched, and I wondered if it was the same book Daniel toted.

At that thought, an image of Daniel in a black evening suit materialized in my mind . . . and my mouth went dry. If anyone could fill out a dress suit well, I was certain it was he.

Clarence filled out his suit well too—

My lungs clenched shut, pushing out my air. I did not want to think of Clarence. Dwelling on his memory would stir up emotions I did not need.

I sucked in a shaky breath and dropped to the floor before my drawer. As I yanked out my nightgown, I checked quickly for Elijah’s letters—still nestled beneath my spare petticoat.

Right then the door swung open. Laure strutted in. “Ah, Mademoiselle Fitt! You were not in the saloon—you missed the most wonderful card game.” She stopped beside me and leaned onto her bunk, adding in a lower voice that smelled of wine, “Please tell me you did not spend the evening with the old goat.”

“The who?”

“Madame Brown.” She motioned to her chin and mouthed, “Beard. Like a goat.”

Despite my rattled nerves, I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, I spent most of the evening on the promenade deck.”

“Ah, do you feel better now?”

“Much.” I smiled.

“Magnifique. ” She bent down to her own drawer and withdrew a white shift. “Come, let us prepare for the night’s slumber. I wish to ’ave great dreams of true love and adventure.”

A little snort came from the armchair. Laure whirled around and wagged her finger in Mrs.

Brown’s face. “Oh, what do you know of l’amour, you old—”

“That’s enough.” I grabbed her arm and towed her to the door.

Laure hooted a laugh. Once we were in the hall and headed toward the bathroom, she whispered, “But she is an old goat, non?” She raised her voice in song. “Old goat! Vieille chèvre ! Old . . .” She trailed off as a wide-eyed Lizzie Brown walked by, her head swiveling to watch us pass.

I had to press my fingers to my lips to keep from laughing.

After we had used the bathroom, a stewardess came to our cabin to help us remove our dresses and —in Laure’s case—corset. I hadn’t worn one in months, and I rather liked the snide glares people gave me for it. One day the suffragists and I wouldn’t be the only ones foregoing the whalebone prisons.

By the time we were in our nightgowns, Laure’s wine giddiness had faded into wine exhaustion; and once the stewardess left, I practically had to carry her to her bunk. The Browns were already tucked in, and I waited until I could hear Laure’s heavy breathing before I switched on an electric lamp beside my bunk, pulled Elijah’s letters from my drawer, and spread them over my bed.

There were only eight in total, and if Oliver spoke the truth, then these were the most important. I started with the first, dated from the summer of 1873, when Elijah had first left.

As they had seemed when I’d originally read them, the letters were a confusing, rambling mess.

Mentions of his work were dropped in with names. A hotel steward, a cab driver, a librarian—they were all sprinkled around his day-to-day activities.

And then there were the lines addressed to me. The descriptions of places he thought I’d like, stories he knew I’d laugh at, and promises to come home soon.

In the second letter, Oliver’s name appeared twice, but it was only in reference to a joke. There was no mention of Oliver in the third letter, nor did anything crop up in the fourth or fifth.

Until my eyes lit on the name “Ollie” in the final line of the fifth.

Once, in Marseille, Ollie told me a hilarious riddle about Jack and the beanstalk, but since we were in the crypt of Notre-Dame de la Garde, our laughter echoed around all those soldiers’ tombs until the priest finally made us leave.

“Very useful story, Elijah,” I muttered under my breath. “You don’t even share the riddle’s answer.” All the same, now I knew that he must have called Oliver “Ollie,” and that nickname did appear rather frequently.

A yawn took over my mouth, and my eyes stung with exhaustion. I sank back on my bed. It was late, and I had eight more days of sailing to sort out things with this demon. I hadn’t felt a single twinge in my hand since leaving Philadelphia, and I had three roommates to awaken if anyone entered our cabin. For now I felt safe.