The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(83)

“What?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t want you to die.” He looks at me. “I know what you are now, but that doesn’t change anything. I still don’t want you to die.”

The ship gives an enormous lurch then, pitching forward and rocking from side to side. I grip the edge of the table to keep from rolling off. John places his hands firmly on the surface, his head bowed. I can hear him breathing. Deep, slow, even breaths, the way he did after he stitched me up.

“What is it?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. But there’s another lurch and he slumps into a chair beside me.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he whispers. He reaches under the table and slides out his bag and starts digging through it. He pulls out a knife and—of all things—a lemon. He quickly slices it in two, holding one half to his nose and breathing deeply.

I watch him, my eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

He still doesn’t answer. He just sits there, breathing in the lemon. The sharp, tangy scent fills the tiny cabin. Finally, he speaks.

“Remember when you asked why I wasn’t a pirate, like my father?”

“Yes.”

“It’s because I get seasick.” He looks at me then, his face as gray and colorless as the sky and sea outside. “Horribly, violently seasick. In fact, it’s all I can do not to throw up on you right now.”

He sets the lemon on the table and smiles a little, so I know he’s joking. But probably not much. He looks awful.

“My father and I tried everything. Drafts, spices, herbs. But nothing worked. The only thing that takes the edge off is a lemon. When I was a kid, I used to squeeze the juice all over my clothes. It helps a lot, but it stains them terribly. It would make my mother crazy.”

I remember the drink Bram gave me at the party. The one he said would taste like the one thing I wanted most in the world. The one that tasted like lemons and spices, the one I thought tasted like shandygaff. The one I thought was meant to remind me of Caleb. But it wasn’t Caleb. It was John.

I feel a sickness then, one that’s got nothing to do with the sea. There’s a churning in my stomach and a terrible, hollow ache in my chest. I need to say something to him, but I don’t know what.

“Whatever happens tonight, I just want to say thank you,” I finally manage. “For taking care of me. For saving my life. I know that can’t make up for what I’ve done, but I wish—” I stop. There’s no point in saying what I wish. “Chime is very lucky,” I blurt instead.

“What?” John jerks his head up. A stray lock of hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother to push it away. “What did you say?”

“Chime,” I say again. “I met her at the party. Fifer introduced us. She said you were—” I stop. A wave of pure jealousy surges through me, so strong it makes me dizzy.

“No.” He shakes his head. “She’s not. We aren’t—” He breaks off.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

I don’t. I don’t know what’s happening. The only thing I do know is that when I look at him, his face pale and drawn, eyes shadowed and dark, he looks as miserable as I feel. Without thinking, I reach my hand up to his face and brush the hair off his forehead.

At my touch, his eyes widen in surprise. I freeze, feeling foolish. What am I doing? I start to pull away, but before I can, he catches my hand fast between both of his, wrapping his fingers around mine and holding them tight.

We stay that way, just staring at each other, neither of us speaking. I don’t feel that familiar sensation of fear or the need to pull away. This time I feel something unfamiliar: the need to hold on tighter.

Someone clears her throat. I look up and see Fifer standing in the doorway, holding both of our bags. She looks from John to me then nods, as if she’s come to some kind of understanding.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says. “But we need to start getting ready.”

John drops my hand. He leans over his bag and hastily shoves everything inside: the lemon, the knife, the bandage. Then, without a word, he gets up and leaves, pushing past Fifer without a glance at either of us.

Fifer steps inside the cabin and shuts the door. She drops our bags on the ground and begins pulling things out: undergarments and gowns and slippers and jewelry.

I help her dress, lacing her into the same gown she wore the first night at Humbert’s, the copper silk with the green bodice. She moves to the mirror next to the bed and fixes her hair, pulling it away from her face, little ringlets falling down around her freckled cheeks. Her bruise is still evident, but she manages to hide most of it with powder.

She spins to face me. “Well?”

“You look pretty,” I say.

“We’ve got some work to do on you, though.” She eyes me critically. “You’re pale and your hair is a fright.” She snatches my things off the floor: the blue dress with the bird embroidered on the front, the matching hair combs, the jewelry. “Let me see what I can do.”

After what seems like forever, Fifer finishes with me. I look at my reflection in the mirror and, I have to say, I don’t look too bad. By some miracle, she’s managed to tame my hair. It’s smooth and shiny and falls over my shoulders in soft waves. She pinned back the sides with the combs, just the way Bridget did, even added a bit of color to my cheeks and lips to hide how pale I am.