CLAUDIA GRAY

Fateful

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Author’s Notes

About the Author

Also by Claudia Gray

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

APRIL 9, 1912

It’s not too late to turn back, I tell myself.

As a group of sailors leer at me, I cross my arms in front and wish my coat weren’t so shabby. Though the spring days are warm now, the nights are cool, and the sea-sharpened wind cuts through thin cloth.

The streets of Southampton darken as the hour grows late, not that I can see the sun or anything so cheery with all these tall buildings surrounding me. My feet, accustomed to either the dirt roads of my home village or the polished floors of Moorcliffe, stumble on the cobblestones. I like to think of myself as a steady sort of girl, but the unfamiliarity of everyone and everything around me has put me off balance. The city seems dangerous, and dusk here seems more forbidding than midnight at home.

I could go back to the hotel suite, where my employers await. I could just say that the shop was closed, that I wasn’t able to purchase the bootlaces. Miss Irene wouldn’t mind a bit; she didn’t want to send me out on my own in the first place.

But Lady Regina would be furious—even over something as trivial as my not being able to purchase extra bootlaces for the trip. Lady Regina’s fury would spill over into Mrs. Horne’s punishment. I’m afraid of being out in a city on my own, but I’m more afraid of getting sacked before I reach America.

So I square my shoulders and hurry along the road. My servant’s dress, long and black, complete with white apron and puffy linen cap, marks me as lower class and insignificant. But it also says that I am employed by a household wealthy enough to have servants run the errands. Maybe that keeps me safe. The men around me know that I work for people of quality, and that if anything were to happen to me, those people might be upset and demand justice.

Luckily, these men don’t know Lady Regina. Her only reaction to my death would be annoyance at having to find another maid who could fit in the same uniforms, so she wouldn’t have to pay for new ones.

Something dark swoops overhead—a seagull, I think, and I lift one hand above my head to ward it off. I never saw a gull before this afternoon, and already I’ve come to despise the loud, greedy things.

But it’s not a seagull. I don’t get a very good look at it, fast as it goes by, but I see the sharp angles of the wings, the quick flutter. It’s a bat, I think. Even worse. That reminds me of the gothic novels I’ve sneaked peeks at in the Lisle family library—Frankenstein and Dracula and Udolpho, all the scary ones that were so much fun to read in a warm, well-lit room but seem far too plausible when I’m alone as darkness falls.

I wouldn’t have expected to see a bat flying through the streets of Southampton, but then, what do I know of the world beyond Moorcliffe and my home village? Only once before in my life have I ever been anywhere else—and that but for a day, just because Daisy needed me very badly.

And now I am planning a greater journey yet—

You mustn’t think of such things right now. You can worry about all that after you get on the ship.

After it’s too late to turn back.

Resolutely I continue on my path toward the shop. The sailors thin out a bit, though the streets still seem crowded to me. I know I’ve got to get used to it, because we’re traveling to New York City, which I understand makes Southampton look like a small town.

All the same, it’s a relief to turn off the main road and take what I hope is a shortcut toward the shop. This alleyway is so old and worn down by time that the stones dip into a V in the center, and my hobnail shoes make me clumsy as I continue on my way. Oh, for a pair of Miss Irene’s dove-gray boots, of such soft leather they would never blister, and light on the feet instead of heavy—

The bat swoops overhead again, so close I think it’s diving for my cap.

Though I feel a chill, I don’t let my imagination run away with me; instead, I focus on the practicalities and clutch my cap to my head. If some fool bat steals part of my uniform, the Lisles will make me pay for a new one.

What time is it? No telling—I’ve never owned anything so fancy as a wristwatch, and there’s no church tower clock to be seen here. Surely no shop will be open at this hour, but Lady Regina has it in her head that things are done differently in cities. I take heart as I turn a corner and see a group of men walking along—not ruffians like the sailors, but gentlemen in fine hats and coats. They won’t bother me.

I hasten my steps so that I’ll fall in only a few feet behind them. They seem to be heading toward the shop, if I’ve understood the directions the hotel concierge rather brusquely gave me. That gives me a little protection for the last bit of my journey. Breathing easier, I let my mind wander to tomorrow’s voyage—my first-ever glimpse of the ocean, my first-ever time to leave England—

And, if I have my way, the last I shall ever see of my home country—

“You like to eavesdrop.”

Caught off guard, I look up at the gentleman who has turned to face me. He, and all the others in his group, have stopped in their tracks. I drop a quick curtsy. “No, sir. I wasn’t listening, sir. I beg your pardon, sir.” That’s the truth, too: One of the first things you learn, as a servant, is how to ignore conversations you don’t care to hear. Otherwise you’d go half-mad with boredom.

In the twilight shadows, I can’t quite make out his features—only the dark spade of his Vandyke beard against his too-pale skin, and the uncanny glint in his eyes. His expensive pocket watch, worth more than ten years’ of my salary, dangles from a fob, oddly scratched for something so priceless. He tilts his head slightly as he studies me. “You beg, you say.”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” I repeat, and hurry past them without waiting to be excused. Normally I’d never be so rude to gentlemen, but these are strangers, and probably they hoped to amuse themselves by making me grovel. I’m in a hurry, thank you very much.

I cast one worried glance behind me, expecting to see them either laughing at me or already on their way. Instead, they’re all gone. As if they had vanished.

Unnerved, I try to remember what they said that they were so displeased I might have overheard—though I was paying them no mind, I can recall a few words and phrases now. “Valuable influence,” they said. And “must be close by.” A name: “Marlowe.” And something about “let him know he’s being watched.”

That does sound a bit suspicious, but surely they know, whatever it is they’re up to, there’s nothing any servant girl could do to stop them.

I try to refocus on my errand. Where was I supposed to take that last turn? Is this the name of the street? I can find no signs. It can’t be more than ten minutes until nightfall, and finding my way home after dark will be difficult.

Then I hear footsteps, heavy and distinct. Coming closer.

I look behind me but can see no one. The footsteps are coming from some other angle, one I can’t see. So probably whoever is coming can’t see me either and is headed in this direction by no more than coincidence. But it unnerves me for no reason I can name. I turn to continue on my way, then gasp as I realize I am no longer alone.

A man is standing with me in the alley—not one of the frightening group from a few moments ago, but a young man, perhaps only a few years older than I am. He has the rich chestnut curls of a poet and the broad shoulders of a farmhand. His eyes are those of a hunted criminal.

Was it his footsteps I heard? Impossible—they were from another direction. And he too is looking into the not-so-distant dark. His alarm is greater than my own.

“Come with me,” he says.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I can’t.” Does he take me for a streetwalker? How horrifying. And yet he looks well-bred in his handsome suit and gleaming shoes; surely he must recognize what my uniform means. “I’ve an errand to run—”

“Damn your errand.” His voice is rough, his broad hand tense as it closes around my upper arm. “If you don’t come with me now, you’re dead.”

Is he threatening me? It sounds like it, and feels like it too from the rough way he drags me along with him as he starts walking quickly through the alley back toward the main street. And yet I don’t believe that’s what is happening here. Whatever’s happening is something I don’t understand.

“Sir,” I protest. “Let me go. I can find my way to the main road on my own.”

“You’ll be dead before you go ten steps without me.” His hand is warm as it clasps my arm—more than warm, hot. As if he burned with fever. I can hear our pursuers coming closer. “Stay by my side and walk faster. And for the love of God, don’t look back.”

I wonder that he doesn’t suggest we run, but I realize that it’s all he can do to walk himself—he’s almost staggering, and not in the way Layton Lisle does after he’s downed two bottles of wine. It’s as though the man is in pain. And yet his fingers dig into my flesh with an almost unnatural strength.

The steps behind us change. No longer do they sound like footsteps. Instead they’re softer—and yet they click upon the cobblestones—

As I’m unable to wrest myself free from my captor, I defy him by looking back. And there I see the wolf.

The scream rips through my throat even as the dark wolf pounces, its enormous body seeming to black out the last light of the day. I’m pulled to the side just in time by the young man, who slams me against the wall of the nearest building and flattens his body against mine, his back to my front.

“What’s happening?” I gasp. Wolves attacking in the middle of the city? And this—this enormous black creature, snarling as it paces back and forth—I had never imagined a wolf could be so large.

“Leave us,” the young man says, as if the wolf could understand. “Leave us now!”

The wolf cocks its head—not like an inquisitive dog, but an almost human gesture. Its teeth are still bared, hot saliva dripping from its jaws. A deep growl rumbles through its chest, and its golden eyes seem to be locked on me, not the man guarding me.

“Go now!” The young man sounds desperate now, as well he might. I can feel the hard, quick rise and fall of his chest against me with every ragged breath, and his muscles are taut beneath my palms braced against his shoulders.

And yet somehow, it works. The wolf simply lopes away.

“What in the world was that?” I say as my rescuer slumps forward. “It looked to be a wolf.”

“It was.” He sounds exhausted.

“But why would a wolf—” Be here in Southampton, find his way to an inner alley instead of preying on people and animals he would have had to pass on the way, and give up when spoken to sharply? None of it makes any sense. But I know what I saw, and what this man did for me. “Thank you, sir. For your kind help.”

When I look back at him, though, he doesn’t look pleased. He looks crueler than the wolf ever did.

“Leave me,” he says. His eyes have that uncanny glint to them again, though now he looks less hunted. More criminal. “If you don’t leave me now, you’re dead.”

I can’t tell if he’s warning me or threatening me. Either way, I don’t have to be told twice. I run out of the alleyway toward the shop, not looking back once until I reach the store’s door. It is, of course, closed.

All the way back to the hotel, and all the way through Mrs. Horne’s lecture on my tardiness and inadequacy as a ladies’ maid, I am only half-present. In my mind, I’m still in the alleyway, repeating the events over and over, braving the fear I felt in an effort to make sense of it all.

I don’t understand what happened to me in that alley, or what the wolf was doing, or the intentions of the man who seemed to save me and threaten me within the same minute. Even as I go to bed, I keep turning it over. It must have been some sort of freak occurrence, the wolf, and if the man who rescued me was behaving strangely—well, maybe he was a sailor after all. One better dressed than most, but just as given to drink.

But I can’t shake the thought of it until I realize, all in an instant, that this is the last night I will ever spend in England.

That pulls me into the here and now as nothing else could. I tug my thin blanket more securely around myself and think of everything I’m leaving behind. My home village. Mum. The wheat fields where I used to play. Daisy and Matthew. Everything from my life before. The voyage before me seems more perilous and frightening than anything that happened in the alley.

Yet I know that this is the best chance I’ll ever have to make a new life for myself. Quite possibly it’s the only chance.

No, it’s not too late for me to turn back. But I won’t.

Chapter 2

APRIL 10, 1912

It’s a fine spring morning at the seaside—the sort of thing I’ve dreamt of my whole life. Novels describe the scene by saying that the air is fresh and the blue water dappled with sunlight. I’ve pictured it a thousand times, up in my dark attic. This morning, the very first thing I thought was, At last I will see the ocean.

But the ocean isn’t blue, not this close to land; it’s the same silt-brown color as the millpond, except with an eerie greenish cast to the waves. The harbor is no peaceful oasis for a young girl to stroll; instead it’s more packed with people than the streets were last night—poor people, rich ones, fine lace up against coarse weave, and the smell of sweat thicker in the air than that of seawater. People shout at one another, some happy, others impatient or angry, but the fevered energy of the throng makes it hard to tell which is which. Crammed in the water are as many ships as could be made to fit, including our liner—the largest of them all. The ship is the only thing I see here that’s actually beautiful. Stark black and white, with vibrant red smokestacks reaching into the sky. It’s so enormous, so graceful, so perfect in its way that it’s hard to think of it as anything built by human hands. It looks more like a mountain range.

At least, more like the way novels describe mountain ranges. I’ve never been to one of those either.

“Enough dawdling, Tess,” says Lady Regina, who, as she is fond of reminding everyone, is the wife of my employer, the Viscount Lisle. “Or do you want to be left on the dock?”

“No, ma’am.” Caught daydreaming again. I’m lucky Lady Regina doesn’t light into me about it the way she usually does. Probably she has spied one of her society friends in this crowd and doesn’t want to be seen dressing down a servant in public.

“Mother, you forget.” Irene—the elder daughter of the family, precisely my age, with a face as wholesome as it is plain—gives me an uncertain smile. “You ought to call her ‘Davies,’ now that she’s my ladies’ maid. It’s more respectful.”

“I’ll give Tess respect when she’s earned it.” Lady Regina looks down her long nose at me, as I hurry to catch up. I readjust my grip as I go; none of the hatboxes are that heavy on their own, but it’s a bit much to handle four at once. Fashion has made hats large this year.

“Is that Peregrine Lewis?” says Layton, the lone son and heir of the Lisle family. He’s long and lean, nearly bony, with sharp shoulders and elbows. He peers through the people around us and smiles so that his thin mustache curls. “Seeing his aunt off, I suppose. Polishing her trunks and begging for postcards. The way he licks her boots and fawns for her! It’s vile.”

“He won’t inherit his fortune from his parents, so he must be attentive to the family he has.” Irene glances up at her brother; her lace-gloved hands knotted together at her waist. She is always so shy, even when she’s trying to defend another. “He hasn’t had your advantages.”

“Still, one must have some pride,” Layton insists, oblivious as ever to the fact that he’s following his mother like an obedient lapdog.

Next to me, Ned mutters, “Noodle.”

This one word makes me bite my lip to hold in the laugh. It’s a nickname Ned gave Layton below stairs, and it’s stuck: Layton is just that skinny, that pale, and that limp. He was almost handsome during his university years; I used to have a bit of a crush, before I was old enough to know better. But the bloom of youth is fading for him much faster than it does for most.

“You’re lucky to have a position at all, disrespectful as you are.” Mrs. Horne, even grumpier than usual, glares at both of us as she shepherds her charge along—little Beatrice, Lady Regina’s change-of-life baby. Only four years old, Beatrice is wearing a straw hat bedecked with ribbons that cost more money than I make in a year. “Both of you, look lively. It’s an honor to be brought on a journey such as this, and like as not the most excitement you’ll ever have in your lives. So attempt to do your work properly!”

This won’t be the most excitement I’ll ever have, I swear to myself. First of all, last night—whatever happened with the wolf and the handsome young man—well, I don’t know what else you’d call it, but it was exciting.

More than that, though, I have plans for my future. Plans more thrilling than any life Horne’s ever dreamed of.

But I mustn’t smile. I imagine the old oil paintings that hang on the walls of Moorcliffe, those moldy ancestors in the fashions of another century, imprisoned by frames dripping with gilt. My face needs to be as serene as theirs. As unreadable. The Lisle family and Mrs. Horne must not suspect.

Ned and I do what Mrs. Horne says and hurry along in the family’s wake, as much a part of their display of wealth and power as the clothes that they wear. He’s Layton’s valet, a job I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, much less dear friendly Ned. He has a long, thin face, ginger hair, and ears like the handles on a milk jug, and yet he’s charming despite his plain face. Thanks to the isolation of life at Moorcliffe, Ned’s one of the few young men I know—one of the only ones I’ve ever known. But we’ve never had eyes for each other. Honestly, after so many years in service together, he feels more like a brother.

I’ve known Mrs. Horne as long as I’ve known Ned, so perhaps I ought to say that she feels more like a mother to me. She doesn’t feel like anybody’s mother, though. It’s impossible to imagine anyone as dry and joyless as Mrs. Horne having given birth to anything, or doing what you have to do to get with child in the first place. (We call her Mrs., but it’s an honorary title; you don’t have to have a husband to be a Mrs., just really old, so Mrs. Horne counts.) She’s the ladies’ maid for Lady Regina, and essentially has the role of housekeeper at Moorcliffe. Nobody among the servants outranks her except the butler, who’s too senile to matter much.

Most of the time, Mrs. Horne terrifies me. She has total power over my life—how much food I get to eat, how many hours I get to sleep, whether I stay in the house to work or get cast out to starve.

But not anymore, I think, and it’s all I can do not to smile into her shriveled, smug face. One week from now, everything will be different.

As we get closer, walking becomes easier. We’ve made it through the passersby, the curiosity seekers; now, everyone is moving in the same direction, flowing onboard. The ship looms over us, taller than the church steeple, taller than anything I’ve ever seen. It seems larger and more majestic than the mud-colored ocean.

Lady Regina waves at one of her society friends, then says, too casually, “Horne, you ought to know that we’ve put the three of you in third class. I understand that the stewards will show you how best to reach us.”

Ned and I can’t resist looking at each other in dismay, and even Mrs. Horne’s thin lips twist in a poor effort to hide her disappointment. When the Lisle family last took a sea voyage a decade ago, the servants stayed in first class with them—feather beds soft as clouds, they said, and more food than you’d ever seen on your own table in your life. We’d hoped for the same. Some people make their servants travel second class; third class is unheard of.

“We’ll be penned down below with a lot of damned foreigners,” Ned mutters. It does sound dreadful, but I remind myself how little it matters.

Layton waves at their friends—approaching now, no doubt fellow passengers. They will have several days on the ocean to talk to one another, but of course they must pay each other every compliment immediately. My arms ache, and I want nothing more than to lay the hatboxes on the ground while we wait. Irene wouldn’t mind, but Mrs. Horne wouldn’t have it. I call on the muscles I have from years of scrubbing floors to see me through.

Then Lady Regina says, “Tess, set those hatboxes down. Mrs. Horne can see to them.”

Mrs. Horne looks put out, probably because she’s now got to handle a small child and four hatboxes. I do what Lady Regina says straightaway and present myself for whatever task she has in mind—because it’s not even worth asking if she saw I was tired. She wouldn’t care. The only reason I get to lay one piece of work aside is to take up another.

Lady Regina snaps her fingers at one of the porters she hired to help, and he hands me a carved wooden box—heavier than all the hatboxes put together. What can they have in there? I manage to grip the small iron handles, though the twists of the metal press into my palms so sharply that they burn. “Yes, milady?” I say. The words come out breathy, as if I’d been running uphill; last night I was too unnerved by the strange incident with the wolf to sleep well, and my exhaustion is showing earlier than usual.

“This needs to be placed in our suite immediately,” Lady Regina says. “I’m uncomfortable leaving it on the dock so long—there are rough characters about. The stewards onboard will show you the way. We’ve arranged for a safe in our cabin; that’s where you’re to put the box. Don’t go leaving it on a table. Am I understood?”

“Yes, milady.” I’m never meant to say anything else to her besides “yes” and “no.”

Lady Regina stares down at me as though I have deviated from the rules in some way. She is a handsome woman, with vibrant beauty that didn’t come down to her daughter—lustrous brown hair and an aquiline nose. Her wide-brimmed hat is thick with plumes and silk flowers, a striking contrast to my shabby black maid’s dress and white linen cap.

“I don’t like sending you to do this alone,” she says sharply. “But I don’t suppose you can manage as many boxes as Ned, and besides—you won’t run off, will you?”

“No, milady.”

Her full lips curl into a contemptuous smile. “I trust you’re a better sort than your sister.”

It feels like scalding water being poured over me, or perhaps like being thrown outside into a snowdrift on an especially cruel winter’s day—something so shocking the body hardly knows how to take it in. My skin burns with rage, as though it’s too tight for me, and my mouth goes dry. I’d like to rip that hat off Lady Regina’s head. I’d like to rip her hair out with it.

I say, “Yes, milady.”

As I go, I feel a strange wave of dread—as though I were back in that alleyway last night. Hardly likely to find a wolf stalking here, amid the ship’s crowd. And yet I feel something prickling along my neck and back, the way I imagine a rabbit knows the cat is watching.

The weight of the box pulls at the joints of my arms, but it’s worth it for a few moments of escape. Or so I tell myself. In truth, it’s a little frightening to be on my own in a crowd like this—more people than I’ve ever seen in one place, all of them pushing and shoving. Also, I can’t tell precisely where I’m supposed to go. There is an entry for first-class passengers, another for third class—going to different decks of the ship altogether. I look down at my burden. Which of us counts more: me or my employers’ possession?

Then I feel it again, that prickle at the back of my neck. The hunter’s eyes on its prey. I glance behind me, expecting to see—what? The wolf from the night before? The young man who rescued me, then told me to flee for the sake of my life? I see neither. In the crush, perhaps I can’t see them, but then they wouldn’t be able to see me either. But someone’s watching. I know he’s there, down deep within me, in the place that doesn’t respond to thought or logic, just pure animal instinct.

Someone in this crowd of strangers is watching me.

Someone is hunting me.

“Lost your way, miss?” says a bluff sort of man, with red cheeks and sky-blue eyes. His voice makes me jump, but the interruption is welcome. He wears what I believe is an officer’s uniform, so why he’s speaking to the likes of me, I can’t imagine. But his voice and face are kind, and I feel safer having somebody to talk to, no matter who it might be.

“I’m to deliver this to my employers’ cabin,” I say. “I’m in the service of the Viscount Lisle’s family.”

“Then it’s first class for you.”

“But I’m traveling in third class.”

He frowns. “A bit cheap, aren’t they?”

I ought to be prim and offended that he’s slighted the family I work for. Instead, I have to stifle a giggle. “I know it must be . . . unusual. But now I don’t know how to board the ship.”

“First class, I think. I remember the head steward talking about this now—they’ve arranged for you to have keys to help you get about. Unusual, yes, but nothing is too good for the family of a viscount.” The touch of sarcasm in his voice is light enough to allow me to ignore the joke or enjoy it, as I prefer. I enjoy it. “The stewards will show you the way once you get aboard. Sure you don’t want to get one of them to handle it? That looks heavy for you.”

It’s the nicest thing anybody has said to me in days, and I’m surprised to feel a small lump in my throat. But I know my duty; I know the potential repercussions. “Milady wants me to handle this personally. Thank you just the same, sir.”

He touches his cap before striding away to whatever duty he put aside to help me. I hurry to the first-class gangplank, hoping that whoever was staring at me before is third class. Some foreigner, no doubt.

And maybe it was no more than my imagination playing tricks on me, bringing out the fear beneath my skin. I have reasons enough to be nervous. This voyage—these next few days—are going to change my life forever.

The first-class gangplank is more like a promenade; people take their time, seeing and being seen in the sunshine. Ladies turn that way and this so that their wide-brimmed hats will be seen to their best advantage, and they hold parasols of finely worked lace that cast scrolling shadows below. Gentlemen’s canes and shoes shine. It might be a fashion parade, were it not for the few servants in the mix panting under our burdens. We move so slowly that I dare to put the box down for a few seconds.

As my tired muscles relax, I slip one hand into the pocket of my dress. There I clasp a small felt purse, one I sewed myself out of scraps. I had to do the work late at night, and they only allow us one candle in the attic, so it’s hardly my finest accomplishment as a seamstress. But nobody sees this purse besides me.

The felt is heavy in my hand. Through the fabric, I can feel the weight of coins, the slip of wadded notes. For the past year and a half, I’ve saved every bit of money I could. I even kept a pound note I found on the stair the morning after a dinner party—a real risk, one that could’ve got me sacked if anybody had found out. Nobody did.

I’ve saved enough to live on for a couple of months. That’s not very long, but it’s more than I’ve ever had together in my whole life, even though I’ve been in service since I left school at thirteen. It’s going to be enough.

Enough so that, when this ship reaches the United States, I can walk off it, slip away from Lady Regina and Mrs. Horne, and never, ever come back.

We shuffle forward on the gangplank, and I take the box up again. It feels even heavier than before, but I can bear it. Freedom is only a few days away.

All I have to do is make it through this one trip, I think, as I step off the gangplank and finally board the RMS Titanic.

Chapter 3

MY LORD, THIS SHIP IS BEAUTIFUL.

The path for the first-class passengers to enter the ship begins near their dining hall, and the staircase leading down to it is more magnificent than anything found in Moorcliffe. Gleaming carved wood, stairs arching down in two graceful curves, a cast-iron clock finely molded: This is something I would expect to see in a great manor house, not a ship. Even the creamy beige carpet beneath my feet is thicker and softer than any Aubusson rug.

Or am I naive? As I begin this journey from the life I have always known, I am acutely aware of the limits of my experience. So who am I to judge this ship or its grandeur? Perhaps this is very ordinary, and I reveal myself as an ignorant country girl by marveling at it.

But no. I turn my attention to the wealthy people around me, and although they are too refined to voice their amazement, I can read it in their eyes. A good servant learns how to study faces, to glean hints of her employers’ moods from the slightest change in expression—but no such subtleties are necessary here. They laugh in delight, smile at one another in satisfaction, and allow their hands to trail sensually along the fine wood carving. The Titanic is as spectacular to them as it is to me. No one here is immune to its splendor—

Wait. Someone is. Two someones, in point of fact.

Just inside the doorway, unobserved by most of those walking past, are two gentlemen. Both are remarkably tall and broad-shouldered. One is a little older, perhaps nearing his thirtieth year. He wears a Vandyke beard as black as iron . . . rather like that of the man who briefly accosted me in the street, though my glimpse of him was too swift to be sure of any true likeness. The other—

Him, too, I only saw briefly, but I would never forget his face. The other is the young man from last night.

He is younger than I’d realized. My elder perhaps by only four or five years—twenty-two, then? And now that we are in light—both the brilliant sunshine and the glow from the Titanic’s elegant frosted-glass lamps—I am free to really look at him. To drink him in.

His jaw is strong and sharply angled, throwing his high cheekbones into relief. His mouth is well-shaped, with full lips any girl would desire. Shoulders broad, waist narrow, a hint of real muscle beneath. I remember how firm his body was when he pressed me against the wall. His wildly curly hair—in that deep chestnut color, with fine glints of red that bring out the dark brown of his eyes—I cannot decide if it is his one flaw or his best feature. Untamable, I would guess. He doesn’t clip it short as most gentlemen would in a similar situation. Instead he lets the curls flow freely, as I’ve heard artists and bohemians do. This is no bohemian, though, nor any sailor, as I briefly suspected; the well-cut suit he wears speaks of his wealth and privilege.

My steps slow. The box is suddenly no longer heavy in my hands, or at least I don’t feel the ache of it. I can’t get over the shock of seeing him again, seeing him here, or of the powerful effect he has on me.

It feels as though he must notice me—as though whatever strange force brought us together last night would call to him as powerfully as it calls to me—and yet he doesn’t turn. He and his fellow traveler are distracted. They lean in closely to each other, as though they do not wish their conversation to be overheard. His body is twisted slightly away from that of the man with the Vandyke beard, as though he wished to walk in another direction. But they talk so intently. Are they arguing or conspiring? I can’t tell. And usually I am good at reading people—

The tense moment between them snaps as his companion, the one with the beard, looks up at me—as though he were the one tied to me, not his friend. His icy blue eyes sweep over me, only for a split second, but it is enough to send a chill through the marrow of my bones.

He looks as if he knows me. As if he hates me. And there is something eerily familiar in his gaze. Is that the man from last night after all?

Quickly I turn away. Surely his animosity is no more than a rich man’s irritation. He has caught me eavesdropping on their conversation—intruding on my betters. If he complains to a purser or, worse, to Lady Regina, my life won’t be worth leading over the next five days.

And yet I feel the stare on my back again. It is as real as the clothes on my back. It is cold, and it is evil, and it follows me even as I walk toward the nearest steward to make my escape.

The Lisles’ suite is located on A deck, which I can tell from the steward’s expression is especially grand. The first-class passengers are all escorted to their cabins, but the steward expects me to find my own way. He doesn’t offer to take the box from me, or find anyone else to take it—why should he?—and so I set it at my feet as we conduct our business. I am given the key to their rooms and the safe’s combination without question; I cannot be a useful servant without having access to anything my employers could possibly desire.

Then he takes out another key. “This lets you go from third class to first class.” His face is sour. “We’re not meant to be handing these things out to everyone. United States regulations say we have to keep those doors shut, and if we find you haven’t, we’ll confiscate that key posthaste, and the viscount’s lady will just have to do without her servants for a while.”

This steward has clearly never met Lady Regina; she’d wither him on the spot with a mere glare. But I’m meant to be cowed and serious, so I nod as I drop the key into my pocket and stoop to pick up the box. “Yes, sir. I’ll be careful, sir.”

He nods and waves me off, already eager to turn his attention to people far more worth his time. The rest of the way, I’m on my own.

I cast one glance behind me to make sure the bearded man with the cold blue eyes isn’t watching any longer. He’s nowhere to be seen. And yet I still feel the hunter’s gaze. With a shiver, I hurry toward the lift, eager to get farther from him.

Even the hallways of the Titanic are luxurious. The carpet, now red with a floral pattern, is soft beneath my aching feet, and the white paint is gleaming and new. After the clamor of the dock, the silence is startling. Although others down the corridor are entering their first-class accommodations, nobody is especially close. It feels briefly as though I have the ship to myself.

What would I do, if I were on this vessel all alone for five days? All alone except for the crew, of course; I’d scarcely get very far without them. I could slide down those majestic banisters on the grand staircase. I could sit by myself in the sumptuous dining hall and snap my fingers, demanding course after course of the sort of rich food I usually only get if Cook has burnt it too badly for the Lisles to eat. And what would I wear? With only the crew to look at me—no one to boss me, no one to judge—there would be no more need for this shabby uniform. I imagine taking off my white bonnet and letting it float down from the deck railings into the ocean below. The sharks can eat it, for all I care.

So pleasant is it to daydream, unhampered, that I do not notice the man coming close to me until he is almost at my side.

It’s him. Not my chestnut-haired man—the older one with the Vandyke beard. I know now that he is indeed the same one who accosted me the night before. Nor is this merely awkward coincidence—his gaze focuses on me, and his jaw is set.

“So, you like to listen to other people’s conversations.” His voice is a deep bass rumble, and the words are accented in a way that is unfamiliar to me—Russian, perhaps? The Lisles entertain foreign nobility too rarely for me to be certain. “Last night, and again this morning! That is a good way to hear many interesting things, but very bad manners. Very bad manners indeed.”

It’s almost a relief to think he’s nothing other than an obnoxious man who dislikes eavesdroppers. This close, I can see that he, too, is a handsome man—or would be but for the unnatural chill in his pale blue eyes. “I beg your pardon, sir. I overheard nothing, sir. Please, I beg your forgiveness.” Don’t tell, don’t tell.

“You overheard nothing? Again? And yet you were paying such close attention this time.”

“The room was very loud, sir. Beg your pardon, sir.” Some-times, if you make a slip like this (whether real or imagined), all the aristocrats want you to do is eat dirt for a bit, humble yourself until they feel suitably powerful, and there’s an end of it. But the more I apologize to this one, the angrier he seems to get. The energy around him is increasingly dark, and I feel even more profoundly unsettled than I did before. At least I have already reached the Lisles’ cabin—all I have to do is calm him down long enough for me to get to the other side of that door.

His eyes travel down to the box I hold. “What a heavy burden you carry.”

“It’s all right, sir.”

“The crest of the Lisle estate—am I correct?”

It’s not so unusual that one member of the nobility would recognize the heraldry of another. “Yes, sir.”

“I thought so.” He steps closer to me—too close—and I can tell that his natural scent has a hint of wood smoke about it. His smile is small and tight within the black spade of his beard. There’s something odd about his teeth. “You must be very tired. Will you not allow me to help you?”

He speaks almost kindly, which is more frightening than before. Though I cannot say what it is about this man that distresses me so, I trust my instincts and step away. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“That won’t do at all.” Now anger simmers beneath the surface of his words. One of his black-gloved hands grips an iron handle, and I pull the box back in the split second before he would have snatched it away.

I stumble backward until the cabin door presses against my shoulders. I want to shout for help, but I see no one else, and—I am a servant girl. This is a gentleman. In any dispute between us, he will be believed, and I will not. But why would a gentleman be attempting to commit robbery?

His grin widens. “It would be just like a nasty, thieving maid to try to rob her employers at such a time. Give them an inch—isn’t that the expression in English? Service in the great house takes you out of your humble home and your settled ways. Your proper position in society. So you turn into a conniving little thief.”

“Sir, you are mistaken.” It’s such a foolish thing to say, but I cannot think of anything else. Even now, I must not offend him. “I’ve stolen nothing. This is my employers’ box, and I must put it away, sir. Please excuse me.”

“What would they think if they opened their safe and the box were not there?”

I must assert myself, but how? I’d like to kick him in the shins, but there are no words for the trouble I would be in if I assaulted a gentleman. “Sir, that will not occur. I believe I must now fetch a steward.”

“I do not think he will arrive in time to rescue the little servant girl,” he croons. The bastard is having fun. “Give me the box, girl. Or I shall deeply enjoy taking it from you.”

He lifts his black-gloved hand and strokes one finger down the side of my face. When his eyes bore into mine, fear slices into me—not mere nervousness, but real terror.

These were the eyes that followed me on the dock. Even before I saw him with the young man from last night, he had seen me.

This is the hunter. And he is still hunting me. He has caught me.

Give him the box, I think. Give him the box, and tell them it was stolen, and even if they don’t believe you, they won’t put you in jail. Or will they? Is that all I’ll ever see of America—a jail cell?

But scared as I am, I can’t give up so easily. Lord, but I hate a bully. “No, sir,” I say, and I lift my chin, daring him to do his worst.

He takes the dare.

His hands grab my shoulders and yank me forward so that I’m off balance and his face is close to mine. His breath smells like he recently ate undercooked meat. Then he shoves me back against the door, hard enough that it slams painfully against my head. For one moment, I smell blood.

He hisses, “What scares you the most?”

“Get off me!” I try to shove him back, but the heavy box in my hands makes that difficult.

“Being sacked and turned out to starve?” Although he’s still gripping my shoulders tightly, his thumbs make circles as they press into my flesh—a caress meant to bruise. “Being hurt? Someone you love being hurt? Whatever it is, I can make it happen.”

I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what to do. I just know that I hate him. So I spit in his face.

The saliva dribbles onto his beard, and the ice-blue eyes suddenly blaze like fire. My fear deepens as I realize that this really wasn’t the worst he could do—he’s about to do that now—

Then a voice calls, “Stop this.”

We turn to see him—the other, the younger man, the one who saved me last night and is saving me now. I sag against the door in relief, and the bearded man’s face distorts, as though his displeasure were melting him like wax. “Leave us, Alec.”

Alec does nothing of the sort. “This is neither the time nor the place for your games, Mikhail. Leave the poor girl alone.”

The hunter—Mikhail—responds, “Someday you’ll learn that it is never a bad time to enjoy our birthright.” But he lets go of my shoulders. Something passes between them then: some kind of shared knowledge I cannot guess at.

Are they friends, then? How can that be possible? Mikhail terrifies me, but Alec—his effect on me is something altogether different. Should I be as afraid of Alec as I am of Mikhail? Beauty is no guarantee of goodness; Lady Regina is proof enough of that. I don’t know, and want nothing so much as for this to be over.

Mikhail gives me another look that makes my stomach clench, then tips his hat to me—a mockery of manners, or of me. Then he walks away.

And yet I know this is anything but over.

Alec’s eyes study me in turn, but his look is different. At least my reaction is different. When Mikhail stared at me, I went cold; Alec’s attention warms my blood, flushes my cheeks. Yet I can’t tell if he is looking at me with desire or contempt or—I can’t guess. I can’t fathom the depth of his intense gaze.

He says to me, roughly, “You should watch yourself.”

I cannot tell if it is a warning, or a threat. And yet I know—beyond any doubt—I have been rescued.

Before I can speak, Alec walks away, very quickly, as though he were a criminal escaping from the scene. At first I stare after him in shock, unable to understand what happened here—and what might have happened, had Alec not arrived.

Then I feel the key pressing against my sweaty palm, hard against the box, and curse myself for a fool. I hurry inside the cabin and lock the door behind me, safe—for now.

Chapter 4

AS MY HEARTBEAT SLOWS AND MY BREATHING returns to normal, I try to understand what happened in the hallway, but I can’t.

I’m absolutely certain that Mikhail was the one spying on me as I came aboard the ship. Also I know that, had Alec not arrived when he did, the situation would have become much worse. But I can guess no more.

Mikhail wants this box—the one now sitting on the floor of the cabin. No doubt it contains immense riches; I am sure that Lady Regina’s best jewelry, and the few baubles Irene owns, are enclosed within. More than that, too: It’s no secret, downstairs at Moorcliffe, that the Lisle family is not so wealthy as it once was. Rumor has it that this trip is largely about finding some rich industrial heiress for Layton to wed on the charms of his title—his personality obviously wouldn’t do the trick on its own. No doubt the Lisles would rather marry off Irene, leaving their son and heir to choose a wife from the nobility, but Irene’s charms are too modest for her to make an illustrious match. So Layton will take as his bride the daughter of some Philadelphia man who builds railway track, or perhaps a Boston girl inheriting the wealth earned by mail-order goods.

In short, the Lisle family wants to impress the kind of people they usually spit on. They can’t do that if they’re not traveling in style. So the box contains many of the priceless ancestral valuables the Viscount Lisle’s family has held for the past four hundred years—and now intends to sell.

Reason enough for theft. But Mikhail is traveling first class on the Titanic. Mrs. Horne says tickets cost thousands of pounds, a sum I can hardly imagine seeing in a lifetime, much less spending on a single trip to America. Why would anyone able to pay that sort of money for a voyage need to steal anything? He must be enormously wealthy, almost certainly more than the Lisles.

And the way he looked at me—the cold-blooded stare that chilled my bones—is that because he thinks I overheard something I shouldn’t have last night, or today? Already I realize that our encounter the evening before was more than coincidence; Mikhail was near because he was already tracking the Lisles. I wasn’t his original target.

But perhaps I am his target now.

I shake off that chill as I quickly put the box into the suite’s iron safe. Surely I’m only being silly. If Mikhail isn’t a thief, then he’s merely the kind of rich man who thinks servant girls are his to do with as he will—to threaten, to tease, to bed, and to discard. That’s hardly unusual among wealthy gentlemen. After years of dodging Layton’s randy friends from Cambridge, I shouldn’t find that attitude surprising. Once I vanish belowdecks, to my third-class accommodations, Mikhail will turn his attentions to some unhappy stewardess aboard ship, and I can continue about my business.

Although I do not entirely believe this sensible explanation, I force myself to accept it.

The safe’s door swings shut with a resounding clang, and I sit back heavily on the cabin’s sumptuous bed. As I do, my thoughts drift toward an altogether more pleasant subject.

My mind wants to dwell on Alec. Only on Alec. Even knowing his name makes me feel closer to him somehow. And now he’s saved me from danger twice. If only I had thought to thank him! I imagine my fingers winding into his thick chestnut curls, my mouth open as he leans close—

The daydream makes my cheeks flush and my heart thump too fast. I’m no doubt being foolish, like any other servant girl who has finally had the chance to be alone with an attractive man. The household doesn’t allow any of us girls much chance to be with men of our own class—we’re not meant to fall in love and get married, only to drudge on and on in service until we dry up and go gray and our teeth fall out. And here I am acting like an idiot over a man who’s shown no interest in me, save keeping me from harm like any decent human being would.

Especially given that he protected me today, but threatened me last night. He may not be as serious a danger to me as Mikhail, but that doesn’t mean Alec doesn’t present dangers of his own.

The feather mattress is soft—so much softer than the lumpy flock pallet I’ve slept on for the past four years. And this cream-colored coverlet: The fabric isn’t silk, but it’s so sleek to the touch it might as well be. This bedroom is as grand and elegant as any of the Lisle family rooms back at Moorcliffe. More even than that.

For a moment I imagine myself a fine lady, traveling in style aboard the Titanic. I imagine that I am wearing a beautiful negligee of Viennese lace instead of my drab black servant’s dress. I lie back on the soft, soft mattress and wish that I could close my eyes and give in to sleep.

Then I wish I could open my eyes and see Alec lying next to me.

Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. You don’t know his last name. You don’t know if he’s good or bad or in the fathomless distance between the two. You don’t know anything about him, except that he keeps bad company, is brusque and strange, and is rich enough to sail first class—which means he’d be after only one thing with a maidservant.

But as I lie on the soft bed, feeling the silky fabric next to my skin, giving in to that one thing seems tempting enough—

Abruptly I sit upright and push myself off the bed. There’s already some cool water in the china jug on the nightstand; I use a bit to splash my face and shock me back to my senses. Enough time for daydreams and romance and whatever else might follow after I reach New York City. For now, it’s best if I stick to the hard reality of the tasks ahead.

First class was almost silent; third class is anything but.

“Permesso, permesso,” says a swarthy man I think must be Italian, as he pushes his way through the crowd, followed by his wife and no fewer than five children, all of whom are chattering at once. Men and women of every age and size and shape and nationality are shoving into one another in an eager search for their cabins. It doesn’t smell like wood polish and cedar down here on F deck; it smells like honest sweat and mothballs.

I’d expected to be repulsed by this bedlam, but instead, it energizes me. Though this is a strange crowd, it’s a happy one. I realize that, for the first time in my life, I’m surrounded by people who share my goal of starting over in America. Because the big trunks they’re hefting, the bundles of clothes the women hold close—those aren’t supplies for a sea voyage. They’re the foundation of a new life.

Besides, even the third-class accommodations are impressive on this ship. While it’s not as sumptuous as first class by any means, the floors here are polished wood, and the walls freshly painted bright white. The brass fittings gleam, and a poster informs us that our tea will include vegetable soup, meat, bread, cheese, and a sweet. As much as that! I bet tonight I won’t feel hungry even once. This is far better than the damp, chilly attic room I left behind at Moorcliffe, or the bread and butter we had to make do with most nights.

At last I see the number of my room. The steward said I wasn’t rooming with Mrs. Horne, which is a small mercy. I dare to hope that I’ve got the room to myself; they say maiden voyages of ships never sell every ticket, because most people want to wait until the kinks have been worked out on a journey or two. After years of sharing my bed with one or two other servant girls, having a bedroom to myself seems like the height of luxury.

I open the door. No such luck.

White, cast-iron bunk beds stand on either side of the room. On one of the lower bunks sits a girl, perhaps a year or two older than I am. Although I’m not actually surprised to see someone, I am surprised to see that they’ve put me in the same room as a foreigner.

I don’t even have to ask if she’s a foreigner. I just know. Her skin is a deep tan, her thick hair such a perfect black that it almost has a bluish gleam, and her brilliantly embroidered skirt and shawl aren’t the kind of thing I’ve ever seen anyone in England wear.

But I’ve always heard that foreigners were dirty, and this girl isn’t. As strange as her clothes are, they’re clean, and actually rather pretty. And I’ve always heard the “English rose” described as the ultimate standard of beauty: delicate frame, pale skin, pink cheeks, and fair curls. I’ve always rather liked that description, because it applies to me—at least it would, if I ever got to wash up properly and wear something nice. And yet this girl, dark and statuesque as she is, is far lovelier than I am.

Even more surprising: She’s not hopping up to greet me, begging my pardon, or welcoming me to the room. In fact, she seems more displeased to be sharing a room than I was. Even though I’m English—as though all the world didn’t look up to England!

“Who are you, then?” she demands. Her accent is thick, but her English is good.

I put my hands on my hips. “I’m Tess. And who are you?”

“Myriam Nahas. Why are you on this ship?” It sounds almost like she’s asking how I dare to be here.

“I’m ladies’ maid to the Honorable Irene Lisle, daughter of the Viscount Lisle, who is traveling with her mother and brother to do the season in New York.” I say it as grandly as I can. Their titles ought to give me some credit here, at least. They don’t. Myriam couldn’t look less impressed. So I snap back, “Why are youon this ship?”

“I’ve left Lebanon to join my brother and his wife in New York City.” Pride shines from her, and yet I can also see how tired she is; she has already traveled all the way from Lebanon, and she still has an ocean to cross. “He has a garment business there that is doing well. I can help sew for him. Perhaps that doesn’t sound very fine to the likes of you, but it suits me.”

It sounds fine enough. I’m jealous, in fact. Myriam is aboard this ship for the same reason I am—to emigrate to the United States—but unlike me, she has family and a job waiting for her.

Maybe that’s what annoys me about her. Or maybe it’s that she isn’t being deferential and obedient, like I would have expected from a foreign girl. Most likely it’s just that she seems to be annoyed by me first, for whatever reason. But our eyes are narrowed as we stare at each other, and I sense a power struggle in the making.

“I have taken one of the bottom bunks,” Myriam adds. “They shift around less with the moving of the ship.”

“Then I’ll take one as well.”

“Others will be in this room with us. They, too, will want bottom bunks.”

“They’ll be out of luck, won’t they?”

Her eyes narrow. “They will attempt to persuade one of us to move, and it will not be me.”

I sit down deliberately on the other lower bunk. “I don’t intend to settle for less just to make you more comfortable.”

“Nor I.”

“Listen here. I’m an Englishwoman, and this is an English ship.” That ought to settle her.

Instead, Myriam folds her arms and lifts her chin, and despite my annoyance with her, I can’t help but notice the perfection of her profile. “You are a servant,” she sneers. “I answer to no one but myself.”

Anger flushes my cheeks, and I open my mouth to tell her what I think of impudent foreigners—but then the door to our cabin opens again, revealing our other two roommates. The first lady is ancient, seventy-five if she’s a day; the second is older. They totter in, carrying little more than carpetbags, with their snowy-white hair atop their heads in braids. I don’t recognize the language they’re speaking, but a badge on one of their cases has a flag that I think is Norway’s. Their wrinkled faces crease into smiles of welcome, and whatever they’re saying to us sounds friendly.

And there is absolutely no way either of them can take a top bunk.

I clamber up to one of the top bunks instantly, and turn to snap at Myriam to do the same—but she already has. We stare at each other, shocked to realize that, despite our sour tempers, neither of us is actually that bad. It’s almost funny. If we knew each other any better, I think we’d laugh.

Instead, I flop back onto my bunk. It’s not as soft as the ones in first class, but it’s better than back home. Comfortable as anything. I imagine it as a magic carpet, whisking me away to another, better world.

“Do they tell stories about magic carpets in Lebanon?” I ask Myriam as we walk down the corridor on F deck.

“I believe you are a few centuries behind the times,” she says, but not unkindly.

Though I still think she’s rather rude, and she still seems to have her back up where I’m concerned, we’ll get on well enough for a few days’ journey. As I don’t need to return to the Lisles until shortly before the ship gets underway, I decided to take a walk belowdecks, and she’s joined me. Hopefully I can talk to her about emigrating to America; she’s the first person I ever met who has the same goal as I do.

Of course, I don’t intend to admit that’s my goal. Nobody can know until we reach New York City. But I might find out some things anyway.

Although there’s still plenty of bustle in the corridors, that has slowed down somewhat as everyone has found their bunks and is getting themselves settled. Amid the hubbub of the corridors, I see a ship’s officer, which surprises me—I’d have thought that only stewards would come down to steerage. Even better, I recognize him; it’s the friendly man who helped me on the dock.

He remembers me too. “I see you’ve got yourself sorted out.”

“Very well, thank you, sir.”

Then he glances at Myriam, no more than a simple look—and just like that, he’s caught. Her beauty holds him fast, as if he were a fly and she were honey. Myriam likes the look of him too, I can tell. But she doesn’t simper or act silly in a rush to make conversation, the way I have the few times I’ve been able to talk with young men in the village pub. She simply smiles back at him, slow and warm, completely unhurried. This is obviously a much better way to handle it. I must remember this for later.

The officer pulls his hat off his head, as though we were gentlewomen. “George Greene, ship’s seventh officer, at your service.”

“Myriam Nahas.” She inclines her head only slightly. Her eyes never waver from his.

“Tess Davies,” I say, just so neither of them forgets I’m standing here. “It’s a lovely ship.”

“Finest in the White Star fleet. Finest in the world, if you ask me.” George gestures toward the doors at the far end of the corridor, the ones blocked off that we’re not supposed to enter. “Would you like a bit of a tour? Haven’t time for much, but I could show you ladies around the lower decks. More down here than meets the eye.” When Myriam hesitates before answering, he quickly adds, “We have first-class amenities down here, so that will be useful to you, Miss Davies. Knowing how to get between different classes of the ship, I mean, since you’ll be running about so much.”

It’s nice to be called “Miss Davies,” as if I were a proper lady. And I don’t think he’s just trying to impress Myriam, either, at least not with that; real kindness and politeness shine from George’s blue eyes.

“It would be very interesting to see more of the ship,” Myriam says, as though George’s company hasn’t anything to do with her decision to come along.

George, anxious to please, leads us through F deck, showing us the third-class dining hall first. Long wooden tables reach from side to side of the enormous room. This, too, is bright and cheerful—better than the servants’ table downstairs at Moorcliffe by far. “And there are decks outside for you, too,” he says. “You won’t be cooped up all journey, like you would on most ships. Titanic has a lovely deck just for third-class passengers, so you can have a bit of fresh air.”

Myriam folds her arms. “Such special treatment to people who just had to be combed and picked over as if we were dogs.”

They combed the third-class passengers? Looking for lice, I realize. How insulting. Thank goodness George told me to enter through the first-class passageway.

The poor man can’t apologize fast enough. “Begging your pardon, Miss Nahas. It’s crude and unconscionable treatment, and you can be sure it’s not White Star policy. It’s those American laws. You wouldn’t believe the nonsense with quarantines and all they stick us with.”

“Well. If it’s all the fault of the Americans.” Myriam tosses her hair, slightly—but not entirely—appeased. “Of course, I’ll be an American soon.”

How will poor George get out of this one? I can’t help a small smile as I look at him. But the good man rallies quickly. “Then I suppose they’ll improve in a hurry, won’t they, miss?”

Instead of replying, Myriam smiles. I feel rather unnecessary, but I keep tagging along, more for mischief’s sake.

After that, he looks around a bit to make sure we won’t be witnessed, then takes us to a heavy door that brings us to the first-class section of this deck. “Can’t lead you through—more of those American regulations—but you can pass by here if you need to, Miss Davies.”

“Won’t I disturb the first-class passengers in their cabins?”

“No staterooms down here,” George says in a tone of voice that makes it clear no rich people would ride down this low, where you can feel the movement of the ship. “But special amenities for them. Like the Turkish bath.” I laugh, disbelieving. I half thought those only existed in old novels about exotic foreign lands. “Steam room and all,” he says. “Nice as any you’d find in Istanbul.”

“Have you been to Istanbul?” Myriam looks doubtful.

“Only once, Miss Nahas, and that too briefly. But I’m told by those in the know that the fittings here are the finest. Porcelain tiles, feathered fans, lounging chairs, you name it.”

“How well-traveled you are.” Myriam’s much more impressed by George than by the baths, and he actually seems to glow as he realizes it. I try not to roll my eyes.

“What else is through there?” I say, honestly wanting to know. Lord only knows whether Lady Regina or Layton will demand any of the services provided in this area.

George grins. “Want to play a game of squash?”

“Squash! On an ocean liner?” I start to laugh, and Myriam joins in; it’s both disbelief and delight. The Titanic is like its own floating world.

“Anything the heart could desire,” George swears. “And you don’t have to worry about the waves upsetting your game. See how steady she sails? We might as well be skimming over smooth glass.”

My laughter stops. “We’re already at sea?”

“Set out more than a quarter hour ago.”

“I’m late!” Good Lord, the Lisles will have been expecting me for nearly half an hour now. “I’ve got to go. Oh, blast, how do I reach the upper decks? Wait, no, I’ve got it.”

“Never fear,” he says as I use my key to open the locks that keep me out of first class. “You’ll be there in a flash.”

“Thank you!” I call behind me as I run into the first-class area of the ship. The door clangs shut. No doubt George and Myriam are perfectly happy to be left alone. Much happier than Lady Regina will be when I show up late again.

As I step into the lift, and the grated door shuts behind me, I see someone standing in the corridor—the dark figure of a man.

And in that first moment, I know it’s Mikhail.

The lift rises, erasing my old view, and I slump back against the wall to gather my breath. The lift operator, a boy a few years younger than I am, doesn’t appear to notice anything in particular. He’d have noticed a first-class passenger down there, wouldn’t he? He would have held the lift for him.

So it must have been my imagination. Mikhail wouldn’t have followed me down here.

He wouldn’t still be hunting me.

I try very hard to believe it.

Chapter 5

THE MIDAFTERNOON SUN GILDS THE DECKS OF THE ship as if it were a golden ornament instead of anything real. I would swear that the Titanicglides above the surface of the ocean, because this is as smooth and idyllic as flying is in dreams. And the ocean now looks as I always imagined it: depthless, dark blue, crowned with foamy waves—

“Tess!” barks Lady Regina. “Don’t fall behind.”

So much for daydreams.

I walk a few steps behind Lady Regina, Layton, and Irene, carrying the ladies’ shawls should they need them. Apparently travel at sea can sometimes be cold, though this afternoon is anything but. The ship is heading toward Cherbourg to pick up the final passengers. So if the ladies will stay on deck until then, I can actually glimpse a bit of the coastline of France.

I try to think of such things: pretty metaphors about the ship, or the excitement of seeing another country for the first time in my life. If I think about those things, then I don’t have to think about Mikhail. I’m in first class now, his part of the ship. He could walk by at any instant, and then I will have to know, for certain, whether it’s just my imagination or whether—whether he’s truly hunting me.

Then maybe I could tell someone, though I’m not sure who could help me. George Greene seems a kindly man, but he’d still believe a gentleman’s word above that of a servant, I’m sure. Ned, perhaps? But what could Ned do about it?

No, I’m alone in this.

Irene’s ivory-colored dress fits her well, thanks to my sewing, and the blue ribbons that gather the neck and sleeves flutter nicely in the breeze. I do wish Lady Regina had taken my advice about her daughter’s hat, though. It is wide-brimmed and high-crowned, the latest in fashion, but it overwhelms Irene’s slight frame. As fond as I am of her, I can’t help but think that she looks a bit like a mushroom. The enormous hat wobbles on her head while she animatedly talks about some excitement on deck as the Titanicleft port, an incident I missed while Myriam and I were down below.

“They say we came within four feet of colliding with the tugboat,” Irene insists. “A man on deck declared that was a bad omen. He says he will disembark at Cherbourg.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” sniffs Lady Regina. “Ahhh, look there. The Countess of Rothes. Well worth the knowing.”

Irene’s sigh is so soft that Lady Regina can pretend to ignore it. But Layton snaps, “She’s hardly any older than you, but she’s done a fair bit better for herself, wouldn’t you say? You might want to learn from her example.”

“I hope the countess married for love, not for money,” Irene says.

“She married well,” Layton says. “She kept an eye out. You might try doing the same, Irene, instead of hiding up in your library all the time.”

Sometimes I hide in the library with her; more often I go on my own. Irene promised me at Christmastime that I might borrow what books I wished, Sherlock Holmes or anything else, and if anybody in her family ever noticed them missing, she’d swear she’d insisted that I read the volume in question. It was kind of her, though we both knew there was little chance of anybody else in her family noticing a missing book. Between the three of them, I doubt they’ve ever read anything more complex than Burke’s Peerage.

“Humph. I believe those would be the Strauses.” Lady Regina’s nose crinkles as if she’s smelled something bad. “Enormously wealthy Americans. They own some store in New York City—Macy’s, they call it. I suppose that is so nobody will realize it is owned by Jews.”

I sneak another peek at the Strauses; I’ve never seen any Jewish people before, and I’m curious. They don’t look any different from anyone else. In fact, they look like a rather nice elderly couple, walking along the deck arm in arm. Lady Regina holds her head high as they pass, refusing to acknowledge them, and Layton follows suit. Irene’s cheeks turn pink at their blatant rudeness. Happily, the Strauses don’t even notice. They are deep in conversation with each other, obviously affectionate in a way the Viscount Lisle and Lady Regina haven’t been in years, if they ever were.

Lady Regina nudges Irene. “Now there are some Americans far more worthy of our acquaintance. Howard Marlowe of Marlowe Steel—quite a large concern. One of the new titans of industry in the United States. And that must be his son, Alexander. A very eligible bachelor . . . and, it seems, extremely handsome as well.”

I stop peering over my shoulder at the Strauses so I can see this handsome man for myself—and my feet suddenly seem fixed to the deck. I can’t move, can’t breathe. Because Alexander Marlowe is Alec.

Our eyes meet. His gaze is dark and devouring. Something blazes within him as he looks at me, but I can’t tell if it’s anger or desire. My breath catches in my throat.

“Mr. Marlowe!” Lady Regina trills, stepping forward with her hand outstretched. This is remarkable behavior toward a man she’s never met, particularly one who isn’t a member of the nobility. “I am Viscount Lisle’s wife, Lady Regina. So pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine, madam.” Howard Marlowe is as tall as his son, though Alec’s thick curls must have come from his mother—the father is as bald as an egg. “This is my son, Alec. He’s been studying in Paris these past two years. It will be good to see Chicago again, won’t it, son?”

“It will.” Alec turns from me, and for the first time I see a smile on his face—small and rueful, and yet a smile all the same. Somehow when he’s smiling, he’s even more beautiful. “I’ve missed being home.”

I seize on each fact as though it were another precious coin to add to my stash. His name is Alexander Marlowe. He is from Chicago. His father is a steel magnate. Although this last fact makes it even more obvious that Alec can never, ever be mine, it is something else I can know about him. Knowledge is the only thing about Alec I can ever possess.

Mr. Marlowe, his father, is all politeness to Lady Regina—but he doesn’t humble himself the way so many people do. Obviously he doesn’t care for titles; he knows what he’s worth. “And may I have the compliment of being introduced to your children?”

“My son, the Honorable Layton Lisle. My daughter, the Honorable Irene Lisle,” Lady Regina says, stepping back as though she were presenting some sort of show pony instead of her own child. Irene is always shy with strangers, but she manages to nod and smile. That would do, but Lady Regina continues, “Irene has just completed her London season, and we are eager to show her more of the world.”

“Always a fine idea,” Mr. Marlowe says.

“And we were just talking of Chicago!” I glance down at the deck, not only to keep myself from staring openly at Alec, but to prevent myself from laughing at Lady Regina’s obvious lie. “How we would love to visit that fine city.”

“Any good shooting there, what?” Layton looks nearly pleasant for a moment as he thinks of one of the few things he enjoys doing, namely blowing the heads off some ducks to make himself feel manlier. “Chicago’s rather on the wild frontier, I take it.”

Alec doesn’t respond with any of the jokes or invitations that most upper-class young men would; instead, he looks almost grave. “I don’t go in for shooting. And Chicago is no longer the western frontier.”

Mr. Marlowe shoots his son a look, perhaps a warning against rudeness, though Alec spoke reasonably enough. “Chicago is a true world city now. Even you must have heard of the Columbian Exposition! We have museums, theater, all the refinements you could wish.”

Normally I would expect Lady Regina to snort with contempt at the idea of anything in America being refined, but she’s all sunshine and light now. “You make Chicago sound most thrilling, Mr. Marlowe. If we do travel there next month, I trust we may call on you and dear Alec to introduce us to society?”

“But of course, madam. It would be my honor.” Mr. Marlowe’s smile is more stiff now, and who can blame him? Lady Regina is essentially forcing a friendship on them—and any fool can tell why. Between this and her unsubtle mention of Irene’s already having had her debut, Lady Regina’s all but announcing that she’d like Alec to consider Irene as a bride.

It stings like a thousand cuts. It stings because Lady Regina is being rude and obvious. It stings because Irene is now so exposed, so awkward, and all she wants is some nice quiet man who would actually value her goodness more than her fortune. Above all, it stings because it reminds me that Alec will belong to some rich woman somewhere, and never, ever to me.

But I’m the one he’s looking at with those dark eyes.

And I’m the one he speaks to.

“You—had no more difficulties aboard?” Alec says.

My cheeks flush with warmth. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Lady Regina glares at me, as though she hopes her stare has the power to melt me where I stand. “Tess? Were you bothering Mr. Marlowe?”

“Not at all, ma’am.” Alec steps forward slightly, placing himself between Lady Regina and me. Is he defending me from her, or showing me how easily he can separate me from others? The thrill I feel when I’m near him is equal parts attraction and fear; I don’t know which emotion is true and which is an illusion. Maybe they’re both justified. “She was carrying a burden much too heavy for her earlier today. She required some help to reach her suite. Your suite, I mean.”

He didn’t tell them Mikhail was threatening me. Which of us is he protecting—me, or Mikhail?

“Tess often pretends to need more help than she requires. I hope you weren’t taken in.” Lady Regina laughs lightly. “It’s always the way, with servants. They shirk their tasks the moment you’re not looking.”

She’s trying to shame me, but I’m not ashamed. I know the truth—and so does Alec. He already knows so much about me . . . more, perhaps, than I care for him to know. It doesn’t make me feel any safer.

Despite her shyness, Irene pipes up, trying to change the subject. “Mr. Marlowe, have you seen John Jacob Astor? Is he really on board?”

“Indeed he is,” Mr. Marlowe says, obviously pleased with the change of subject. “With his new wife—who’s not much older than you.”

Lady Regina can’t resist gossip, and soon the entire party is walking forward again, the parents and Layton chitchatting easily, and Irene trailing in her mother’s wake. Alec remains a few steps back—not beside me, but closer to me than to anyone else. It’s as though I can feel his presence next to me, the deep, slightly uncomfortable warmth of standing too close to a fire.

As the others round the corner of the boat deck toward the stern, Alec turns to me. He’s so close to me now that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek.

His voice is rough as he says, “You told them nothing.”

“No.”

“About me or about Mikhail.”

“No. I swear.”

Alec’s eyes bore into mine as he leans even closer and whispers, “If you value your life, keep your silence. That’s the only thing that will save you. Do you hear me, Tess?”

“Yes.”

Then he walks forward again, as smoothly as though he had never spoken to me at all. Alec even smiles when his father waves him forward to stroll by his side. I don’t know what to think, but I follow behind, once again the obedient servant.

Was Alec trying to protect me, telling me that Mikhail would strike at me if I spoke to anyone about him? Or was it a threat?

Either way, he’s just confirmed what I’ve been trying to deny all afternoon. I’m in danger.

“How could you be so impertinent, Tess?” Lady Regina tosses her hat down on the sofa in the Lisles’ suite. “Putting yourself forward like that. Trying to monopolize Alexander Marlowe’s attention.”

“Mother, he spoke to Tess first,” Irene tries to point out, but Lady Regina ignores her.

The lecture goes on for some time, but I hardly notice. It’s all I can do to stand there and nod on cue; my mind is consumed by Alec’s threat. Or his warning—I still don’t know what it was. I can’t stop thinking of Mikhail’s cold eyes.

I tell myself that I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. I’ve told no one. Alec said that would protect me, and why would he lie? Keeping quiet and telling nobody my true story has kept me safe up until now. This is just one more thing to stay quiet about.

Lady Regina doesn’t stop venting her anger at me until late, and then I’ve got to prepare Irene for dinner. As I help her into her cornflower-blue evening dress, Irene can’t stop apologizing for her mother. “She’s only nervous,” Irene says, as if that cow were ever nervous about anything. “Mother’s been preoccupied with— with a lot of things lately. It makes her cross. Please don’t take it personally.”

“You’re not supposed to apologize to me for anything,” I say as I sweep her lank hair up in jeweled combs, which will at least give her some glitter. It helps that she’s finally old enough for us to put her hair up; that lets me hide how straight her hair is. “I’m your servant. I know my place.”

“Your place doesn’t have to mean being treated badly.” Irene sighs as she looks at her reflection in the mirror. “Oh, what’s the use?”

“You look nice tonight. You just have to brighten up a bit. Smile. Confidence is half the battle, miss.”

And she does look better than usual this evening—the color suits her, as do the dress’s simple lines. At any other time, I’d be proud of my handiwork. It’s my job, as ladies’ maid, to see that Irene is shown off to her best advantage. When her mother gets out of my way, and stops forcing Irene to wear ruffles that drown her slight frame and pale, “pure” colors that wash out her complexion, Irene is—well, no ravishing beauty, but at least pretty. I may have been made a ladies’ maid too young and with no experience, but I’ve learned quickly.

Tonight, though, I can’t revel vicariously in this triumph. It seems as if I can hear nothing but the blood rushing in my ears, and the memory of Alec’s whisper.

Keep your silence.

“Well, that’s not so bad,” drawls Layton as he strolls into her room. Irene frowns—she likes her privacy, but her brother respects that as little as he does anything or anyone else. “At least you won’t be an embarrassment tonight.”

Behind his shoulder, I can see Ned, whose freckled face is flushed with anger. He hates it when Layton picks on Irene. But he says only, “Will that be all, sir?”

“Quite all.” Layton is, indeed, impeccably turned out; his tuxedo is so well pressed and brushed that it seems to have been polished. “You are dismissed for the evening.”

“You too, Tess,” Irene says, with a small smile.

But then, from the next room, I hear Lady Regina call, “Tess, you stay here. Horne is busy with me. Get Beatrice to bed, would you?”

My stomach is empty with hunger and fear, but there’s nothing to be done. Whatever I’m ordered to do, I must do. “Yes, milady.”

By the time little Beatrice is washed and asleep, and Lady Regina’s finally done with me, I’m not afraid any longer. Although I still feel wobbly every time I think about Mikhail’s threat, or about Alec, hunger has taken over. It seems as though I can face up to anything if I can just eat.

But by the time I arrive back in third class, it’s well after tea time. What time is the second meal service over? I hurry down the long white corridor that I think leads toward the dining hall, and run into Myriam—who, rather interestingly, is accompanied by George.

“Haven’t you got a ship to manage?” I say before I can stop myself.

George turns out to look adorable when he’s flustered—at least to Myriam, who smiles sidelong at him. “Off duty this past hour, miss. Thought Miss Nahas and I might take a stroll on the third-class deck.”

“Of course you’re welcome to join us.” Myriam gives me a smoldering look that clearly means, Interfere with this and you die in the night.

She doesn’t need to worry; I have better plans. “Thanks for the invitation, but I need to get something to eat. Tea hasn’t ended, has it? I know I’m too late for the first shift, but—” I read the truth in their dismayed faces. “Oh, no.”

George straightens his uniform jacket. “Listen here. Go to the kitchens—the staff will still be clearing up. If you give them my name, they’ll be able to set you up with a plate. Plenty of leftovers, never fear.”

Maybe he said it just to get on Myriam’s good side, but I don’t think so. Honestly, I don’t care. “Seventh Officer George Greene,” I repeat, to make sure I’ve got it right. “Thank you!”

“Have a good night!” Myriam calls after me. She might actually mean it.

I hurry down the hallway, pushing past a few other after-dinner stragglers. But already I’m doubting myself. I don’t remember this turn at all, and the corridors feel like a maze. I’m not used to finding my way around new places, since I only just left the house I’ve worked in for the past four years and the village where I’d spent my whole life before that.

Glancing over my shoulder, I look for Myriam and George, but they’re already out of sight. Nobody else around me speaks English or looks likely to; two of the men closest to me even appear to be from China. So much for asking for directions.

So I head back the way I came, to the doorway that leads to the first-class areas of this deck. Maybe I can reorient myself and get turned back toward the dining hall.

As I reach the doorway, my stomach rumbles, and I hope I won’t be lost much longer—and the doorway opens.

Mikhail steps through.

My body seems to freeze in shock. He’s hunting me after all, I think—but that’s not right. He looks as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

Only for a moment. Then Mikhail’s face steels as he clamps his hand around my upper arm, hard enough to hurt. “You’d be a fool to scream.”

“Let me go.”

He pulls me back through the door—how does he have a key?—and I try to resist, but he’s stronger. Although I want to scream, I keep reminding myself of what Alec said: Keep your silence.

Now that we’re alone in the quieter first-class corridor, Mikhail leans close to me, pinning me against the corridor wall, clearly meaning to loom over me. But I’m too tall for that. It doesn’t faze him. “How interesting to see you again.”

“I’ve told no one about—about before,” I say. “I don’t plan to.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes are so cold. I can feel that shiver pass through me again; it’s hard being so close to his hunter’s stare. He frames my body with his arms. “When I first saw you, I thought you were simply a temptation. A deviation from my mission.” The box, I think through my panic. He was stalking me that first night because he was already after the Lisles. Mikhail leans even closer to me, so that I can smell the strange, animal scent of his skin. “Or perhaps a means of whiling away an hour or so before I took care of my business with the Lisles.”

I can’t tell if that hour is the one he wants me to spend in his bed or in my grave.

And then I’m so scared I’m not scared anymore. I’m furious. I shove Mikhail back, not caring whether I’ll get into trouble or whether I hurt him. “If you try to steal from me again, I’ll tell a ship’s officer. Now leave me alone.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. Not shoving him, not even threatening to tell. Mikhail’s expression changed the moment I said steal from me. The moment I revealed that I knew whatever he really wants is inside the Lisles’ safe.

He lunges at me, gripping my arm in one hand and covering my mouth with the other. My back slams against the wall so hard it knocks the breath out of me. If I thought he was strong before, I didn’t understand the half of it; Mikhail can hold me in place, as though I were helpless. His strength is beyond anything I’ve ever known. Almost inhuman.

“That’s a very sensible plan,” he hisses as I struggle to inhale. “But I can’t have my work here disrupted by a mere woman. So why don’t I make absolutely sure you’ll never tell?”

I go crazy. I claw at him, try to push him back, wrench my neck to the side so hard it hurts. But even when I manage to scream, I know nobody will come. The first-class section of the deck is deserted except for us at this time of night; the third-class passengers probably can’t hear through the door, and if they can, they won’t have the key to get through.

Mikhail grabs my hair, which hurts so much tears spring to my eyes. He’s dragging me down the corridor, and I keep trying to clutch something, anything to hold on to, but it’s useless. We reach a doorway, and he flings it open. Just before he shoves me though, I see the sign: This is the Turkish bath.

I fall through darkness, through heat, as I tumble onto my hands and knees upon a floor of moist green and white tiles. The steam of the bath still clouds the air, as though I’d been tossed into the fog. I can’t see, can’t breathe. The main light is from the hallway, and it outlines Mikhail’s body as he walks inside after me and slams the door behind him.

I expect to be beaten, or raped, or killed.

I do not expect the wolf.

Chapter 6

FIRST I SEE THE EYES.

They’re green-gold. Flat and reflective. It’s so dark I can hardly make out any shapes, at least not yet, but whatever light is in this room gleams in this animal gaze.

I gasp. Hot, vapor-heavy air burns my lungs and makes me cough as I push myself away from those eyes. But I hit something—someone. Mikhail. He’s standing right behind me.

Mikhail’s laughter echoes in the tile room. I scramble away from him, toward the corner, but the eyes follow me. As my own eyes adjust to the darkness, the beast’s enormous shape appears amid the swirling steam. Pointed ears, wide shoulders, muscled legs, thick red fur.

Wolf, I think, just at the moment it begins to growl.

“He’s hungry,” Mikhail says. He has no fear. “I thought it was high time I fed him. Don’t you agree?”

The wolf lunges at me, and I scream.

I manage to leap out of the wolf’s way, but only by inches—I can sense its weight and speed as it skids past me. I catch a glimpse of its long, white teeth. Quickly I scramble to my feet and run through the opulent bath, looking for a door that isn’t blocked by Mikhail. There isn’t one, but one wall is lined with small wooden booths—for changing, perhaps? I don’t care. They have doors, and maybe I can lock myself in.

When I run into the booth, I want to swear. This wood is so thin, so flimsy. But what did I expect? They’re not meant to provide protection, only privacy. It’s all I’ve got, though. I brace myself, back against the door, and wince as I hear the wolf running toward me—it’s going to slam through, right through the door and through me—

But the wolf doesn’t hit the door. It skids to a stop just short of the booth. I stare down at my feet, terrified it’s going to crawl underneath the small gap there, or just bite at my ankles. It doesn’t. Instead the wolf starts pacing, back and forth. Back and forth. I can hear it panting, its claws clicking against the tile floor.

Though I’m still so scared my whole body shakes, I finally have a moment to think. What is a wolf doing onboard? Surely no wild animals would be brought aboard a ship, or if they were, they would be caged in the cargo hold. This is Mikhail’s doing, obviously, but I can’t imagine why.

Is it the same beast I saw in Southampton? No—this one is sleeker, redder. But it is surely another wolf, and surely now even more dangerous. If only Alec would appear again to help me. Alec, or anyone. But there’s no one here besides Mikhail.

He laughs again, though now it’s quieter—slow chuckling. As though he’s seen all this a thousand times before, but it never fails to amuse him. “How long do you think that will protect you? Three minutes? Five?”

I don’t answer. I have nothing to say to that worthless bastard.

“The wolf is very close,” Mikhail says. “Close enough to smell your blood. But he doesn’t remember how to be a wolf any longer. If he did, he would have devoured you already.”

The wolf’s pacing slows. I can hear it breathing.

There’s a small bench in the little booth, and, keeping my hands braced against the door, I step atop it. That means the red wolf won’t be able to drag me down by my ankles. It also means I can see Mikhail. He’s still standing not far from the door—but he’s taken off his jacket. His white shirt has begun to stick to his body from the moisture in the air; he’s thick with muscles, so rippled and bulky that he looks nearly monstrous. No wonder I couldn’t fend him off. Now he takes off his shoes. As he sees me watching him, Mikhail’s grin widens, and he pulls open his shirt to reveal his hairy chest. I look away so as not to give him the satisfaction. It seems clear enough what he has in mind, but how does he expect to get at me with a wild wolf between us?

Mikhail says, “If he’s forgotten how to be a wolf, then I’ll have to remind him.”

He growls—a low sound like an animal’s. Just like an animal’s. Then he screams.

I turn back toward Mikhail, half expecting to see the red wolf attacking him. But the wolf remains in front of my door, its red fur standing on end, a low growl scratching in its own throat. Mikhail is screaming, louder and louder, naked now, his body exposed—

And changing.

It’s the steam playing tricks on me. The darkness. My own fear. But no. I see this. It’s really happening.

Mikhail’s body twists and contorts, shoulder blades spreading outward, back hunching so sharply it’s as if he broke his spine. He falls to all fours, arching his neck back as his face stretches with a terrible sound like the butcher sawing through gristle. His jaws grow. His teeth seem to be stabbing their way out of his gums. And his skin is darkening—no. He’s growing black hair all over his body. Fur.

A wolf, I think. Another wolf, as enormous as the first, but iron black. And this, I know, is the very wolf that chased me last night in Southampton. For the first time I realize that Mikhail is a monster, a thing out of stories told to frighten children, but it’s real. He’s real, and he’s growling, and he began hunting me before this voyage ever started, and now—now he’s coming to kill me.

The black wolf charges toward my stall, and I cry out in fear as I push back against the door, expecting him to burst through at any second. But then I hear another growl, and the impact of beast against beast.

I look back over the stall to see the red wolf lunge at the black wolf’s throat.

They’re like dogs fighting now—tearing at each other’s flesh, snapping and snarling. The steam is so thick that I can’t make out precisely what’s happening, but the black wolf is larger, and so I feel sure it will win. Yet the red wolf stands its ground, sinking its fangs into the black wolf’s shoulder and hanging on.

For one moment I think the red wolf must be defending me. But how stupid of me. It’s just trying to claim prey for itself.

“Help!” I scream. “Somebody, help!” My voice echoes off the green and white tiles, and I know nobody is close enough to hear. The vapor catches in my throat again, and I pull off my white cotton cap—damp from the steam—and hold it across my face.

The fight lasts for what feels like eternity, though probably it’s only a few minutes. I have no sense of time anymore; there’s nothing in the world but my fast, hard pulse and the trembling in my limbs. Exhaustion has weighed me down since this day began, and now, weakened by fear, I feel as if it’s all I can do to remain standing. But I keep myself braced against that door.

Eventually the black wolf retreats, walking backward from the red wolf, which is panting hard. I hear that sickening sound again, and the wolf twists violently, jerking up onto its hind legs; the iron-black fur begins to vanish, disappearing beneath restored skin. Although I know it’s Mikhail—that this has been Mikhail the entire time—it’s still a shock to see his cruel face once more. His shoulder is bleeding from bite marks, but it’s as though I can see him healing where he stands.

Then his eyes flick up toward mine, and I see that he still has the flat, animal gaze of a wolf.

Mikhail laughs as he grabs his abandoned clothing and begins putting it back on. “Look at you,” he says. “Too stupid to know what you’ve seen. To appreciate the miracle you’ve beheld. And all your pretty golden curls down in your face. Beautiful and foolish—very appetizing.”

“You’re nothing more than a freak from the circus,” I say, with more bravado than I feel.

It outrages him. Mikhail snarls as savagely as he did while a wolf. “You don’t know your betters. You don’t know a god when you see one.”

“You’re no god!”

“My compatriot has worked up an appetite now,” Mikhail says as he buttons his shirt. “And I think he wants you to himself.” He opens the door, letting in a brief shaft of light. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in the morning to gnaw your bones.”

The door slams shut again, and I hear a key turn in the lock. I’m as trapped as I was before, but now I’m alone with only the red wolf.

The wolf doesn’t come after me right away. Perhaps he’s as hungry as Mikhail said, but as he paces I see him limping, clearly in pain. There are droplets of blood on the floor from the fight between the wolves, and not all of that blood could be Mikhail’s. He’s injured. Badly?

Badly enough for me to escape?

Tentatively, I step to the floor, then slowly open the door of the booth. Just as I open it enough to step through, the wolf turns to stare at me. Its green-gold eyes are bright amid the steam. The wolf’s head droops low, like that of any hurt creature, and I remember everything the groundskeeper at Moorcliffe told me about wounded animals being the most dangerous.

I dare not risk it. Instead I dash back into the booth and shut the door again. The wolf steps closer, pacing in front of my door again, and then stopping there—close enough for me to hear its panting once more.

My whole body is shaking from weariness and fear, but I force myself to think rationally. The beast is wounded. Weak. Probably the wolf no longer has the strength to get through the door of the booth, and it’s too enormous to get underneath. No doubt it will recover—and be very hungry when it does—but that will take time. And time is on my side.

Gentlemen from first class will want to use the Turkish bath tomorrow. Probably the bath opens not long after the breakfast service. That means the attendant will come to make this area ready around breakfast time, if not earlier. Help is coming. All I have to do is wait.

The heat is unbearable. Sweat and condensed water have slicked my skin, and it feels as though I can’t catch my breath. I hesitate, because the thought of undressing makes me feel less safe—but the thought of wearing wet, heavy clothes in this suffocating heat is even worse. So I peel off my damp, sodden uniform so that I’m wearing only my thin vest and slip. That’s a little better.

I pull my knees up so that I can lie down on the small bench inside this booth, and crumple my uniform into a ball beneath my head. The wooden slats are hard against my side, but I don’t care.

Outside, the wolf lies down outside my door. I can see nothing except his red fur. He’s waiting for me. He doesn’t mean to let me get away, even when he sleeps.

The thought is horrifying, and it keeps me awake for hours as I tremble and cough. But eventually sleep wins, and I drift into dreamless oblivion.

April 11, 1912

I awake knowing only that I am stiff and uncomfortable, and that I want more sleep. Then I open my eyes, and my strange surroundings—and the unbelievable memories that explain them—jolt me to alertness. I sit upright and push my hands against the door almost before I remember that I’m doing it to keep the wolf back.

There’s light now—thin and gray. Dawn, then. There must be portholes to let the sunlight in. I look down, but the wolf isn’t lying in front of the door any longer. I can’t hear him panting, either, nor any claws against the tile. Might it have left? Died in the night? Or is it at least far enough away that I could run to the door and pound against it? Someone might be closer now.

With a shaking hand, I pull the door open, so slowly that it seems to take forever. No movement. No sound. So I dart out, thinking to run for the door that leads to the hallway and do whatever I can for myself—

—and I jerk to a halt within two steps.

Lying on the floor, entirely naked, perfectly formed, and dazed nearly to the point of unconsciousness, is Alec Marlowe.

The red wolf.

Chapter 7

FOR A MOMENT I CAN’T MOVE; I CAN ONLY STARE. Last night, as I drifted between waking and sleep, I had realized the red wolf must be another version of Mikhail—another transformed human being. But with all his talk about his “friend” and his “compatriot,” I believed it had to be one of the men he’d been walking with that night in Southampton. Never did I suspect Alec Marlowe.

Alec comes to enough to recognize me standing over him, and he rolls onto his side, slightly away from me—maybe to show me that he doesn’t want to hurt me, maybe just because he’s embarrassed to be naked in front of a girl he hardly knows.

Maybe I should run. But seeing how he moves—slowly, still confused—it seems too cruel to leave him like this.

He says, “What are you doing here?”

“You—you don’t remember?”

“It’s all a blur.” Alec tries to push himself up, but he can’t. His muscled arms shake too much to bear his weight yet. “What happened?”

“Your friend, Mikhail—he dragged me in here. He . . . ” How do I say this? “He changed. The two of you fought, and I couldn’t get out until—until you changed back.”

Now that it’s light, and the steam has finally run out, I take a good look around the Turkish bath. There’s a cabinet I’d bet anything is for linens, and sure enough, when I open the door, there are towels and plush robes folded inside. I take a robe to Alec and kneel by his side. The tiles are cool against my bare knees. “Here,” I say gently. “Are you all right?”

He snatches it from me, though he’s apparently still too weak to put it on. He just drapes it over his lap. “There’s no need to worry, Tess. Nothing’s happened here. Just leave me. And tell no one.”

I almost want to laugh. “Are you really going to pretend I don’t know?”

Alec turns his head toward the corner; his firm jaw clenches, as he struggles against some deeper emotion: shame, I realize. He’s ashamed to be seen as what he is.

“Most people . . . prefer to forget, instead of admit what they’ve seen,” he says roughly. His voice sounds terrible—as though he had been screaming for hours. I remember how he growled and snarled. “You should go.”

“I can’t.”

“Because you want to stare at the monster?” Alec’s green eyes blaze, but with a wholly human fire now. “Or because you pity me?” I couldn’t guess which possibility he loathes more.

I fold my arms. “I can’t leave because the door’s locked. Believe me, I would’ve gone hours ago if I could have.”

“Oh. Of course.” Then he looks so abashed—so boyish, and so handsome—that I almost want to laugh.

But the strangeness of the situation keeps me quiet. I am still frightened of Alec, knowing what he truly is. And yet this morning he is weary, bruised, naked, and exposed on the floor of the Turkish bath. Vulnerable.

If I want answers, I had better get them now.

“You’re a—” I hesitate on the word, one I’ve heard only in stories to frighten the gullible. “A werewolf.”

Alec lifts his head to face me. His chestnut curls glint slightly red in the dawn light. “Yes.”

“And Mikhail, too.”

He grimaces with pure dislike. “Yes. Older. Stronger. More powerful.”

“Did he . . . do this to you?” I wouldn’t put it past Mikhail to do something so wicked. “Or were you born a werewolf?”

Taking a deep breath, Alec pushes himself up to a fully seated position, then struggles into the robe as I avert my eyes. Only now, as he puts something on, do I remember that I’m still in my underclothes, which are made of flimsy linen. Should’ve gotten myself a robe while I was at it, but now I simply draw my knees toward my chest, for a little modesty.

Once the robe is on, Alec slowly rises to his feet. Movement still seems to hurt him, and he sways as he straightens for the first time. Before I can rise to help, though, Alec steadies himself.

He looks down at me. “I’ve never told anyone this. Anyone besides my father, I mean.”

Mr. Marlowe knows? I wouldn’t have expected that. But how would I have expected any of this?

“I became a werewolf two years ago,” Alec says. “My father and I were on a hunting trip in Wisconsin.”

I’ve never heard of this “Wisconsin,” which is apparently a dangerous place. So I imagine it like the great woods near Moorcliffe, where the Viscount sometimes goes to shoot—ancient trees that stretch up toward the sky, their leaves so thick that they almost blot out the sun. The ground covered with clouds of ferns and carpets of moss. A profound silence broken only by the flapping of birds’ wings.

A bitter, rueful smile plays on Alec’s face. “It was just after sunset. My father had told me earlier to come in for dinner, but I hadn’t shot anything all day. I refused. I was going to prove what a great hunter I really was. But there was a better hunter in the forest, waiting.”

“Mikhail?”

“Another. I’ll never even know his name, or what he looks like as a human, unless he someday chooses to reveal himself.” Alec’s tone makes it clear that this would be extremely unwise for the werewolf to do; he wants revenge so badly that I can feel it in the room with us, as tangible as the walls. “I didn’t understand what had happened to me at first. I thought I’d simply been bitten by a wolf. But immediately I became sick—so sick—God, the fevers. I remember tossing and turning in bed, thinking that I knew what meat must feel like when people cook it on a spit.”

I’ve been sick like that—well, not exactly like that, but I know what he means.

“Then the full moon came,” Alec says. “And for the first time, I changed into the wolf. Luckily, I was in our stables at the time, and only my father was with me. He was able to shut me in alone. Of course, we lost all our horses.”

Meaning, he killed them.

He sounds so disgusted with himself that I feel more sympathy than horror. But there’s one thing that’s confusing me: Something from the old wives’ tales, and from what he’s just said, that doesn’t add up. “I’m sure last night wasn’t a full moon.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t. The full moon is important to our kind—that’s when the curse finally awakens in us. When our powers are at the zenith. And it’s the one night we can never escape from; no matter what, on the night of the full moon, we have to change into wolves.”

“The rest of the time, you can choose? You chose to change and attack me last night?” The fear shivers inside me again, and I wonder how long it can be before the morning staff finally arrives. Alec is still weary, but I can see him growing stronger by the second. Restoring himself.

“No. God, Tess, no. I don’t have any control over when I change. I have to transform into a wolf every night, dusk to dawn—no matter where I am. That’s why I always try to be alone, someplace safe. But Mikhail must have found me. He had other plans.” He rubs a hand across his temple, as though his head hurts. “For both of us.”

I think back to the night before, to the casual way Mikhail tossed aside his clothes before he transformed into a wolf, and how he changed back long before the sun rose. “You mean—Mikhail can choose whether or not to change.”

“He has that power. Because he’s been initiated into the Brotherhood.”

My Lord, the hate in his voice as he says it. It frightens me, even though I know the hatred is directed at the Brotherhood and not at me. That kind of hate is terrifying no matter where it’s aimed. I shrink down, hugging my knees closer.

Alec doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring out the porthole at the early morning light. “The Brotherhood is the dominant group of werewolves. The ruling pack. There are other groups—smaller, weaker, hunted by the Brotherhood. And there must be lone wolves hiding out, the way I did at first. But the Brotherhood will stop at nothing short of absolute power. They control henchmen in the streets. They control members of Parliament and Congress. There’s no one too low for them to notice or too high for them to command. Sometimes I think they might have targeted me—sent the werewolf that attacked me, the better to bring Dad’s money and influence under their control.” He shakes his head tiredly. “My father thought he was helping me, taking me to Europe. We wondered if there might be . . . men of learning there. People who understood what was happening to me and could make it stop. We meant to search for them, no matter how long it took. Instead we found Mikhail and the Brotherhood waiting for us.”

“Why do they want to kill you? Why do they hunt other werewolves?”

“They only hunt the ones they don’t want to join the Brotherhood,” he says. “But they want to initiate me. That’s why Mikhail’s on the Titanic. To force me to join them.”

Alec says it as though there could be no worse fate. I don’t understand. The Brotherhood sounds scary to me, but if Alec is a werewolf, like them, why wouldn’t he want to be one of the “ruling pack”? It makes no sense. “If that would give you the power to . . . change, or not change, as you wanted—then why don’t you join them?”

“Because they’re monsters.” Alec glances over his shoulder at me; one corner of his mouth lifts in an unwilling smile. “But you think I’m a monster too, don’t you?”

“Tell me the difference.” As long as I’m trapped on the same ship with both Alec and Mikhail, I need to know.

“The Brotherhood kill people, to eat, or just for fun. They terrify and torment them for their amusement—especially women. And if a woman becomes a werewolf, the Brotherhood never considers recruitment. Just murder. They claim female werewolves would ‘weaken the pack.’ It’s not as though I could undergo the initiation and then do as I pleased, either. The older members can exert power over the others, once they’re initiated—perhaps even control their minds. I’m not sure. I don’t intend to find out.”

Alec, at least, is not a random killer. I still don’t trust him, but I now feel brave enough to rise to my feet.

No longer am I looking up at him as a little huddled wretch on the floor. I realize that I am one of the only people in the world who knows his secret, and that gives me power. Not much power, perhaps, and the knowledge is more trouble than it’s worth—but if I have a hunter after me, I have to take what strength I can.

“When I first saw the two of you,” I say, “near the grand staircase, yesterday morning—that was when you first realized Mikhail had followed you onboard, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Alec leans against the wall, still tired, though I think this is now more emotional than physical. “My father and I booked passage at the last moment. Yet somehow they knew. The Brotherhood has spies everywhere.”

So, they aren’t working together. But maybe Alec at least knows this: “Why did Mikhail come after me? What’s in the box I was carrying, the one he wanted so badly?”

Alec sighs. “I don’t know, though I’ve been wondering. The man is hugely wealthy, so he wouldn’t bother stealing if it were merely a matter of money. There’s something special inside that box. Something unique. Something Mikhail can’t get any other way.” His green eyes search my face. “You didn’t look inside?”

“No. It locks, and I don’t have the key.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of any connection between the Lisle family and werewolves.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Not hardly.”

He lifts his chin. “But of course, you don’t know all their secrets, do you? You’re merely a servant girl.”

Although Alec says it matter-of-factly, with none of the contempt Layton or Lady Regina puts in those words, hearing him dismiss me that way stings. “Who do you think knows more about what happens in a house than the servants? No one. I know things about every person at Moorcliffe that the other members of the family could never guess.”

Now, that sounds like I’m bragging, or threatening to tell, and I wish I hadn’t said it. But Alec doesn’t pry for more. He looks as though that threw him off his guard.

So I press my advantage. “Why are you going back to the United States, when you haven’t found the cure you were looking for? To get away from the Brotherhood?”

“Partly.” His expression darkens, not with anger but with sadness. As he turns toward me, I realize how desperately lonely Alec is; he’s talking to me not only because he feels he must, but because—no matter how ashamed he is of his secrets—it feels good to talk to someone. “But . . . I’m too dangerous for polite society. For any society. Look what I nearly did to you last night. What I might have done if I hadn’t been sure to eat just before sundown. I penned myself in here because it was one of the only places onboard with nothing to damage and no other people around after dark, but even then, you’ve told me, I nearly—” The words choke in his throat. Alec takes a deep breath before he continues. “I want to find an isolated place on the frontier. Someplace remote, where I can live without hurting anyone. My father will take me out West, help me get established, and then leave me behind. It’s past time he had a normal life again. At least one of us can. Maybe there I’ll finally be beyond the Brotherhood’s reach.”

Then he focuses on me. “But Mikhail’s after more than the box. That first night, in Southampton—you must have realized by now that he was the wolf who tried to attack you.”

I nod. “But why would he be after me? If it’s the box he wants.”

“For fun. The box—that’s only why he first began following the Lisles and you as their servant. After that, he wanted to kill you for fun.” The simple way Alec says it makes it all the more horrifying. “I thought if I helped you then, he’d probably never see you again. That he’d be looking for me and forget about you. When he saw you aboard the Titanic, though . . . now you’re something he wants and couldn’t get. Proof he’s not all-powerful: Believe me, there’s nothing Mikhail hates more. You have to be careful, Tess.”

Alec steps closer to me; though I feel a shiver run through my body, it’s not exactly fear. The morning sunshine grows brighter, bathing his sculpted face in almost dazzling light. “You probably wouldn’t tell anyone about this, regardless of what I say or don’t say. Who would believe you?” Then he sighs. “But all the same—help me keep this secret. I only need a few more days.” He finishes with a word that almost seems to be torn from him: “Please.”

Our faces are very close. I try to imagine his face, his eyes, his body as the red wolf I saw last night. The beast is there, just beneath the skin; I’ll always be able to see it now. He’s very kind now that I’ve got something on him, with his asking me nicely, but I wouldn’t like to find out what he’d do if I didn’t agree. “I won’t tell.”

He steps back, suddenly distant again. “Stay away from me as much as possible.” This is the voice of a gentleman again, one used to giving orders and having them obeyed. “It’s for your own good. Mikhail clearly likes the idea of using you to bait me. If he realizes we’ve spoken—that you know the full truth—it’s even more dangerous for you.”

“If you can steer clear of Lady Regina, I can avoid you well enough.” I think that over. “But I warn you now, steering clear of Lady Regina is easier said than done.”