The Sweetest Dark

Chapter Twenty-Four

“The Duke of Idylling has invited you to go yachting with him and his son.”

“Yachting?” I knew I was gaping at Mrs. Westcliffe, but I couldn’t help it. The last thing I’d expected was for Armand to try to reach me by way of his father. I wasn’t even entirely certain what yachting was.

I guessed my expression made that clear. “Yes, Miss Jones,” said the headmistress testily. “Yachting. It means to go out to sea on a yacht. For pleasure.”

It was a bright and balmy Friday afternoon, and I was trapped in her office. Blue sky, blue as cornflowers, shone through the tall windows around us. One of them had been opened; bridal lace surged and fell with a lazy breeze, and everything smelled of cut grass.

All the other students were off enjoying the hours of freedom that stretched from now until Monday morning, but I had been summoned here and directed to one of those fat, sinking wing chairs to contend with a person whose mood seemed far more suited for a wintry day than this one.

“How kind of him,” I said. It seemed a benign enough response.

“The trip is scheduled for Sunday. I suppose, just this once, you may be excused from chapel.”

I sat in silence, trying to make sense of it. Was this good? Was this bad? Was this how I wanted next to encounter Armand, trapped on a boat with him?

Mrs. Westcliffe talked on. “I am unclear on the precise number of guests attending. A few of the better sort of locals might be present, along with any visitors currently staying at the manor house. Everything will be perfectly proper. I am confident you will have a most delightful time.”

“Yes.”

“But,” she added—a hard, expelled sound; perking up, I thought, Ah, here’s the rub—”none of the other students are included in this invitation. Only you.”

I pursed my lips. I looked innocent.

Westcliffe pressed her palms together atop her desk, forming them into a steeple. “Miss Jones.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I understand that you have been without proper social or maternal guidance for most of your life. It’s possible you do not understand all the potential consequences of this situation.”

“Indeed,” I said, waiting for her to simply go ahead and forbid it.

“It is considered an honor to be … plucked from the crowd, so to speak. There are fine families in the district who have lived here for generations, none of whom have been so favored with the duke’s attention. Yet I wonder if it’s not truly His Grace himself behind this invitation, but his son.”

“Perhaps there’s a piano aboard.”

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t be pert. This is not a matter of jest, Eleanore. If you go on that yacht, your every move will be scrutinized. Your every word will be dissected. Your manners must be irreproachable, and they must be so at all times, even if you believe you are alone. Do you understand me?”

Do not steal anything. Do not belch or scratch your arse.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Should Lord Armand choose to favor you with his attention, you will react politely, graciously, but always with an aloof, dignified demeanor. It could be that he believes you to be … less than what you are. You will show him the error of that thought.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He’d already seen me naked. I supposed everything from there would be a step toward dignified.

“Do you still have the bangle he presented to you?”

The cuff, I wanted to correct her. As if I was going to lose it.

“I do.”

“Wear it. Let him see that you value it, but take my strong advice on this, Eleanore. Do not accept another such gift from him. One is permissible. Two becomes a suggestion.”

“Oh.”

“Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, ma’am. We do.”

A smatter of laughter and applause reached us from beyond the open window. Some of the girls had set up a game of lawn pins, and the sudden crack! of a ball hitting its mark echoed through the room.

“One last thing,” said Westcliffe.

“Yes?”

“Wear your uniform. It won’t hurt to remind everyone of where you belong.”

I puzzled over that for the rest of the bright day.

...

That night, Jesse said to me, “You should go.”

We were in the grotto, the remains of our midnight meal scattered around us. I was sleepy and full and in his arms, and I’d never known that wet stone and a couple of blankets could be so comfortable.

I’d gone to smoke five times more since my trip to the stars, but no dragon.

I’d tried, though. For Jesse, I’d tried. Smoke was all I’d been able to accomplish.

“Armand needs to see you. He’s had all this time to think things through. He’ll have questions. He’d rather go to you with them than to me.”

“I hardly have answers.”

“Then guess.”

I huffed a laugh. “Are you serious?”

“I am. Either you guess or I do.”

That brought me upright. “You mean, you’ve only been guessing at what you’ve been telling me?”

He gave a grin, folding his arms behind his head. “Not entirely. Sheathe your claws, love. The stars tell me most of it. I hypothesize the rest.”

“You guess.”

“Very well. If that’s the word you want.”

“That was your word!”

“Come back down,” he invited silkily, opening up the blanket again. “It’s cold without you.”

I didn’t, not right away. I fixed him with what I hoped was a steely look, but Jesse was right. Without the shared warmth of our bodies, the grotto rippled with cold after nightfall.

“What is a yacht?” I asked, burrowing back against him, yawning. “Is it like a fishing boat? Like a steamer?”

I was a child of the city, remember. The only boats I knew were the punts and masted ships that went up and down the brown waters of the Thames.

“It’s a symbol for the sort of men who’ve never had to fish to eat, and who would board a steamer only if it were one of style. You were born on a boat, you know.”

Every muscle in my body went rigid. “What?”

“Not a boat,” he corrected himself. “A steamship. A big one.”

“Jesse—”

“Aye, I got that from the stars. But that’s all they’ll say of it. Believe me.”

I lay there, my mind spinning, trying to make sense of this gift I’d been so casually given. Trying to seize hold of its enormity.

I knew something about my past now. I knew.

A steamship! I’d only ever seen adverts for them in the papers. They were huge, sharp-edged iron monsters topped with funnels big enough to swallow whole homes, far too massive to dock anywhere near London. They had names like Mauretania, Lusitania, Olympic.

So I hadn’t spent my entire life in the city, as I’d thought. Once I’d known the ocean and at least a port town.

“Water dragon,” Jesse whispered. “If you don’t accept the duke’s invitation, people will talk.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I know you don’t. But it’s not merely you who will be affected by this.”

“Really? You like Armand so much?” I heard the skepticism in my voice.

His chest expanded on a long inhalation, lifting the upper half of me with it, since I had draped myself over him. “Star adores dragon. Although I wouldn’t say I adore him precisely, or even like him. It’s more that … now that you’ve come, now that his powers are awakening, I’m connected to him. Like brothers, almost. And we don’t get to choose our families.”

“If you say so.”

“We’re in a bubble here, Lora. The island, the school, even the countryside. We’re all encased in a beautiful bubble, and the war seems far beyond our ken. But it’s not. Anything might happen. It won’t hurt to have Armand on your side, no matter what comes.”

“On our side, you mean,” I said sharply.

“Yes. That’s what I meant.”

I chewed on my lip. “I wish …”

He waited, no sense of urgency in his body or his breathing, only his customary, contemplative peace.

I tipped my face to see him. “I wish all this was over,” I said. “I wish there was no war and that I wasn’t in school. I wish I didn’t have to do what everyone else says and that we could just … be. Together. The two of us.”

… us-us-us …

I don’t know if he heard the question beneath my tone, if it was as blazingly obvious as I feared it was, or too smothered to detect. But Jesse lowered his lashes and met my eyes; he looked much more like himself now than he had a few nights ago. Clear gaze, golden glow. Summer storms behind the green.

“We’ve all the time in the world,” he said, and bent his head for a kiss, one of those sweet drowning ones that filled me with nectar and honey.

I hoped it wasn’t a guess, but I didn’t have the nerve to find out. I wanted too badly to believe him.

...

I walked into my room the next afternoon following tea and realized at once that it had been violated.

Not that you could tell by looking. It looked just as it should: bed made, furniture dusted, floor swept, pitcher of clean water. Everything looked right.

But it wasn’t.

I stood poised at the doorway, my eyes reflexively searching for what they couldn’t see. Sight didn’t help; my other senses did.

The air feathered a chill across my skin.

It tasted of chemical perfume, of jasmine and sugar.

And the music of my tower had changed. Gruffer, coarser, a cry of warning rising from the golden buttercup and oval leaf tucked in the armoire, taken up now by my cuff–but the circlet of roses was silent. In its place wavered a thin new song, one I’d heard only once before.

I crossed to the bureau and opened the drawer where I had stored the circlet, stuffed behind my stockings …

… and pulled out instead Mrs. Westcliffe’s green sapphire ring.

“Well, sod you, too, Chloe,” I muttered, and clamped my fingers hard around it.

I raised my chin, closed my eyes, and listened. She couldn’t have been here that long ago. I’d been gone only an hour, and her syrupy scent still polluted everything. She’d taken my brooch … where?

Downstairs. Its song came to me high and faint.

Not the wing housing my fellow students. Not the teachers’ wing, either, which was a relief. And she hadn’t taken it outside the castle. Not yet, anyway.

I stalked the corridors with the sapphire ring still in my fist, slicing my way through the listless Saturday clusters of students and maids.

Winding up, finally, in front of Mrs. Westcliffe’s closed office door. My brooch sang from behind it.

Not good.

A pair of fifth-years by the turn in the hall spotted me and paused, curious. I bent down and began to work at the heel of my boot, as if it had come loose. They moved on, and I was alone.

I stood and tapped lightly at the door.

“Mrs. Westcliffe?”

No response. The door eased open.

“Ma’am?”

I took a step past the threshold.

“I just came by to ask if … you … knew …”

The office was empty. I tossed a quick glance back at the hallway, then tiptoed all the way in.

“… that you could use some bleeding locks in this school,” I finished.

Chloe’s perfume began a fresh assault upon my nose. I wrinkled it in distaste as I hurried toward the desk.

As I’d suspected, one of the drawers had been left conspicuously agape. There were papers and glass weights and a broken jeweler’s box inside, everything a mess. And there, right beneath it on the rug, was my brooch. The pin to secure it had been bent practically in two.

Amateur. Anyone wanting to wear it would have noticed if the pin was that damaged. She’d have been smarter to warp it just enough so it no longer met the hook.

Chloe Pemington was in sore need of a lesson in being smart.

I stuck the brooch in my pocket and straightened the contents of the drawer as best I could. I shoved the ring back into its box—there was nothing I could do about the broken hinge—and was closing it all up again when I heard an unmistakable castanet-clip of footsteps echoing down the hall.

I jumped up, looking wildly about for a place to hide: nothing. The curtains were useless, the bookcases too shallow, the secrétaire too exposed. If I went to smoke, I’d leave my clothes behind—and the brooch—and my cuff—

“… excused absence, of course,” Mrs. Westcliffe was saying. “I assume you will remain in contact with Miss Bashier during this time?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sophia. Westcliffe and Sophia, right outside the door.

“Good. Good.” The door began to swing wide. “And may I rely upon you to convey our continued condolences to her and her family?”

I leapt behind the door. I flattened myself against the wall as the wooden panel bumped to a stop against the toes of my boots.

“You may, Headmistress.”

Westcliffe hadn’t noticed the bump. She entered the chamber, leaving Sophia to linger at the doorway. With just the long, vertical gap of the door and jamb between us, we stood only inches apart.

“I wired for flowers, naturally, but one does wish to offer a more personal touch in such times. Miss Bashier has been with us for many years. And she has, I believe, a younger sister nearly of school age …”

“I’m certain the Bashiers appreciate your sympathy, ma’am.” Sophia’s voice had that unctuous pitch; she shifted on her feet, clearly ready to be cut loose.

“Yes.” The headmistress had reached her desk and taken her seat. All she had to do was dismiss Sophia, who’d close the door and there I’d be.

“Very well. Good afternoon, Lady Sophia.”

“Good—”

Perhaps I moved. Probably I did. With the door practically to my nose, I’d been holding my breath, and what likely happened then is that I released it. Regardless, what happened next is that Sophia turned her head a fraction toward the gap. Toward me.

And she saw me. One pale-blue eye grew wide, then narrowed. I glared back at her.

“I say!”

Westcliffe spoke up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ma’am—did you see it?” Sophia dashed into the room, leaving the door untouched. “There, at the sill?”

I peeked past the door’s edge. Sophia was pointing to the window behind the desk. Westcliffe rose to her feet, turning her back to me.

“What?”

“There—just there! It was a little bird pecking to come in!”

Westcliffe’s shoulders relaxed. “Is that all?”

I angled around the door. Sophia prattled on.

“Oh, but birds can become such a serious nuisance. I’m sure it was a mudlark, and they’re especially devious. One never knows what trouble they’ll get into next.”

“Mudlark? I don’t believe I’m familiar with …”

I was away! I took a few running steps from the office door before stopping, waiting for the inevitable. I stuck my hand in my pocket and ran my thumb over the golden roses, stroking a fresh song from their ridges.

Sure enough, Sophia caught up to me within seconds, her eyebrows risen nearly to her hairline.

My voice came out like ground glass. “Where is Chloe?”

“The front parlor, maybe. Or her room. Someplace with mirrors.”

I spun on my heel and headed toward the parlor, because it was closest. And that’s where I found her, laughing and seated and surrounded by her toadies, a box of chocolates on the floor being shared between them.

I walked up, and every one of them but Chloe glanced up at me—then began to snigger.

“My, my,” Chloe murmured, studying the chocolate she held. “I do believe this one’s gone off. It stinks like a cesspit.” Her eyes lifted. “Oh, wait. It’s only the guttersnipe.”

“Or perhaps it’s your perfume,” I said cordially. “You always smell like a whore.”

“It’s French,” retorted Runny-Nose, before Chloe could speak.

“Then she smells like a French whore.”

“Aren’t you the eloquent young miss.” Chloe’s gaze cut to Sophia, standing close behind me. “Slumming, little sister? I can’t confess I’m surprised.”

“I’m merely here for the show,” Sophia said breezily. “Something tells me it’s going to be good.”

I took the brooch from my pocket and let it slide down my index finger, giving it a playful twirl. “A fine try. But, alas, no winner’s prize for you, Chloe. I’m sure you’ve been waiting here for Westcliffe to raise the alarm about her missing ring, ready with some well-rehearsed story about how you saw me sneaking into her office and sneaking out again, and oh, look, isn’t that Eleanore’s brooch there on the floor? But I’ve news for you, dearie. You’re sloppy. You’re stupid. And the next time you go into my room and steal from me, I’ll make certain you regret it for the rest of your days.”

“How dare you threaten me, you little tart!”

“I’m not threatening. You have no idea how easy it would be to, say, pour glue on your hair while you sleep. Cut up all your pretty dresses into ribbons.”

Chloe dropped her half-eaten chocolate back into its box, turning to her toadies. “You heard her! You all heard her! When Westcliffe finds out about this—”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” piped up Sophia. “In fact, I do believe that Eleanore and I aren’t even here right now. We’re both off in my room, diligently studying.” She sauntered to my side, smiling. “And I’ll swear to that, sister. Without hesitation. I have no misgivings about calling you all liars right to Westcliffe’s face.”

“What fun,” I said softly, into the hush. “Shall we give it a go? What d’you say, girls? Up for a bit of blood sport?”

Chloe pushed to her feet, kicking the chocolates out of her way. All the toadies cringed.

“You,” she sneered, her gaze scouring me. “You with your ridiculous clothing and that preposterous bracelet, acting as if you actually belong here! Really, Eleanore, I wonder that you’ve learned nothing of real use yet. Allow me to explain matters to you. You may have duped Sophia into vouching for you, but your word means nothing. You’re no one. No matter what you do here or who you may somehow manage to impress, you’ll always be no one. How perfectly sad that you’re allowed to pretend otherwise.”

“I’m the one he wants,” I said evenly. “No one’s pretending that.”

I didn’t have to say who.

She stared at me, silent, her color high. I saw with interest that real tears began to well in her eyes.

“That’s right.” I gave the barest smile. “Me, not you. Think about that tomorrow, when I’m with him on the yacht. Think about how he watches me. How he listens to me. Another stunt like this”—I held up the circlet—”and you’ll be shocked at what I’m able to convince him about you.”

“As if you could,” she scoffed, but there was apprehension behind those tears.

“Try me.”

I brought my foot down on one of the chocolates, grinding it into a deep, greasy smear along the rug.

“Cheerio,” I said to them all, and turned around and left.

...

It happened that a yacht was a big, sleek boat, although to call it just a boat would be akin to calling a peacock strutting around in full plumage just a bird. It was made of wood, it floated, like the ordinary punts I knew. But all similarity ended there. The duke’s yacht was three levels of hand-rubbed teak and glass and brass so polished I couldn’t look at it directly. Beneath the open sun it looked trimmed in fire, too dangerous to go near.

Yet there were people going near: menservants in snowy- white jackets, plus the duke’s other guests, a stylish crowd in cool linens and crisp straw hats poking about with walking sticks and parasols. They passed the other vessels moored at the village docks—the smelly rust-streaked trawlers, the battered rowboats, a handful of sailboats—as if they did not exist.

Armand and the duke stood by the plank that angled up to the yacht and watched as the motorcar they’d sent for me pulled in close. The chauffeur came around and opened my door and I scooted out, slammed at once by the wind.

I was beginning to realize that wind was a constant here. In London we had days—weeks—of heavy, choking smog that ate up the streets and sky, trapped in place by all the buildings. But this part of the country was so wide and clean and open, the people so glossy and well fed.

Jesse was right. It was a land in a bubble.

I clapped a hand to my own straw hat, my same plain one from the donation bin. The brim flapped up and backward along an old fold, a line in the weave that was already cracked.

It was Armand who greeted me, stepping forward while his father only fidgeted in place.

“How good to see you, Miss Jones.”

That debonair tone, the friendly press of his hand upon mine–it was such a contrast to our final moments in the cottage that I couldn’t help but smirk.

“Thank you for having me,” I replied, loudly enough for the duke to hear.

“But I haven’t,” said Armand under his breath. “So far.”

I tugged back my hand. “Ever the gentleman, aren’t you?”

“I try. Come aboard, waif. Come and experience a gentleman’s world.”

First I curtsied to the duke. He wore no hat, so his hair blew stringy and long and the sun lit the jaundice yellow beneath his skin to a sickly sheen. He gave me a nod, his gaze twitching only briefly to mine.

“Have you been out to sea before?” Armand asked me in his public voice, escorting me up the plank.

“Once. But I don’t remember it.”

“I think you’ll like it. Most people seem to find it relaxing, but I’ve always thought it was more invigorating than not. Once we get going, I’ll take you to my favorite spot at the bow. With enough wind in your ears, it feels rather like you’re flying.”

We exchanged glances.

“Or so I’ve always imagined,” he said guilelessly.

Inside the boat–the yacht–twenty or so of the linen people had gathered in what resembled a formal salon, drinking and talking in clipped, nasal accents. The white-jackets meandered through them, bearing trays of tea and champagne and something darker, like sherry. The air was laden with gossip and jewel songs.

Armand snared a flute from the nearest tray. “Champagne?”

“Water,” I said, which earned me an arched brow.

“Really?”

I shrugged a shoulder. The champagne sparkled palest amber in its glass, scented enticingly of grapes and yeast. But I remembered how it went with Armand and the whisky. I wanted to keep my wits.

“Well, then. I’m sure we’ve a pitcher around here somewhere.”

He murmured a few words to the waiter with the tray, who bowed and vanished into the crowd.

We were clearly the youngest people aboard. There didn’t seem to be anyone else even near our age, and there was no question that we were being noticed. Eyes ogled. Hands were raised to mouths to hide the whispers. A few of the older men looked me up and down with a bold combination of interest and speculation, but most of the stares were merely curious.

The duke’s son and the pauper girl. I suppose as a couple we were the most interesting thing in view.

I took the champagne glass from Armand and finished what he hadn’t. As Sophia had said, it wasn’t swill.

So much for my manners.

“Why am I here?” I asked curtly, handing back the empty flute.

“Because I invited you.”

I dropped my voice. “Did you find out anything about Rue?”

“Is that why you came?”

“No, I came because I simply can’t get enough of people looking down their noses at me. The girls at school are getting frightfully lax about it.”

“Are they? How remiss of them. We’re taught from the cradle how to look down our noses, you know, we rich sons of bitches. Perhaps Westcliffe’s curriculum is a tad too liberal these days.”

“Why, yes, my lord,” I said very audibly, “I would enjoy seeing the rest of the boat.”

“The yacht.”

“That, yes.”

He grabbed two more flutes of champagne and my arm, and we edged our way out of the salon to the wraparound deck.

To my surprise, the yacht was moving. It was very smooth and very quick; the dock had already receded to the size of a pencil, all the other boats dwindling to the size of toys. A cloud bank had mushroomed up beyond the hills and waterfront homes of the mainland, dove gray near the top, a darker pewter below.

“See those?” Armand gestured to the clouds, sloshing some of the champagne out into the channel.

I nodded.

“And see all the boats still docked? Even the fishing boats?”

I nodded again, uneasy.

“I believe it might rain,” he said.

I had to keep a hand on my hat; all my pins were giving. “Why are we still heading out?”

“Oh, because it’s such ripping good fun.” He took a long gulp of champagne. “Being trapped at sea during a gale because Reggie wants to. What could be better?”

“Armand—”

“Don’t worry. If we sink, we’ll swim back together to shore. We’ll use your bewitching chapeau as a float.”

The nose of the yacht dipped hard, then rose. The wind began a low howl around us.

“I’m not blotto,” he said, in response to my expression. He turned to the railing and chucked the empty flute to the waves. “Not yet, in any case.”

I went to stand beside him. The flute had sunk beneath the surface already, on its way to an eternity of sand and tide.

“That’s good. Because I can’t swim.”

“Why did you go swimming in the grotto, then,” he asked too pleasantly, “if you can’t swim?”

“I wasn’t swimming there. I was smoke, at the ceiling, when you came in. Falling into the water was an accident.”

“You’re welcome,” Armand said.

I refused to ask for what. We both knew.

The clouds built. The yacht nudged farther into the sweep of blue.

“Jesse thought you might have questions,” I said at last.

His smile came sardonic. “Jesse.”

“He thought you might like asking me better than him.”

“Why does he call you Lora?”

I hadn’t expected that, and angled a glance up at him. He was facing the distance still, his profile sharp, his jaw set. The color of his irises exactly matched the far waters.

“It’s just my name.”

“Not the way I heard it.”

I pulled at some loose hair that had blown into my lashes, nettled. “Is that really what you want to know?”

“No, not really. I want to know if you’ve slept with him.”

Oh, if I could be any girl but me. A thousand responses flitted through me, a thousand different things to say, ways to behave. And from the thousand, all I could capture was:

“Why?”

He faced me. He said nothing.

I found, to my dismay, that I could not hold that burning look. I ducked my head and began to remove my hatpins, and when I finally spoke, I made certain my words remained beneath the wind.

“Did you locate Rue?”

“There was no marchioness named Rue listed anywhere in the history of the peerage,” he said tonelessly. “There was no name that even sounded like that.”

Without my hat on, the world seemed abruptly much brighter, and much louder, too. I took hold of one of the brass-fire rails as the yacht gave another dip.

“Have you ever wondered,” Armand said, “if anything around you is really real? What if it’s all made up? What if all this is just my mind playing tricks? Dragons and smoke and bloody gold stars. What if you’re an illusion, Eleanore? Wishful thinking?”

I couldn’t help my laugh. “Do you truly suppose you’d wish for me?”

His lips tightened. He shook his head, squinting out, and I knew I’d said the wrong thing. His knuckles had gone white on the railing.

“I want to show you something.” Still clutching my hat and pins, I pushed back the cuff of my sleeve, lifted my arm before him so that my wrist showed. “Do you see that? That scar?”

Armand tossed the other champagne glass overboard—it whistled end over end before making its splash—then used both hands to bring my arm closer. “No … wait. Yes.” He looked up. “What’s it from?”

I said, very steady, “That’s what happens when you tell other people about the foolish things that live in your head. When you begin to wonder aloud about illusions and reality to those around you, when you have none of the power and they have it all. You become dangerous to them. You’re a threat, even if you’re only a child. We hear the songs. They don’t. But they’re right and we’re wrong, and when they strap you into the electrical-shock machine, they use these leather restraints, see, and they strap you in hard because they know that when the lightning shoots through your body, you’re going to buck and scream. So they gag you, a special gag so you don’t bite off your tongue. And you jolt against the board, and the leather binding your wrists and ankles cuts into you until it’s actually red with blood. Red red, always stiff. And that is why, Armand, you should shut the hell up about the nature of illusions. Forever.”

His face had gone, if possible, even paler than before. There was none of the horror I’d expected to see; I’d been trying to provoke it, because horror was more tolerable than compassion. But, once again, Armand did the unexpected. He bent his head and pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist, right up against the scar and my hammering pulse.

My fingers opened. The pins clattered to the deck and my hat floated free. Out to sea.

“I hope the Germans get them,” I said. “I hope they blow that place to hell along with everyone in it.”

“I hope it, too,” he said.

...

The rains did catch up with us, but not before a group of the linen gentlemen had a chance to cast their lines off the back of the yacht. That was about all they did with them, too. They stood in the shade with their drinks and laughed and told jokes while three of the servants sweated and baited the hooks and minded the nets and everything else, calling, “Here, sir, if you please,” should any of the strings hitch.

Then the gentleman in question would come up, grab the pole, and reel in his fish. Easy as pie—for them, at least.

The sky began to lower upon us. The clouds simmered black and grim. From a place that seemed not all that remote, lightning flashed and the thunder that accompanied it rolled in a deafening boom! across the waves.

The yacht started turning about. Everyone was packing it in, but then one of the lines snapped hard, lifting up from its dragging angle.

“Sir! Sir!” summoned the servant, and a man bustled up to take over the rod.

He couldn’t spin the reel against it, whatever it was. Even with the manservant struggling to help, it wasn’t working. In the white wake of the boat, the creature fought ferociously for its life, thrashing and twisting, trying to break free.

It took three men and a brace to reel it in. Two men to net it. There were cries of excitement and hands thumping backs in congratulations, and all the cheery fellows shouting, “A shark! A shark, by gad!” as it spasmed on the deck and gradually bled to death in the confusion of netting. Before it was completely lifeless, they hoisted it up by its tail on a hook and let it hang upside down while they all postured by it, still grinning.

I stood far back from the commotion; Armand had become swallowed in the crowd. I don’t know how, I don’t even know if it was true, but I felt that shark’s dying gaze, its cold flat eye fixed on me.

I couldn’t look away from it, all the blood and silver skin. An unspeakable thought had entered my mind and it would not leave.

This is what they do to monsters. This is what they’d do to me.