Exile for Dreamers (39 page)

The
Mary Isabella
's silhouette was black and distinct against the charcoal gray of night. The pinprick glow of a lantern twinkled on her starboard bow like a guiding star—a very tiny needle in this vast watery haystack. I marked her direction and, gauging the moonlit ripples of the sea, noted that I would need to cut across the current.

The fire crackled quieter. Daneska beat at the flames less furiously. It was time.

I did not mean to make a splash, but flinging oneself out into the sea tends to have that effect. When I surfaced, I heard Daneska scream, “She jumped!”

Dani cursed me in one of her many languages, or maybe several. Then she tried to reason with me. “Would you rather drown than serve the man who will one day rule the world? Are you that big a fool?”

I am.

My petticoats quickly waterlogged and weighed me down. I chided myself for not ripping them off before I'd jumped. The ocean was cold and salt burned my eyes. I'd expected that. What I hadn't expected was the strength of the current pulling me off course.

Despite the sloshing in my ears, I heard Daneska's frantic plea. “Lucien, do something. She's getting away.”

“What would you have me do? Our ship is afire.”

“She was supposed to be my gift to Napoleon. If she's going to be obstinate, shoot her. Kill her!” Dani always was the sort who would rather rip something up than share it.

“Don't be a fool. Help me get this fire out. Let her go. She'll drown before they get to her anyway.”

“Not her. She's not the drowning sort. Give me your gun. I'll do it.” Daneska usually remains calm. Nothing ruffles her scales. She never screeches. Why would she screech when she found cooing so much more effective? And yet, that night, she shrieked at Ghost, as if the clawing pitch of her voice might force him to comply. “Change sail. Bring us around.”

I didn't look back. I swam. Swam for all I was worth. The current fought me. My waterlogged gowns kept pulling me under. Still I swam.

“Give me your gun,” she screamed.

The first shot seemed to echo across the waves. It sounded louder than a flintlock on land. The blast seemed to ripple through the massive sea and stir the waves. With a splash, the musket ball plunged into the water next to my shoulder.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't afraid. I was. But I raced against terror almost every night in my dreams. Terror and I were old friends.

The galloping of my heart only made my arms and legs pump faster. I dove under the waves, thinking if she couldn't see me, she couldn't hit me. But I couldn't tell direction from under the waves, and underwater the current seemed to blow me sideways as if I were nothing but a feather. I burst through the surface gasping and lost.

Still, I pulled myself forward through the sea, spitting out salt water and flinging seaweed out of my eyes and mouth, trying to cross the current to where I'd last seen the
Mary Isabella.
Desperate for air and unable to see between the swells, I kicked my hardest and lifted my head as high as I could above the waves. When a swell carried me up, I spotted her lantern shining in the distance and I dove for it.

Just as I dove forward into the sea, another shot rang over my head. The ball whizzed past and sliced through the water not more than an arm's length in front of me. I prayed she would be slow at reloading.

The warship chugged toward me, coming closer and closer. Not much farther, I told myself. How could I make them see me? They wouldn't even know I was in the water. If I tried to wave or shout, it would give away my position to Daneska. Except then I realized Georgie would know. She would hear the shooting and guess I had jumped. Jane would know, too. And Gabriel. When I thought about it, I realized everyone aboard that warship, with the exception of Mr. Sinclair, would be absolutely certain that I'd jumped.

I flung my arms ahead, pulling and grabbing at the water as if it were a fallen ladder and I was crawling across it to save my life. Sloshing and churning across the waves, my arms burned and I'd gulped down near as much water as I had air. I stuck my head up and through bleary eyes I thought I saw that there were not one but two lamps on the bow.

If I could see the
Mary Isabella,
so could Daneska. And she would know where to follow me. Another gunshot cracked through the air. This one struck mere inches from my head. I swam under the waves, spreading my wings through the water like a bird. A very weary bird. When I emerged for breath, I heard Gabriel. His voice echoed like a church bell over the water. “There! She's in the water. There.”

“They're shooting at her. Fire another arrow!” That sounded like Georgie. I heard the panic and wanted to call out to her and tell her to not be afraid. But every ounce of my strength was needed for forcing one arm in front of the other.

Another shot shook the night. This one came from in front of me. They were firing at Daneska.

“This will scare them off.” It sounded like Lord Wyatt. I heard the twang and sharp snap of a spear firing. An instant later, an explosion ruptured the sky.

No!
I wanted to shout.
Don't frighten them away. Chase them down.
They must be captured or sunk to the bottom of the sea. Our warship was faster than their crippled sloop, or it would be if they didn't stop to rescue me.

But I was tiring out, gagging on brine, and sinking lower with every floundering stroke. I would never make it to shore. Even reaching the
Mary Isabella
seemed an impossible feat. At least Daneska had stopped shooting at me. Ghost was right; she needn't have wasted her ammunition. His prediction that I would become fish food was proving true.

Bitterly chilled, my arms felt wooden and numb. My fingers were so cold I couldn't feel them. I'd swallowed so much salt water I needed to retch. I hadn't taken a full breath for far too long. Still, I flopped one hand forward and tried to drag myself through the waves as best I could.

“I think I see her,” someone shouted. But I could no longer discern voices. They sounded so very faint and far away, as if echoing to me from across a great valley. I heaved up water. There was no strength left.
None.
Not even an ounce. My arms relaxed and floated wide. I bobbed on a swell. My gown felt so very heavy. It tugged at me, luring me down into the blissful deep.

I vaguely heard shouts—arguing. “Ravencross, no! Don't. You'll never find her in those waves. Good Lord, not in your boots, man. You'll drown.”

Somewhere in front of me I heard a splash. But the water around me was not stirred.

They shouted his name, hollering for him to come back. In the feeble meanderings of my air-starved mind, it dawned on me that Gabriel had jumped in after me.

The thought spiked through me like a fiery dagger.

No!

With the same certainty that Georgie and Jane would've known I jumped, I knew Gabriel had dived in to come get me.

I moaned. Gabriel had a chest full of stitches. These waves would tear them out as sure as night follows day.

For his sake, I rolled to my side, belched out seawater, and flung my arm out, grabbing at the water in a desperate stroke forward. And then another. And another. A terrifying thought drove me to move faster. I remembered hearing of men who drowned because their boots filled with water and, like lead weights, dragged them under.

Where was he?

I swept seaweed out of my eyes and thought I saw him. At least I saw
something
splashing in the water toward me. It could've been dolphin or a sea serpent for all I knew. But I aimed for it, fighting to keep afloat.

When next I chanced to look, I saw him fling one arm out of the water, grasping for purchase in the rolling waves. He was headed in my direction, doing his best to come to me. But when it was his other arm, his wounded arm's turn to carry him forward, he sank.

My scream was cut short by a surge of salt water slapping my face. I spewed it out and pushed toward where I saw him go under.

He burst up, several yards in front of me, flailing with one arm to stay up, his mouth open, gasping for precious air, just as he'd done in my wretched dream.

Mr. Sinclair shouted, “Good Lord, he's going under again. Ravencross, grab the barrel. It's right behind you.”

He wouldn't.

I was in front of him. He wouldn't turn back. He wouldn't go anywhere but straight ahead.

To me.

Someone aboard the warship held a lantern down closer to the water. Just enough light for me to see Gabriel pitch forward and sink.

Before that night I had thought myself merely a competent swimmer, not nearly as good at it as I am at running. But the thought of him sinking under the waves set me to paddling harder than Mr. Sinclair's steam engine.

Right there in the frigid waters of the Atlantic I decided I wanted to live. I wanted to live very much. And the reason I wanted to live was drowning, right there, a few yards in front of my face. So I swam, and I thrashed my way through those swells with every last ounce of fire I had left in my furnace.

We nearly collided.

Sputtering, gulping, and spitting salt water, he cast his good arm out, trying to pull one-sided through a wave. I grabbed him and shoved him high enough that he could get a clean breath. Then I bobbed up from under the wave that enveloped us. In fits and starts he tried to talk. “Should've … taken off … m' boots,” says he.

My shoulders shook at his proclamation. I kicked with all my might toward Cook's pickling barrel, dragging him along, wishing to heaven I could grab enough air so I could laugh, or cry. I wasn't sure which. We slapped our hands on the pickle barrel, gasping.

Someone tossed us a rope, and as I turned to snatch the end out of the water, I caught a glimpse of Daneska's sloop sailing away.
Escaping.
I coiled the rope around my wrist and Ravencross wrapped his good arm around my waist. Lord Wyatt and Captain Grey quickly pulled us to the warship. But when we reached the side of the craft, Gabriel kept hold of the barrel and insisted they lift me onto the boat first.

Captain Grey and Georgie hauled me out of the water. They no sooner pulled me onto the flat deck of the
Mary Isabella
than my stomach lurched. I crawled to the side and coughed up seawater while Georgie pulled back my hair and held my shoulders. Captain Grey warmed his coat on the furnace, and as soon as I finished my indelicate business and managed to right myself to a sitting position, he wrapped the warmed coat around my shoulders.

Jane and Lord Wyatt were tugging Gabriel aboard. I grabbed hold of the captain's arm. “You must go after them.” He said nothing but patted my shoulders and went to help Lord Wyatt, who shouted that Gabe's ruddy boots weighed more than an anchor.

Georgie wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I pointed at the sloop's sail skating farther and farther away from us. “Go after them,” I gasped. “They stole the plans.”

Jane squatted down beside us. “No, Tess. Those were red herrings.”

“A bit of misdirection,” said Mr. Sinclair from the rudder.

Was I understanding her? “Red herrings?” I asked.

“Yes. Fakes.” Jane's face brightened with mischief. “My idea.”

I blinked. She'd kept another secret from me. But we could talk about that later. “What of Madame Cho?” I choked. “Is she—”

Georgie rubbed my arms, trying to warm away my shivers. “Miss Stranje, Sera, and Maya are with her. They sent for the doctor. We think she'll be all right.” Georgie patted me. “Let's go home and see.”

At last they pulled Gabriel aboard. Jane jumped aside as he sloshed up onto the
Mary Isabella
beside me.

“Your poor chest.” I rested my hand on his shoulder, trying to see if there was blood mixed in with the muck from the ocean. “You've probably torn out every single stitch.”

He was still grappling for breath and coughing up seawater. He shook his head and reached for my face, his fingers skimming the side of my cheek. I imagined he wanted to say something profoundly romantic, like
I love you so much I would rather have died a thousand deaths than lose you.
Instead he rolled to the side and let loose with more salt water.

Even in that light I could see the purplish bloom spreading across his chest. “Jane! He's bleeding. What do we do?”

But it was Captain Grey who sprang to Gabriel's aid. “For starters, we need to cut him out of that wet shirt.”

Lord Wyatt threw another shovel full of coal into the furnace, slammed it shut, and rushed to kneel beside us. He drew a knife out of his boot.

“No need.” Gabriel tried to object. He got as far as saying, “I—I can take it off,” before he retched again. I smoothed his wet hair back from his face. All he could do was nod.

Lord Wyatt slit the cambric so that Gabriel's shirt slid down his arms. “Gabe, turn so we can see the wound.”

Gabriel nodded and flopped over. He swiped at his mouth and sat up, leaning back against me for support.

“Georgie, hold the lamp a bit lower, if you would.” Sebastian produced a handkerchief and blotted gingerly at the wound. “You've torn it, and we've no alcohol to clean it out with.” He stood and whipped off his coat, and after warming it as Captain Grey had done, he tucked it over Ravencross. “Keep him as warm as possible.”

Captain Grey called out the order, “Make haste to shore, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Aye.” Mr. Sinclair saluted. “Lady Jane, consult your telescope to check our direction, if you please. Point us straight for the beach. Toss in more coal, my lord, and we'll see what she can do.”

Moonlight illuminated the sail of Daneska's sloop, a tiny white wedge disappearing on the horizon.

I softly kissed the top of Gabriel's sodden head as he lay against me. It pleased me that he reached for my hand and wound his fingers in mine.