Girl at Sea (11 page)

A little more eye-narrowing. Clio had hit the nail on the head with that one. She drank triumphantly. This champagne was good for her.

“What do you do?” she asked. “You have lots of computers down there.”

“I’m an engineer,” he said. “But I also study archeology. I do the technical things—some weird, experimental stuff that’s only being done in a few schools around the world. That’s why Julia brought me over to Cambridge to be her assistant. I was supposed to go home for the summer, but then we got the call that this was happening. Suddenly, I wasn’t going home.”

“I was supposed to be working in an art store,” Clio said.

He had no reply to this. The remark didn’t seem to register at 86

all. It was as if working in an art store could never be as important as what he had planned on doing. There was a little too much haughtiness in him. Yale. Cambridge. Sure, they were impressive, but he was
way
too aware of the fact. He didn’t know how to be smooth about it.

“At dinner,” Elsa said, swallowing a large swig of the champagne, “your dad started saying something about your tattoo. He said it was an interesting story. Was he about to say that you were in an accident? That’s what it sounded like.”

“Oh, right.” Clio swirled the liquid in her mug and took a little drink. “I was. It was a long time ago.”

“How do you get a
tattoo
in an
accident
?” Aidan said.

“I didn’t get the tattoo
in
the accident.” Clio heard her voice thickening just a tiny bit. “I got the tattoo afterward because I had a scar.”

“Obviously,” Elsa said, laughing a little too loudly and nudging him.

“What kind of accident?” he asked.

Clio took another drink. This story required a
lot
of explanation. But the two people sitting on the edge of the bed stared down at her, waiting to hear what she had to say for herself. And things were a little easier with the champagne.

“I got hit by a speedboat,” she said.

Elsa let out a little yelp.

“How did you get hit by a
speedboat
?” Aidan asked.

“It’s a long story,” Clio said.

“We have time,” Elsa said. “We definitely have the time for that.”

Clio shrugged and drained her mug, holding it out for more.

Elsa refilled it.

87

“Okay,” she said. “When we first made the game, my dad had this idea that normal school wasn’t enough for me. So he took us to Kos—the Greek island—to this colony where you had to live as ancient Greeks, circa 300 BC.”

“This is not what I was expecting you to say,” Aidan said. For once, he actually looked surprised.

“We wore sheets and lived in old buildings with no air-conditioning,” Clio went on. “Most of the people there did it so they could drink wine and be naked a lot.”

A giggle from Elsa.

“Every day I had to take Greek lessons. My teacher used to walk around because he thought that was more classical. So we’d have to walk for miles in the blinding heat, over rocks, with these slippery leather things on our feet. It was horrible. The only girl there my age was Hungarian, and the only way we could communicate was by throwing raw olives at each other.

Mostly, I just tried to keep my sheet from falling off and avoid the tourists.”

Her audience was enjoying her story. Her misery did at least make for good conversation.

“After about a week,” she said, “my mom had had enough. We moved to a hotel, and I continued Greek lessons on the balcony, and we had room service and fluffy towels and things like that.

But my dad—he was always trying to
expand my horizons
. So he signed us both up for diving lessons.”

“Did you like diving?” Elsa asked. “I don’t know if I would.”

“Well, at first it was kind of annoying because there’s a lot you have to learn. You have to take classes, learn about dive tables and decompression sickness and things like that. And getting 88

into a wet suit isn’t fun. But once they finally let you go in the water, it’s kind of amazing.”

“So you’re a proper diver?” Elsa asked.

“I have my card,” Clio said. The champagne made her feel like she could go on talking forever. “It’s not that hard to learn.

I’m a pretty good swimmer. Plus my dad was really serious about it. It was his new thing. We got lots of training, more than just the basics. I don’t even know if I was allowed to do some of the stuff we were doing. Anyway, we were diving one afternoon.

There’s a marked-off diving area, but my dad saw these things he thought were columns. There’s a lot of stuff under the water there to look at. So we left the area and swam out into the open water. Not far. Maybe fifty feet out or something. We got to the spot, and it wasn’t columns. It was just some rocks. My dad gave me the signal that he was going up. I followed him. You have to go up in stages so that you don’t get decompression sickness. So I was ascending with him. We were maybe ten feet apart. I got to the surface first, and there it was.”

“The boat?” asked Elsa. She had grabbed a handful of Aidan’s jeans.

“We were in the wrong place,” Clio said. “But the guy who was driving had been drinking, and he was going way too fast. I don’t remember it all that well. I know I tried to get out of the way. I think I did, sort of. It would have been worse if I had been right in front of it. I don’t remember getting hit, but my dad says I flew pretty far. Maybe fifteen feet.”

“Oh my God,” Elsa said. “Clio! You could have been killed.”

“Yeah. That’s what they kept saying at the time, that I could have been killed. I was really lucky. It messed up my arm really 89

badly, though. It was broken in eight places. I had to have physical therapy for a year. But it’s okay now.”

Elsa and Aidan were quiet for a second, both had their hands on the single mug of champagne. Clio was surprised to see that she had drained her cup again. She held it out for a refill. The bottle was empty. Elsa got up and grabbed the second one.

Suddenly, Clio was very tired. The jet lag had come fast, egged on by the champagne. She pulled herself up off the floor, taking her mug with her. She flopped down at the top of the bed and propped herself up on the pillows.

Aidan turned around and looked at her.

“Where does the tattoo come in?” he asked. All snarkiness had dropped away.

“Good question,” Elsa said, popping the second bottle. More foam came gushing out, spilling onto the carpet, then across the bed as Elsa leaned across it to fill Clio’s mug. Elsa stayed down on her stomach, clutching the bottle in a two-handed grip, like it was a lit candle, looking at Clio over it.

“We went to Japan the next year for a big games conference,”

Clio said. “Games and comic books, they tend to bring out the same people. So a famous manga artist was there. I loved his stuff. I met him, he saw the scar. I told him the story. And he drew over it because I told him I hated it so much. My dad let me get it tattooed in. My mom nearly killed him.”

Clio rubbed at the tattoo thoughtfully. Elsa, seeing that she had finished, pointed to Aidan.

“It’s your turn to tell a story,” she said. “We’re the girls. This is our room. We get to say who has to tell the stories.”

90

“I don’t have any stories,” he said.

“You’re such a liar,” Elsa said, rolling onto her back and smiling. “Story. Now.”

“About what?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Elsa said. “Were you ever in an exciting accident?”

“I fell off my bike once,” he said. “I chipped a tooth.”

“That’s not very good,” she said, making a face.

“My life isn’t as exciting,” he said, looking down at Elsa’s sprawled figure. Elsa was good—absolutely natural, just being herself—and yet she was so clinically
hot
. That was what sexy meant. Clio had never really seen it before. Not super-skinny.

Not throwing herself at anyone. Just curvy, natural, laughing, Swedish-English, kind of drunk . . . Like someone who had wandered out of some movie from the 1940s. Clio wasn’t sure if she should be taking notes or giving up. It was too much for her head. How was it she had lived this long without being kissed?

Why was she like herself and Elsa like Elsa?

Ollie . . . she still hadn’t gotten in touch with him. Oh, right.

There was a big reason.

“You have a computer,” she said to Aidan.

“Yes, I do,” he said, taking his eyes away from Elsa.

“I need to send an e-mail.”

He sighed and set his mug on the floor.

“Nothing is set up,” he said. “I should get back to that.”

“What are we doing here, anyway?” she asked. “What’s all that stuff for?”

“You’re going to have to ask your dad,” he said. “I just work here.”

91

“Oh, come on, Aidan,” Elsa said. “Just tell her.”

“Tell her yourself.”

“I have no idea. My mum doesn’t tell me a thing. What’s the big bloody secret? My mum and her drama.”

“My dad and his missions,” Clio said.

“Come on, Aidan,” Elsa said. “You can tell
us
.”

The sight of Elsa rolling on the bed, begging for information that he didn’t want to give, was apparently a little too much for Aidan. He stood up.

“I should go,” he said. “Thanks for the champagne. Let me know when it’s caviar night.”

When he had gone, Elsa rolled over and laughed into the comforter.

“A good start,” she remarked, picking up her head. “A fun game. Just enough to play with. Good-looking, but a little slow with the social skills.”

Clio felt her eyes starting to close. The combined effects of the champagne and the jet lag had finally landed on her.

“I think I’m tired . . .” she said.

“Oh yes,” Elsa said with a laugh. “You’re going out.

Lightweight.”

Clio was vaguely aware of her shoes coming off and the comforter being folded over her, and then a dreamless sleep swept over her like a wave.

92

London, November 1897

It was a cold, fine autumn night. The sky had gone a deep purple just before dark, and the lamps had just been lit along Russell Square. Marguerite Magwell put her hand against a pane of the glass and felt the chill through it. She pressed harder, pressed her nose to the window, wanting to drink in the feeling as much as she could before turning back to the warmth of the room.

She heard a bustle in the hall, a few last-minute injunc-tions to the cook. Marguerite turned her eyes to the side and watched in the reflection as her aunt came into the parlor.

Since her father’s death, her aunt had lived with her. For many years, Marguerite had been the only woman in the house. She hadn’t had to deal with feminine fussiness. She could read and study without being scolded about her pos-ture or her clothes; she could wear her hair loose without comment. Not anymore.

93

“There you are, dear,” her aunt said. “Cook said that the bird is just ready and that it’s a lovely thing. Such a big goose for three people.”

Marguerite turned from where she was holding back the curtain.

“The staff can have the rest for their supper. Everyone deserves a good meal on a brisk night like this.”

“Well, they’ll enjoy that,” her aunt said. “You’re so like your father. He used to say the same thing. Has Mr. Hill come yet?”

“Not yet,” Marguerite said. “I’m sure he’s coming straight from the museum.”

“Such a hardworking fellow. Oh, I
do
like him, Marguerite.

And your father liked him.”

“I know,” Marguerite said.

“I think it is quite right of you to have him to dinner. I want to believe that this is a sign that you plan on going back out into the world. He’s shy but so fond of you. But then, who isn’t? And that dress! So few girls can wear black, but you can.”

Marguerite automatically looked down at her dress, one of the many black dresses she had worn since her father’s death.

The view when she looked down was always black. Her aunt was just trying to be encouraging; it wasn’t that nice.

“It’s so very striking against your hair!” her aunt went on.

“Although, my dear, I think it’s time you started going back to some regular colors. For someone your age, it’s not expected to wear mourning forever. It’s understood that you have to meet young men, that you need dresses for dancing. Maybe a blue? A lovely deep blue.”