Lou offered to come see me off, but I was concerned that if she did, I wouldn’t find the nerve to board the boat. Or at the least, not leave without dragging her after me. And while Lou made it clear she was also more than willing to go to Morocco, whether or not there was a good reason for her company, I insisted she stay behind. I don’t know what waits for me on the other end of this voyage, but something in my gut is telling me it will be the scene of a crime, and I’d rather have some time to clean up the blood on my own.
I left a note for father claiming to have gone back to Cheshire. It’s a lie that won’t hold for long, but if all goes well, neither will this trip. Several weeks at sea is not an insubstantial amount of time, but it’s no Grand Tour. It’s no running away from home. It’s no abandoning your family without a word or a note or a visit even though you knew you had a little brother you’d left behind.
I wait by the gangplank, feeling too tall and too visible and strangling the strap of my pack—I keep adjusting it on my shoulder, and I can feel it starting to rub me raw. I have been here for almost an hour, my paralyzing fear of being late to anything compelling me to leave the house long before they were even allowing passengers to board. It’s unreasonable to expect that Monty shares that same idiosyncrasy, but ten minutes is cutting it very fine for a voyage of this sort. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. I try not to stare at the harbor clock looming over the nautical records office. Someone steps on my foot, and, when I shy, a boy darts into my path, shoving a rate map for crossings into my hand before I can refuse, and what am I doing here?
What am I doing here?
I cannot go to Morocco. I cannot get on a boat and sail toward an unknown destination without telling my father, and with nothing but a knapsack of belongings. No one but Louisa knows where I am, and my only company is my brother, who hates me and has possibly changed his mind and is not coming at all. Oh God, what if he doesn’t come? The only thing worse than extended travel with him is extended travel alone. Something terrible will happen on the voyage; I’m so sure of it all my muscles tense, like I’m bracing for a punch. We’ll be attacked by pirates. We’ll be stranded by windless sky. We’ll run out of food and have to resort to eating rats. Or each other. I’ll get gangrene. There will be a mutiny. We’ll run aground. Sharks will bite so many holes in the ship that we will sink, and I know that last one is not physically possible but somehow it still has equal billing with the other calamities crowding for my attention.
It is so much easier to give into them than to try and fight them off. It’s a relief, like letting go the lead of a dog that’s been wrenching your shoulder with the force of its pulling. But now I have a dog to chase, and I’m running in circles after every catastrophic scenario, struggling to breathe.
And even if I do reach Rabat, I won’t know anyone there. What if no one speaks English? I’ll be lost. I’ll be without a home. My luggage will be stolen. I will find nothing I like to eat. I’ll eat something and become sick from it. There will be a hurricane that will wipe the whole coast off the map. A fire. An uprising. How will we get from the dock to our accommodations? What if I’m murdered? What if I’m murdered while accepting help from a seemingly friendly stranger on my way to my accommodations? They’ll never find my body. I’ll develop a fever. Fall prey to a snake attack. Are there snakes in Morocco? Why didn’t I read about this? I had halfheartedly bought a copy of A Short History of the Barbary Coast, which is anything but short and I have yet to crack it open, the devil of my own invention being preferable to the confirmation that any of it is real. I didn’t even bring it with me, for God’s sake. The only book I have is Tom Jones, tucked in between the three sets of shirts and breeches, two pairs of socks, and the Monmouth cap that are now the only things in the world I can call my own.
I can’t breathe. Everything is so loud, and I’m folding in on myself. It’s like I can feel my skin pulling away from my bones. I should have packed more socks. I should have read that goddamn book. I should have told my father where I was going. I should have told Edward. I should have told someone besides Louisa.
There’s a clatter nearby when someone drops a tin cup, and the sound of metal striking cobblestone makes me start so badly I bite my tongue.
I can’t do this. I can’t go. What am I doing? Why did I agree to this? What made me think I could possibly do this? I’m stupid and small and pathetic and not brave or strong or smart enough to undertake a venture of this size.
I can’t go. I can’t do this. I have to go home, I want to be home.
I turn from the ship and start down the dock, away from the Hotspur. I try to walk at a natural pace, though the press of the crowd slows me down, which only makes me more desperate to get away from here. In an attempt to break from the throng, I slip into one of the shop-lined lanes that form the border between the city and the harbor. Cellar doors thrown open along the path display meats and vegetables, their rotted predecessors from the day before mashed into the mud. A bony cat with only one eye hisses at me when I draw too close to the turnip he’s nursing. In my rush, I nearly knock over a shopkeeper coming up from the cellar of his shop, a sack of raw indigo under each arm.
By the time I reach the end of the lane, I’m almost running. I lurch around the corner, down one of the covered closes between a fish market and an alehouse. I don’t have enough breath to voice my apology. I feel like I’m hiding from the Hotspur itself, as though being out of sight of the harbor will give me an excuse not to leave. I’m so hasty I don’t look where I’m going, and I collide with a pair of lovers pressed against the close wall, kissing deeply.
It’s not a gentle collision. My frantic approach combined with their placement means that I essentially tumble straight in between them, like I’m cutting in at a dance. Except mortifying and inappropriate and so much more tongue involved.
The gentleman swears as I step hard on his foot. He grabs me under the elbows, though I suppose that’s more out of instinct than any actual care for my well-being, and I nearly pull him over with me. As soon as he feels himself start to tip, he lets me go, and I crash to the ground alone, landing hard on my backside.
I’m apologizing before I’ve even properly finished falling. “I’m so sorry. God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Watch where you’re going! Jackass.”
I freeze. Even my panic seems to place itself on a temporary hold at the sound of the voice. “Monty?”
He turns, and yes, it is indeed my brother propped against the wall, his hair tousled and his shirt untucked.
“Christ.” He covers his eyes. “Adrian.”
Beside him, an equally askew Percy Newton gives me a sheepish smile. “Good morning.”
I look between them, trying to make sense of the scene I have literally run into. It only takes a few seconds of mental arithmetic, then I feel my entire body go red. Monty’s face is also splotchy, though that may be from the scrape of Percy’s stubble.
“Adrian,” Monty says, then again, “Adrian.” like he’s forgotten every other word he knows. Percy is straightening his coat and pushing his hair back into place, but Monty makes no effort to put himself back together. He seems as disarmed by my sudden arrival as I am by the sight of him and Percy together. “How . . . ?” He pauses, considering his next words carefully. “How much did you see?”