Then Monty leans forward and butts my elbow with his head. “Thank you for helping me,” he says. “You were a great comfort when I was injured.”
I scrape my nails against my palm, resisting the urge to pick at the bandages still around my forearms. “It was my fault you were hurt.”
“Storms are dangerous. Ships are dangerous.”
More dangerous when your insane brother starts seeing ghosts off the prow.
When I don’t respond, he butts me again, harder this time, like a gently insistent ram, until I look up. “It wasn’t your fault.”
I don’t ask if he remembers my ravings about the ghost ship and the woman on board before the accident. Perhaps it’s best if that’s smudged into the pain and delirium. He’s already seen me coat myself in leeches for fear the perfectly potable island water was poisoning me. That’s enough evidence of my madness for now.
A final head butt. “So. Thank you.”
I shrug. “George did more.”
“Yes, well, I’m not talking to George.”
“You should thank Sim. And Felicity.”
“Doesn’t mean you didn’t do anything.”
“Anyone would have.”
“No one else did.” I open my mouth to protest again, but Monty cuts me off. “Jesus, just say, ‘You’re welcome.’ Just take it.” He dips his head at me in indication I should repeat it. I don’t say anything. “Go on.”
“Please don’t make me.” I look away, my eyes burning and oh God am I about to cry again? Why am I going to cry? I push my chin into my chest, trying to focus on the warped boards of the porch under my feet, the torn lace of my shoe, the pilling at the hems of my trousers, anything but the fact that my throat is tight and I can feel my eyes welling.
Monty sits back in his chair and says, “All right. You don’t have to. But I’m still grateful.” A pause, then he adds, “You’re doing all right. You know that, don’t you?”
Stop crying, I command myself, but I still feel a stupid tear slip free. I swipe it off with my thumb. “I’m not,” I say, my voice watery. “I’m a lost cause.”
“You’re not, though,” Monty says. “You’re doing so much better than you think you are. Believe me, as an expert on lost causes, you’re not. You might be in the thick of it now, but that doesn’t mean it will always be like this.” He reaches out and takes my hand in his, unwrapping my fingers from their strangling fist and pushing his thumb gently into my palm until the crescents from my nails fade. “You’re going to come out the other side. Maybe not today. But you will.”
“Boys!” We both raise our heads as Felicity appears on the other side of the porch, silhouetted by the kitchen door. She darts over to us, walking on her toes to keep the rough wood from splintering into her bare feet. “What are you doing with my scissors?”
“Nothing.” Monty grabs them from the rail and hides them behind his back, like she didn’t already see them.
“Those are meant for surgery.” She crosses her arms, glaring at Monty. “And you should be in bed—what are you doing out here?”
Monty squints up at her, shielding his face from the sun with the hand still holding the scissors. “I was getting a cramp in my neck—you really should get better pillows. Which reminds me—I keep forgetting to ask you, should I be concerned that sometimes I wake up with neck pain for no reason?”
She frowns. “Since you arrived here?”
“No, for the last decade or so.”
Felicity rolls her eyes. “That’s called aging.”
“Thank God. I thought something was wrong with me.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“Percy is immune to getting old—do you know he hasn’t got one gray hair on his head? Bloody infuriating. While we’re here, can I ask you about a mole I’ve got as well? I’m not sure if it’s a disease or an apparition but it’s got a bit of the shape of the virgin’s profile to it.”
“You need a proper doctor in London,” Felicity says, then adds, “and more friends your own age.”
“See what you have to look forward to?” Monty says to me, sweeping a hand up and down his frame. “This is your future, darling. You’ll be just like this someday.”
“If someone chops him off at the knees,” Felicity mutters. “Come inside. Sim’s here. She wants to speak to both of you.”
Monty retrieves a cane lying under his chair and pushes himself up with a wince. He leans heavily on it, but refuses the arm I extend to him. He refuses Felicity’s arm too before realizing she wasn’t offering it as a crutch. “Scissors,” she says, and Monty surrenders them. “Please don’t touch my things.”
“Stop having such interesting things,” Monty counters. She scowls at him. “Being an invalid is dull!”
“You lack impulse control.” She holds the kitchen door for us both, and as Monty passes, I hear her mutter, “Good Lord, Monty, what have you done to your hair? Did someone attack you with a dull cleaver?”
Sim stands from her spot at the table when we enter, pushing her empty teacup aside. The stained rag used to mop up the spill is balled up at her elbow. She offers Monty her chair, but he waves her away and takes Felicity’s instead. He also finishes her tea without asking. I position myself with my back to the stove, where I can see both doors and the window and everyone here. Felicity hoists herself onto the table, the hem of her skirt bunching under her knees. Sim tosses her soggy tea leaves out the window, then turns to us.
“The Eleftheria is seaworthy,” she says. “We had a carpenter do an inspection today and he said the repairs were sound.” When none of us says anything, she glances at me and adds, “It’s yours, if you want it.”
“Mine?” I repeat.
“You paid for a charter.”
I suspected that my charter would have been canceled out by the amount of trouble I’d caused. I also can’t imagine Saad would have changed his mind and given me back a ship without good reason. That, and a sudden fear of the ocean and what I might do if I see the Dutchman again, raises my hackles.
“You can’t stay here,” Sim adds, then, with a glance at Felicity, amends, “Not for much longer. Saad wants to be on our way and he won’t leave without seeing you off first. You two”—she looks to Monty and me—“back to England.”
“That’s not our heading,” Monty says.
“It is now,” Sim replies. “According to Saad.”
I look down at my lap, not sure how much Sim knows about the bargain I made with Saad to get us here, or, if she does, how much she’s about to share. I haven’t told Monty or Felicity I handed the spyglass over, nor that Saad knew what it was and wanted it. Perhaps this would be the moment to speak up, but before I can, Monty asks Sim, “Have I met Saad? I remember you having older brothers but none younger.”
“You have,” Felicity says. “He pushed you into that pool with the stingless jellyfish in Algiers.”
Monty scoffs. “Oh, that arsehole?”
“Well.” Sim frowns. “He was only seven at the time.”