George dodges past us and out onto the deck to help with castoff as Felicity, mopping her streaming eyes, drops to her knees next to the bunk and tugs up the leg of Monty’s trousers, checking to make sure the splint is still in place. “Are you in pain?”
“Of course I’m in bleeding pain!” he snaps. “Every misstep George took on that goddamn mountain, I got your elbow in my gut—”
“You’re fine.” Felicity pulls up the neck of her dressing gown and wipes her face again.
“Were you actually crying?” I ask her.
“No, I put pepper on my fingers and then rubbed my eyes.” She blows her nose on the inside of her elbow. “In hindsight, I used far too much.”
Monty flinches as Felicity adjusts the splint, his neck arching. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until your sight is fully restored before you start moving my bones around?” he asks through clenched teeth.
George appears in the cabin door again, doing a quick inventory of the three of us. “All well?”
“No,” Monty moans. Felicity rolls her eyes.
He looks to me, bouncing up on the balls of his feet. “And we’re going forward with our heading? To Portugal?”
I nod. “Portugal.”
Porto
23
Almost as soon as we set our sails toward the Iberian coast, it occurs to me that finding this shipwreck might involve diving, and I become consumed by an endless list of fears about this, some of which seem plausible and many of which are entirely invented. We haven’t even found the wreck yet—don’t know if we will; it may be lost entirely to the sea, its location never recorded. It may not be accessible, or divable, or even exist any longer.
But, as ever, my fear seeks a source, and, finding none, invents its own.
I haven’t told anyone about my pact with Saad. Each time I reach for the spyglass in my pocket and remember it isn’t there, another spadeful of earth is tumbled from the pit in my stomach.
But if he truly can get me aboard the Dutchman, I can ask the captain what happened and what was done to my mother that stole her life. I can find out whether she saw her own death or a curse was placed upon her for her actions, and why she wanted the spyglass to begin with. There has to be a reason, and, more importantly, a solution. There has to be something I can do to stop myself falling down the same chasm she did. It has to be more than just an imbalance of the mind. There has to be a way to cure it, or break it, or stop it, depending on what exactly it is. I’d give my blood or my firstborn or my voice or my entire bloody inheritance for a mind that does not stand on the opposite side of the battlefield from me. The answer can’t be that there isn’t one.
Porto is a red-roofed city, tall buildings that appear taller as they climb in a crowd up the hillsides. Dark steeples belonging to cathedrals and palaces poke at the skyline. The city’s colors reflect into the harbor so that the water looks as though someone has poured dye into it. The sky is cloudless, and the weather perfect, neither too cold in the shade nor too warm in the sun. Ships flying both British and Portuguese banners linger in the harbor, waiting on the skiffs that carry wine in oak barrels from the vineyard valleys down the Douro River. The harbor streets have a sweet, fermented smell that makes the sound of the waves seem like it could be vines rattling against their trellises in the wind.
Monty is too unwell to traverse the city, so Felicity stays on board with him while George and I go into town together, seeking dive permits and equipment and any more information we can gather about the wreck of the Persephone. Felicity gently suggests George wear shoes on the outing, as we may be entering official spaces. George just as gently refuses.
As we stand in line at the harbor master’s office, I struggle to temper my expectations. Part of me knows there may be nothing here. We may have to try another town or an island or wait for weeks for all relevant documents to be signed, or there may not be anything left to find. Another part of me desperately hopes that, as soon as we mention the Persephone, we’ll be handed a diving bell and a map and told to have a good time. I roll from the balls of my feet to my heels and back, my toes curling in my shoes. Above the desk, a mural of the town is laid out in blue azulejo tile.
The closer we draw to the desk, the more I start to panic about having to explain myself to the clerk. Something about the last few weeks, keeping company either with people I’ve grown comfortable around, or having to fight my way through my fear of strangers out of necessity, almost made me forget how difficult and terrifying it is to look someone in the eye and speak frankly. Perhaps life-or-death situations suit me.
“Do you think . . . ?” I start, and George turns to me. We’ve only been in this city half a day and he already looks completely at ease. I have a sense that affable George could make a home anywhere, and a friend out of anyone who crossed his path. My neck goes red. “Might you . . . would you be able to . . .” An embarrassingly hitched breath like I’m about to cry. “Can you do the talking? To the . . .” I wave a general hand at the three clerks behind the desk, each occupied with helping a patron ahead of us. “I’m not good at that.”
“Course,” George replies, and something about the casual kindness of it makes me feel pitiful. “Though we may not get far if I take the lead.” He nods to one of the clerks as he calls the next patron forward. “He might assume you own me.”
“Oh God.” Am I capable of ever opening my mouth without making an ass of myself within a sentence? “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think of that, I’m so sorry. I can—”
“Adrian, it’s fine,” he interrupts. “Let’s try it and see how far we get. I’ll give you the signal if I need to be rescued.” He taps the side of his nose, then winks.
We stand again in a silence I try hard not to read into. He’s not angry with you. No one is angry with you. Why is that so goddamn hard for you to believe? I stare up at the mural, counting the ships in the painted harbor, the figures along the streets, the horses, the hats.
“If you were offered the chance to know how you’d die, would you take it?” I ask.
George glances sideways at me again, almost as confused as I am as to why I asked but much kinder about it than I am to myself. “Is this one of those word puzzles?” he asks. “Like, ‘If a man is found dead in a room with no doors—’”
“No, just a question,” I say. “General interest.”
He scrapes the sole of one foot along the stone floor, trying to dislodge something stuck to his toe. “Who’s interested?”
“Me.” I look back up at the tiles, searching for something else to count. “Sorry, you needn’t answer.”
“Próximo!” one of the clerks shouts, waving a hand.
“That’s us,” George says, and I follow him up to the desk.
The counter window is barred like a ticket booth, and behind it, a clerk is trying to navigate how best to drink a cup of tea without dunking his substantial mustache into it first.
“Senhores.” He takes the tiniest of sips.
“Olá—English?” George asks, and the man nods. George passes our port documents over the counter. “I’m the captain of a ship currently docked in your harbor. We’re seeking a permit to dive a wreck off the coast.”