Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

class ticket was mine.

I bit back a smile, my chest fluttery with triumph. “So you’ll keep the money?” I asked, sliding the ticket into my own pocket and making a great show of readjusting my carpetbag. “It must be yours,” I added.

“Y-yes . . .” She swallowed, her eyes darting to mine. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Ma’am.” I positively beamed at her as I bobbed a little curtsy, wished her a lovely day, and trotted as quickly as I could around the dockers and crates.

I did it! Jie would be proud! I’d been just as sneaky as she. I couldn’t wait to tell her, and now, here I was, on my way to actually seeing her. . . .

But a tiny ball of guilt wound into my belly. I scowled, picking up my pace. It was done; I’d taken her ticket, and I was leaving. The end. Now all I had to do was shove the guilt aside and find the

Amérique.

Surprisingly, once I passed all the local ferries, the “big one with the wheels” was rather hard to miss. Twice as tall and three times as long as any other boat at the pier, it blocked out all view of the river. I had to crane my neck to see the white sails billowing at either end. Two red smokestacks stood proudly at the center, and most obvious of all were the gigantic paddle wheels, one on each side.

My bonnet ribbons swatted my face as I approached the ship and made my way around the swaggering sailors and ogling passengers. I checked for any olive-clad women, but my mark was nowhere in sight. No doubt she was still by the stacked crates, counting out her newest funds.

A quick scan ahead showed two gangplanks, one near the street and one all the way at the end of the dock. At the closer plank, stacked luggage outnumbered people, and the women’s colorful gowns shimmered like butterflies. Clearly this was the first-class line.

The more distant line, however, showed men and women dressed like me: well-made but well-

worn clothes. So after a final search for the woman in the olive dress and finding she was nowhere about, I trudged on.

But I only made it a few steps before my right hand—my missing hand—started tingling. Then the hair on my neck sprang up.

I froze midstride. Marcus, Marcus, Marcus —he was all I could think of. My eyes slid left and right, but I could find nothing unusual.

Yet the buzz in my hand did not dull, and now my breath was quickening.

Stay calm, Eleanor. Focus. With forced cool, I looked over my shoulder toward land and searched the area. But no light flickered or energy sparkled.

If Marcus or something Dead was nearby, it wasn’t showing itself.

So I made myself turn back around and resume my steps. My movements were clunky and rushed, though, and my heart refused to settle.

Then from nowhere, a gust of wind knocked into me. Hard.

I swayed, and the air flipped around me, tugging at my skirts like a riptide. I spun around and frantically checked the dockers’ and sailors’ reactions. Except that none of them seemed affected by this gale.

Pain burst in my wrist. It was the scene from the bank all over again, and I knew I had to run. Just get on the ship! It was the only shelter around, and though I didn’t believe walls could really stop

Marcus, it was the closest thing to safety I could conjure.

So I thrust myself forward, leaning into the unnatural wind and gulping for air. But the throbbing where my hand once was—it shrieked so loudly, it dulled all my other senses. I shambled forward like one of the Dead.

Then came the first howl, and I froze all over again. It was an unmistakably long and plaintive baying, and with it came a smell. A pungent, dank smell that wasn’t from the river. A smell I knew.

Grave dirt.

The stench of the Dead.

Marcus was here, even if I could not see him. He was here, and I was too late. But I would not go down without a fight.

The wind battered against me as if trying to push me back to shore. I had to fight to stand tall while I scanned every shadow for yellow eyes.

And as each of my heartbeats skittered past, the howling dogs grew louder. Closer. I could not see them, but I could certainly imagine them: rabid, fanged monsters larger than any real dog.

That was when I saw him—not Marcus, but a young man in line for the second-class gangplank.

His slender frame listed like a tree in a tornado, and his head spun about as if he too was searching for these raging hounds. He looked a few years older than me, with wildly flying chestnut curls and a charcoal suit.

He was beautiful—the features and garb of some fairy-tale prince.

And whoever he was, he was as affected by these hounds and this unnatural wind as I was. Perhaps more so.

I stumbled back, too stunned to be scared. Who was this young man? He couldn’t be Marcus, could he?

In the space of two ragged breaths, the wind died down. The howling grew distant and then stopped altogether.

But I barely noticed. My gaze was locked on this young man as I slowly walked toward him—and the more I stared at him, the more familiar he seemed. Yet I couldn’t pinpoint why.

My toe hit something, and I tumbled forward. My arms windmilled, yet just before my face hit the pier, a docker threw out his hands and righted me.

“Th-thank you,” I whispered, painting a grateful smile on my lips. He merely looked at me as if

I’d had too much drink and resumed his work. I used my distracted moment to regain my wits. To gather up my skirts and dash onward to the second-class gangplank.

But by the time I got there, the young man was gone—presumably on board the ship. It wasn’t until after I had waited in the long queue and finally handed the porter my ticket that I realized something.

Both times my right wrist had ignited with pain and I had heard the hounds howling. And both times it had all ended when I turned my concentration elsewhere.

But what the devil that meant, I didn’t know.

At the top of the gangplank, a middle-aged man took my bag and guided me inside. I promptly scoured every nook and shadow for yellow eyes, but the world-famous electric lamps (molded into fish, I might add) clearly illuminated everything—and I quickly realized there was nowhere a person could hide. The bloodred carpet, the wood-paneled walls, and the velvet-padded handrails were constantly trod on or grasped at by servants in black uniforms scurrying past.

By the time we reached a wide staircase at the ship’s center, where a large mermaid balustrade stood guard, my pulse had slowed to its normal speed.

I’d had to steal a ticket to get on this boat, so unless Marcus had bought that final, expensive ticket, he couldn’t get on board. Except rules like that don’t apply to Marcus . I ignored that thought. If he got on the steamer, if that raging wind and those baying hounds followed me here, then I would deal with them.

We finally reached my stateroom, and after I tipped the porter, he left me with a key and scooted off into the flow of server traffic. Just as I was about to unlock the door, it swung back on its own.

My heart leaped into my throat, but it was only a pretty young woman in black. “C’est votre chambre?”

“Uh . . .” I was too busy trying to calm my pulse to follow her French. “What?”

“This is your room?” She dipped her head and peered at me from the tops of her eyes.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Then we are roommates.”

“Roommates?” I repeated stupidly. I hadn’t even considered the possibility, but of course second class would mean sharing a cabin.

“Mais oui.” She stepped aside so I could trudge in, and with a wave to a set of bunks in one corner, she said, “I took the top bed.”

“Oh . . . all right.” I crossed to the bunk and heaved my carpetbag on it. Then I shifted around to inspect the stateroom.

My eyes instantly lit on two more bunks and two elegant black trunks stacked beside them. So, not roommate but roommates.

I turned my attention to the rest of the room. White enamel walls with walnut fittings surrounded portholes and large electric lights. The beds were made up with crisp, white linens, and a navy curtain hung elegantly over them. Squeezed into the center of the room were two navy satin armchairs.

At that moment, the young woman stepped in front of me. “I am Mademoiselle Laure Primeau,” she drawled, holding out a dainty hand. “And you are?”

“I’m Eleanor Fitt.” I gulped, suddenly hot with embarrassment. “I-I’d shake your hand, but . . .” I lifted my bandaged wrist.

Her eyes widened. “Mon Dieu. ” She hastily withdrew her hand. “I am sorry. That looks . . . painful.”

“Yes, it was.” I twisted around to my carpetbag, not wishing to dwell on my injury. “Where can I put my things?”

She sighed. “I fear the other ladies ’ave already claimed most of the space.” Skirts rustled behind me, and when I glanced back, she was draped over one of the chairs. “If you do not ’ave much, then you should use the drawer beneath the bed.”

I nodded and set to placing my few items—extra underclothes, a hatbox, a nightgown—in the drawer. At the bottom of the bag, I found the stack of Elijah’s letters.

Gnawing the inside of my mouth, I eyed them warily. Then, as quickly as possible, I withdrew them and stuffed them beneath my spare petticoat before finally crawling onto my bed.

Laure eyed me from her chair, and I eyed her right back. She looked to be a bit older than Jie—

twenty-five years at the most.

“You are traveling alone?” she asked.

“Yes. And you?”

“Oui. But I am an old maid—you are so young. How can you travel alone? You ’ave no family?”

My stomach twisted. My daughter is now dead to me. I dropped my gaze. “No . . . I have no family.”

“Ah. But that is sad, non? I ’ave a family, but—”

The cabin door flew open, cutting her off. I shot to my feet, ready to fight . . . but it was only an angular, gray-haired woman shuffling in. An auburn-haired girl of eight or nine skipped happily behind her.

Laure’s expression soured, and with clear displeasure, she stood. “Bonjour, Madame Brown. We

’ave our final roommate.” She motioned to me. “This is Mademoiselle Fitt.”

The older woman curtsied primly, all the while openly examining me. “You are traveling alone?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, not bothering to hide my own return-examination. She was long faced and unfortunately hairy around the chin.

“This is my granddaughter, Lizzie.” Mrs. Brown motioned to the girl, who gave me a bright grin—

revealing her own unfortunate feature: exceptionally large front teeth. “Lizzie, get your parasol. We are going to the promenade deck to watch the ship depart. Would you care to join us?”