Page 40 of If Looks Could Kill
But if they have any evidence, any at all,why did they let him go?
They have none. He’d left none. Mostly none. He needs to stop his mind from spinning.
He consults the billet and the key in the pocket of his ulster and finds his stateroom number. A-413. He might as well go see where he’ll spend the next week.
He strolls about the deck, reading signs and door numbers until he finds the A-block of rooms and locates his number. He fits the key into the hole and enters the suite. It’s richly appointed in dark wood, black leather, brass fittings, and deep green brocade. Quite acceptable. It smells clean, too, fresh with hints of brass polish, linseed oil, and carbolic. He opens the narrow door to the private washroom and collides with a white-aproned maid, just coming out with an armful of folded towels.
Her eyes are wide with embarrassment.“Pardon, monsieur,”she says quickly.“Excusez ma maladresse.”
He holds up both hands as if to say,I didn’t mean to bump into you. I don’t intend to accost you further. Please leave.
“English?” she inquires. She has a round face and straight, drab hair pulled back and tucked into her frilly cap, escaping at odd places.
“Oui,”he tells her.“Au revoir. Merci.”To cement the deal, he pulls a coin from his pocket and offers it to her. She protests that there is no need, but extends her hand to receive it anyway. His fingers brush her sweaty palm, and he suppresses a shudder of revulsion. As soon as she’s gone, he tears open the wrapped soap medallion next to the washbasin—a seashell,how quaint—and scrubs his hands in the water until he’s sure he’s washed her off completely.
A wave of fatigue hits him. He’d had to rise at an unseasonable hour this morning, after a night of little rest. Sleep is definitely preferable to any amusements that might place him where the spy can stare at him. He tosses his coat on a chair and unlaces his boots, then removes his trousers and climbs between the starched sheets. He can’t sleep the whole week away, but at least he doesn’t need to think about anything for now.
He wakes to a knock at the door. The sky outside his porthole window is gray with evening. He’s slept through the entire afternoon. He stumbles back into his trousers, smooths his hair, strikes a match to light his bedside lamp, and opens the door.
It’s the chambermaid, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and cup on a saucer.
“Votre thé,”she says. Your tea.
It’s easier to take it than to explain that he doesn’t want it. He plans to go in search of a proper meal. He watches as she places the tray on a table. He stands aside to let her leave.
Instead of exiting through the door, she closes it, locks it, and turns to face him.
The lock unnerves him. “What do you want?”
“Pourquoi?”she whispers.
“Goodnight,” he says through gritted teeth. “Bonnesoirée.Au revoir.”
“Pourquoi?”She takes a step closer.
He has enough tourist’s French to understand. “Why?” he barks. “Why what?”
Her eyes beam like searchlights, probing his. Gold-spattered hazel pools of fearlessness.
His bowels tilt. His equilibrium buckles. The floor seems to plummetbeneath him, while around him the air wavers like a mirage of summer heat.
She reaches up and pulls off her frilly cap. Her hair, unbound, slides down her shoulders.
But this is no seduction. No amorous French maid, she.
He clamps his eyes shut. It’s happening again. The illness. The brain fever. He needs the recipe, the philosopher’s stone. Until then, these nightmarish horrors will keep happening.
He can smell the pulse at her throat beating out waves of her warm, young scent.
“Pourquoi avez-vous tué notre soeur?”Why have you killed our sister?
“Regardez-nous,”she demands.“Regardez.”
Look at…us?
They slither, rustling. Like oiled leather, with flicking tongues and…
Copper-colored eyes.
