A reflected Saardam skimmed along the surface of the ocean, occupied by phantom sailors and even a phantom Sara. From this angle, she was a beautiful ship, the green and red paint looking as fresh as the day it was applied. If anything, the illusion made the real Saardam – with its warped planks and flaking paint – seem like the ghost ship.
‘I’ll vouch for his daemonologica,’ said Creesjie, who leant gently against Sara. ‘My husband had one just like it. And, if Sander was lying, why present us with the letter that lured him here? Surely, he’d know I’d see through it.’
‘He’s not lying,’ said Dorothea firmly. ‘Lies only come two ways. Too sharp or too soft. He spoke firm. He was being honest. Besides, he’s a predikant.’ For her, at least, that seemed all the proof anybody should need.
‘Or so he says,’ murmured Sara.
‘Now you really do sound like Pipps,’ laughed Lia. ‘He’s always saying things like that in his stories.’
Creesjie touched Sara’s shoulder. ‘What do you want us to do?’
Sara turned to find the eager faces of her friends intent upon her. They were like candles, she realised, ready for a flame. Heaven help her, but it was a thrill. Here was the life she’d always dreamed about, the life denied her because she was a woman.
A tingle of fear ran along her spine. Old Tom wouldn’t work hard to add her to his ledger, she thought. If he could promise her this, she’d pay almost anything.
‘It could be dangerous,’ she warned.
‘We’re on a boat populated by wicked men,’ sniffed Creesjie, glancing at the other three for confirmation of her feeling. ‘It would be dangerous even if there wasn’t a devil stalking it. If we do nothing, we’re doomed. Now, Sara, where do we start?’
27
Sara and Lia made their way towards their cabins, the solitary candle at the end of the corridor guttering miserably. Sara hated the gloom on the Saardam. It was filthy and thick, as if the thousands of dirty bodies who’d walked through it had somehow left it stained.
She was about to tell this to Lia when the rattling cough of the mysterious Viscountess Dalvhain drifted through her door.
‘Do you think Dalvhain could be Old Tom?’ speculated Lia.
Sara stared at the cabin speculatively. Dorothea claimed to have heard a strange noise in there this morning, and, after two days, nobody had laid eyes on her. Apparently, she was suffering some debilitating malady, but there wasn’t a soul onboard who knew what it was. Afire with curiosity, Creesjie had tried to interrogate Captain Crauwels at dinner, but even mentioning Dalvhain’s name had cast a pall across the conversation. Hearing her cabin number, the other officers had clung to their charms and grimaced, claiming it was cursed. Two people had already died in there, went the tale. Footsteps paced the floorboards, even when it was empty. Every ship had a room like this, they said. It was where somebody fell badly or burnt worse; where a servant had gone mad and cut his master’s throat.
The only thing to do was board it up and leave it be, let evil lie where it may, like a hound in its favourite chair.
Sara impulsively rapped on her door. ‘Viscountess Dalvhain? My name’s Sara Wessel, I’m a healer. I was wondering if there was anything –’
‘No!’ The voice was old and brittle. ‘And I’d ask you not to bother me again.’
Sara shared a surprised look with Lia, then retreated from the door. ‘Any ideas?’ she asked her daughter.
‘Sander Kers gives her confession every night. Maybe he can help.’
‘I’ll talk to him about it,’ said Sara.
After saying their goodbyes, Lia entered her cabin, leaving her mother alone at her door. Sara’s hand hovered uncertainly over the latch. The terrible memory of the leper peering in was still fresh.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said to herself, lifting it and stepping inside.
Sun poured through the porthole, illuminating the dust motes in the air. Walking over, she tried to peer outside, but the writing desk was in the way. Pulling the heavy folds of her dress up to her thighs, she clambered clumsily on to its surface, then put her head through the porthole, searching for anything to prove what she’d seen.
Green-painted planks curved down towards her husband’s cabin directly below, which bulged out of the hull like a moth’s cocoon. From above, she heard three women talking on deck. They called after their children and wondered what it must be like in the cabins, or if anybody had seen the governor general and Sara Wessel since boarding.
She was a wild one, one of them said. A torment to her poor husband.
Poor husband, scoffed another. She’d heard from one of the maids in the fort that his temper was ferocious, and when he was in the mood, he’d kick Sara up and down the corridors like a dog. He’d almost killed her more than once.
That’s what husbands did, replied the next. What sympathy could you have for the wife of a rich man? Most people endured worse to live under leaky roofs and eat rotten food.
Sara’s temper was about to get the better of her when she spotted a dirty handprint just beneath her porthole.
Leaning out further, she saw a second one underneath it, and then a third and fourth.
On closer inspection, she realised it wasn’t dirt staining the wood; it was ash. The hull was charred, as if the leper’s hand had been aflame. Holes punctured the planks, where he’d dug his fingers in as he’d climbed.
Her eyes followed them all the way down to the roof of her husband’s cabin, where they disappeared over the side.
If her guess hit the mark, the leper had climbed out of the ocean and straight up the hull to her porthole.
28
Arent was still preoccupied by breakfast when he descended the staircase into the humid gloom of the orlop deck. For years, his uncle had raised him with as much tenderness as he could manage. He’d taught him how to hunt, to ride, and even how to bargain. He was quick to temper, it was true, but he calmed quickly and rarely raised his hand.
The man he’d known could never have murdered an island full of people, then boasted of the good that would come of it. Arent had seen slaughter like that at war. He knew those who did it, what overcame them and what they became. It was a poison in the soul that ate them hollow.
That couldn’t be his uncle. His wise, kind uncle. The man who’d taught him of Charlemagne, and who he’d run to when his grandfather was too demanding, or too cruel.
Empty hammocks swung gently with the motion of the boat, while shoes, needles and thread, ripped clothes, jugs and wooden toys lay discarded on the floor. Most of the passengers were on deck for their morning exercise. In their absence, two toy dancers the size of an adult’s finger whirled back and forth across the floor, their wooden skirts spinning. They were impressive creations, perfectly balanced and still moving, despite being abandoned by Marcus and Osbert.
Marcus had a splinter in his finger, which his brother was now clumsily trying to remove.
The younger boy was whimpering and close to tears, his brother shushing him lest Vos should discover where they’d slunk off to.
Seeing the boys by the boxes, Arent called them over. Osbert came brightly, while Marcus trudged over, holding his injured finger. Their likeness was remarkable, thought Arent. Sandy hair fell across large, round ears, their eyes blue as the ocean outside.
‘Let me see your hand,’ said Arent, kneeling down to inspect the splinter in Marcus’s finger.