Knocking a third time, she opened the door a crack, peeking inside to find her husband sitting stiff-backed by a guttering candle, staring at a passenger manifest.
‘Husband,’ she ventured.
She’d always been afraid of him, but it was different now. He’d bargained with devils. For all she knew, he’d given himself over to Old Tom. She would have given almost any price not to enter this room.
‘Hmmm.’ He roused himself. Blinking away his concerns, he focused on her, then the purple sky beyond the porthole, surprise showing on his face. ‘The hours have run away from me,’ he said distantly. ‘I didn’t realise our obligations were upon us.’
Standing, he began to unlace his breeches.
‘A moment, pray,’ she begged, going to his wine rack and taking down one of the Portuguese bottles he favoured.
‘Shall we share a drink first?’ she enquired, showing the bottle to him.
He scowled. ‘Do you truly find me so repulsive that you need to be numbed by wine to tend your responsibilities?’
Yes. She put the thought aside.
‘I’m parched is all,’ she lied. ‘The ship’s humid.’
Keeping her back to him, she plucked the vial of sleeping draught from the small pouch concealed in her sleeve, uncorking it and upturning it over his mug. It was the same substance she’d used to ease Bosey’s suffering back on the docks, and with the same agonising slowness, a solitary drop of the liquid gathered along the rim.
Upon the desk, she saw a piece of parchment poking out from behind a passenger manifest. Three names were visible, though it was clear there were others beneath.
Bastiaan Bos – 1604
Tukihiri – 1605
Gillis van de Ceulen – 1607
She frowned. The first two names meant nothing to her, but the Van de Ceulens had been a great family, until disgrace toppled them.
She tried to remember what the disgrace had been, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever known. She’d been a girl when it happened, her questions about the incident met with vague answers that were more rumour than fact. The nobility was like that. They gorged on scandal, but quickly forgot what they’d eaten. After all, there was always more coming.
‘Is the cork stuck?’ asked her husband, the wood creaking as he shifted his feet to stand up.
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘There’s a spider in my mug, that’s all. I’m trying to get it out.’
‘Crush it and be done.’
‘There’s no need to hurt it.’
He laughed at her timidity. ‘A woman’s heart is so easily bruised,’ he said. ‘No wonder most of your species prefers hearth and home.’
Most. The word was a window into his soul. Through it she could see the blighted landscape of their life together.
She eyed the vial. Arent had asked what one drop would do, then two and three. He’d never asked about five.
Five would kill.
It would be the simplest thing. She need only shake slightly harder and the liquid would pour out. He’d be dead within hours.
She’d wrestled with the insidious tug of it.
If Old Tom did lurk inside her husband, Sander could perform the banishing ritual and the threat would be at an end. Even if Old Tom wasn’t possessing him, he had unleashed it on the world. Death was the least he deserved.
Her hand trembled, wanting to do it so badly. It was one tainted life in exchange for Lia’s, she told herself. One life to put an end to the fear that had plagued her these last fifteen years.
But she didn’t have the courage. What if he noticed and called for Drecht? What if it didn’t work? What if it did? Old Tom would be banished, but who’d believe she’d killed her husband to rid them of a devil? Under Company law, Van Schooten would have the authority to throw her to the crew for the rest of the voyage, then execute her in Amsterdam – assuming they made it that far.
Lia would be alone.
Ashamed of herself, she put the plan aside.
‘What were you thinking about when I walked in?’ she asked, trying to buy some time while the drop of sleeping draught grew heavy on the rim.
‘Why?’
‘I knocked three times, but you didn’t answer.’ Growing frustrated, she gave the vial a shake, causing a second drop of the liquid to dislodge itself.
Her heart stopped.
A single drop would put him in a deep sleep, but for no longer than usual. Two drops would keep him under well past breakfast. For a man who usually rose before dawn that would provoke questions. She considered making some excuse to try again, but he would surely notice the delay. Instead, she poured the wine and hoped he would blame his tiredness on the sea air.
‘You seemed distracted,’ she continued, bringing it over to him. ‘That’s rare for you.’
‘My solace has never concerned you before,’ he said suspiciously, tapping his mug with a long, sharp fingernail.
Feeling the first touch of panic, she realised she’d misplayed the moment. She hadn’t acted the dutiful wife for many years, and, even when she had, it had been done from spite.
‘It’s been an odd day,’ she said weakly, unable to summon a better lie.
‘I heard,’ he said, his eyes narrowing malevolently upon her. ‘Or did you believe that your flight into the cargo hold with Arent had gone unnoticed?’ He banged his wine down on the table and stood up. ‘What was your intent, Sara? To humiliate me? What did you hope to gain?’
Panic rose in her. She flinched, expecting to be hit, but he simply stared.
‘Did you think me oblivious to your carousing last night?’ His face twisted into a lascivious grin. ‘Tell me, how did you enjoy his fiddle?’
‘Husband –’
‘It’s done, Sara,’ he spat, waving it away. ‘You’ll see him no more. Arent’s too good for you, and I’ll not be embarrassed by your infatuation. We’ll have no more breakfasts, no more questions.’ He dashed his arm through the air. ‘Consider your liberty at an end. You will spend your days in your cabin, except to complete your obligations to me, after which you’ll return there immediately.’
Regaining his temper, he drained his wine and put the cup back down again.
‘Undress,’ he commanded, all traces of his former anger seemingly evaporated.
Having gone ice cold, she lowered her eyes, undoing the knots at her shoulders. Her gown slid to the floor, followed by her corset and stomacher, until she stood naked before him. He studied her with contempt, unhooking the six leather straps that kept his breastplate in place and hanging it on the armour stand in the corner. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a scrap of parchment tucked behind the buckle.
His breeches came off next, revealing those pale, bony legs and his erect penis.
Gesturing for her to lie down on the bunk, he took his position on top of her.
It was a work of moments.
A few grunts, gritted teeth and his seed was spilt.
He panted, his breath rancid on her face.
Humiliated, Sara’s hands unclenched from the sheets. She stared at his thin neck, imagining what it would feel like to watch him struggle for his last breath.
Her husband gripped her chin and burrowed into her with those black eyes. ‘Bear me a son and these obligations will be at an end.’
‘I hate you,’ she muttered.
It was reckless, foolish. She shouldn’t have said it, but it welled up in her like sickness. She couldn’t keep it down.
‘I know. Why do you think I chose you of all your sisters?’ He rolled off her and went to his writing desk, pouring a little more wine. ‘Your father made an enemy of me, Sara. I sent pirates to burn his warehouses and raid his ships; then when I’d ruined him, I took one of his precious daughters as a prize. The one who could never love me, the one who would hate it the most.’