‘Him,’ agreed Creesjie thoughtfully. ‘Yes, but apparently he’s coming into great wealth, and then will apply to become the next governor general of Batavia.’
‘Wealth?’ Sara’s face became eager. ‘From where?’
‘I don’t know, he said he’d been planning for some time … oh …’ Realisation dawned on her. ‘Not Vos. Surely not Vos. He’s too …’ She struggled for the word, ‘dull.’
‘He has influence and his circumstances are about to change. If Old Tom is possessing anybody, Vos is as likely a candidate as anybody else. My husband yielded him a great deal of autonomy over the years. He was the second most powerful man in Batavia, and it seems he’s reaching for more. We need to investigate this wealth he’s coming into.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Creesjie. ‘I was going to ask anyway. I’ll need all the details if I’m to take his proposal seriously.’
‘You’re not really considering it?’ exclaimed Lia.
‘Why not?’ said Creesjie, lightly. ‘He’s infatuated, weak and lacking imagination. Consider the life I could build for my boys out of those flaws. Besides, my beauty won’t last for ever. I must sell it for the best price I can.’
Sara shot a look at Isabel, trailing behind. ‘Would you mind taking the daemonologica to my cabin, while I speak with Creesjie?’ she asked sweetly.
Isabel did as she was bid. Once she was away, Sara took hold of Creesjie’s arm.
‘If you marry Vos, what happens to our plan?’ she asked in concern. ‘What about France? What about Lia and me?’
‘Oh, don’t fret, dear heart,’ said Creesjie calmly. ‘That could be easily arranged. The Folly is much too valuable to be held hostage to my wedding plans, and I’d never abandon either of you.’
Sara stared at her friend. She was beautiful and loyal, but she lived on whatever breeze stirred that day. She wouldn’t have weighed Sara and Lia when considering her marriage proposal, not out of selfishness or spite, but simply because she would assume everything would work out in her favour. She wanted their freedom, so she’d have it. In fairness to Creesjie, this was usually how her life worked out.
‘Did you manage to get the plans last night?’ asked Sara, changing subject.
After ensuring nobody was around, Creesjie lifted her skirt, revealing a scroll case tied to the inside of her dress by three loops of material. ‘Of course,’ she said, removing it. ‘Jan slept soundly throughout. I must applaud you on the efficacy of your tinctures.’
‘Heavens Creesjie, why didn’t you just leave it in Lia’s cabin?’ asked Sara.
‘What if one of the cabin boys had seen it? Or your husband had visited. No, no. I thought it safer to keep it on me.’
‘That’s not the dress I altered,’ said Lia, taking the scroll case in both hands.
‘No, I fixed this one myself,’ Creesjie replied, proudly.
‘And you’ve been walking around with the scrollcase strapped to your leg all morning?’
‘I was waiting for the right time to give it to you.’
Sara shook her head fondly at her friend.
‘I’ll start working on the plans immediately,’ said Lia. ‘I’ll need some new candles, though.’
‘I’ll have the steward fetch them,’ said Sara.
‘Perhaps get them somewhere else,’ warned her daughter. ‘Between your model ship and these plans, I’m going to be up late a lot. We don’t want him wondering why I’m going through so many.’
Lia disappeared into her cabin, clutching the scroll case, leaving only the two women to enter Sara’s cabin.
The daemonologica was already open on the writing desk.
Isabel was examining the harp, her head cocked in wonder. Batavia’s taverns made do with flutes, fiddles and drums, most of them played with more enthusiasm than skill.
From her rapt expression, it was obvious she’d never seen an instrument this elegant in her life. The strings were made of sunlight and the wood was so polished, she could see her own reflection swimming on its surface, like a soul caught under its skin.
She reached out a dirty finger to pluck one of the strings, but hearing them, her hands shot behind her back. For the first time since they’d met, Sara thought she looked like the girl she was.
‘You’re more than welcome to play it,’ said Sara kindly. ‘I could teach you, if you like.’
Isabel blanched, embarrassed by the offer. ‘I don’t mean disrespect,’ she said, unable to meet Sara’s eyes. ‘But that’s not my place, and it’s cruel to offer. Your fingers are perfect for the harp. They’re soft and long. I see them and I know God designed one for the other.’ She held out her own hands for inspection. They were calloused and tough, dirty from clambering around the boat. ‘These hands were designed for the fields, for hard labour and strife. First time I saw Sander, he was being beaten by two footpads in an alley in Batavia. Him being a predikant, I took my knife and slit their throats before they knew I was there. I wasn’t looking for reward, but Sander saw providence in my arrival. He took me in and gave me a witchfinder’s education.’ Pride came into her voice. ‘My mission is divine. I’m the one who’ll put an end to Old Tom. That’s what these hands are for, not fumbling at an instrument I’ll never see again once I’m off this boat.’
Sara opened her mouth, unsure whether to protest or apologise, but Isabel spared her the decision by tapping the cover of the daemonologica. ‘I brought the book like you asked,’ she said.
Sara kept her gaze fixed on Isabel. ‘Creesjie, can you see if the daemonologica can help us with those names you took from my husband’s desk? I’d like to examine Isabel’s baby, if she’s willing?’
Isabel gasped, her hands flying straight to her stomach.
‘How did you know?’
‘I saw the fondness with which you stared at Marcus and Osbert during the sermon yesterday,’ replied Sara gently. ‘You were dreaming of your own baby being that age. I’ve had three myself, I know the look. Besides, you can’t keep your hands from your stomach.’
As Sara gently felt Isabel’s belly, murmuring periodically in satisfaction, Creesjie began flicking through the pages of the daemonologica, murmuring periodically in disgust.
‘The names were all people my husband suspected of being possessed by Old Tom.’ Creesjie cleared her throat and began reading out loud. ‘Bastiaan Bos was a wealthy merchant, but investigation revealed that his fortune had been derived from numerous examples of rare good fortune, each one coinciding with some terrible event in the villages surrounding his lands. The pattern was obvious. We snatched him off the road late one night and after three days of interrogation, Old Tom’s face was revealed to us. An exorcism was performed, but Bos could not be saved. We cleansed him with …’ Creesjie’s voice became small. ‘Fire,’ she finished limply.
‘Creesjie?’
‘My husband said he’d never …’ she faltered. ‘He claimed he’d never killed anybody. He said the rituals were enough to drive Old Tom out.’
She took a fortifying breath and plunged on to the next name.
‘Tukihiri was a master shipbuilder from foreign lands, whose boats were lighter, swifter, yet stronger than our native Indiamen. An inspection by Christian shipwrights confirmed that only devilry could have kept them afloat, and sure enough we found foul magics inscribed upon the hull. Tukihiri denied our accusations and died under questioning. His soul could not be saved.’
Creesjie got up abruptly and went to the porthole, her hand covering her mouth.
Sara finished her inspection of Isabel. ‘This child is lucky to have you as her mother,’ she said, smiling at the girl. ‘Everything appears to be going well. We’ll keep watch on you throughout the voyage, but if you become uncomfortable, I have some tinctures that might help.’