these men bring bourbon?”
“Most probably it is brandy,” Jiméne informed her. He moved about the bungo, shoving things out of the way in an obvious attempt to hurry the boatmen. “It is necessary for them,
cariña
. They will refuse to go without it.”
Ana closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Thank God.
Brandy
. Perhaps D’Alessandro would get so drunk he would pass out. The thought made her feel good for the first time in hours.
“¡Ten piedad, piedad de mis penas!” The
tenor and alto of the boatmen rose together. The sound echoed over the river and then disappeared, muffled by the dense, darkening jungle. Then they laughed uproariously, passing the brandy.
Ana watched sourly and then looked away. They had been like this for the last two hours of the journey, seemingly oblivious to the close, threatening beauty of the darkening jungle. The cries of monkeys and parrots were growing louder, but in spite of that, the jungle had an oppressive, silent feel. Rather like an animal stalking its prey, Ana thought uncomfortably. And it was stiflingly hot—the air was heavy and soft. The thick, cloying denseness pressed in on Ana, and she tightened her fingers on the side of the boat. The boatmen were so drunk she didn’t trust either of them to navigate the river, which was a labyrinth of twists and turns. Islands formed suddenly in the center, strange whirlpools and eddies swirled around snags and quickly rising logs. And every now and then, one of those logs would bubble and raise its snout to take the form of an alligator.
Ana suddenly wished that she hadn’t insisted on going forward tonight. The dirty huts of Chagres town seemed more appealing with every mile. But it was too late now. She’d made the decision, and there was nothing left to do but live with it. Ana straightened, lifting her chin determinedly.
“Decided something, have you, Duchess?” D’Alessandro asked.
Ana twisted to look at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You get that look,” he explained. “The one that usually means you’ve decided something.”
Ana ignored his irritatingly perceptive comment. Instead, she gave him her best disinterested stare. “Why don’t you go to sleep? You look as if you could use it.”
He glanced at Ambrosio, who poled smoothly and silently at the bow. “Yeah. Why don’t you tell me a story? That should keep us entertained.”
“Ask one of them.” She gestured to Ruben, the boatman at the stern. “I’m sure they’ve plenty.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I’d rather hear one of yours.”
She turned away. “I don’t know any.”
“No? What about your Russian storybook?”
The words sliced through her. Ana fought the sudden lump in her throat. “I don’t remember the stories.”
“Just the pictures?”
“Yes.” Damn him, anyway. As much as she could, Ana kept her memories sealed tight, refusing to even look at them herself. They were a vulnerability, a dangerous habit she had worked hard to forget.
And yet now, only a few simple words brought the memory back. Yes, she remembered the pictures, and the stories, and the way her mother had whispered the unfamiliar Russian names as if they were magic. As if they held some wonderful promise…
She tried to swallow the grief that welled up at the image, refusing to think of it, just as she’d refused to think of it for years. “If you want stories, I suggest you make them up yourself.”
“But I—”
The bungo swerved suddenly, cutting D’Alessandro short, forcing them both to grab the sides for balance. Jiméne tumbled forward, and he scrambled back into his seat, his distracted look gone.
“
¿Qué hace
?” he shouted.
The boat scraped along the shore, branches from the overhanging trees clattered on the canopy, and vines trailed over Ana’s arm. She shrank away from the side, staring at Ambrosio in confusion. The boatman’s muscles strained with the pole. Then, suddenly, he dropped it and dove over the side
“Most probably it is brandy,” Jiméne informed her. He moved about the bungo, shoving things out of the way in an obvious attempt to hurry the boatmen. “It is necessary for them,
cariña
. They will refuse to go without it.”
Ana closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Thank God.
Brandy
. Perhaps D’Alessandro would get so drunk he would pass out. The thought made her feel good for the first time in hours.
“¡Ten piedad, piedad de mis penas!” The
tenor and alto of the boatmen rose together. The sound echoed over the river and then disappeared, muffled by the dense, darkening jungle. Then they laughed uproariously, passing the brandy.
Ana watched sourly and then looked away. They had been like this for the last two hours of the journey, seemingly oblivious to the close, threatening beauty of the darkening jungle. The cries of monkeys and parrots were growing louder, but in spite of that, the jungle had an oppressive, silent feel. Rather like an animal stalking its prey, Ana thought uncomfortably. And it was stiflingly hot—the air was heavy and soft. The thick, cloying denseness pressed in on Ana, and she tightened her fingers on the side of the boat. The boatmen were so drunk she didn’t trust either of them to navigate the river, which was a labyrinth of twists and turns. Islands formed suddenly in the center, strange whirlpools and eddies swirled around snags and quickly rising logs. And every now and then, one of those logs would bubble and raise its snout to take the form of an alligator.
Ana suddenly wished that she hadn’t insisted on going forward tonight. The dirty huts of Chagres town seemed more appealing with every mile. But it was too late now. She’d made the decision, and there was nothing left to do but live with it. Ana straightened, lifting her chin determinedly.
“Decided something, have you, Duchess?” D’Alessandro asked.
Ana twisted to look at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You get that look,” he explained. “The one that usually means you’ve decided something.”
Ana ignored his irritatingly perceptive comment. Instead, she gave him her best disinterested stare. “Why don’t you go to sleep? You look as if you could use it.”
He glanced at Ambrosio, who poled smoothly and silently at the bow. “Yeah. Why don’t you tell me a story? That should keep us entertained.”
“Ask one of them.” She gestured to Ruben, the boatman at the stern. “I’m sure they’ve plenty.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I’d rather hear one of yours.”
She turned away. “I don’t know any.”
“No? What about your Russian storybook?”
The words sliced through her. Ana fought the sudden lump in her throat. “I don’t remember the stories.”
“Just the pictures?”
“Yes.” Damn him, anyway. As much as she could, Ana kept her memories sealed tight, refusing to even look at them herself. They were a vulnerability, a dangerous habit she had worked hard to forget.
And yet now, only a few simple words brought the memory back. Yes, she remembered the pictures, and the stories, and the way her mother had whispered the unfamiliar Russian names as if they were magic. As if they held some wonderful promise…
She tried to swallow the grief that welled up at the image, refusing to think of it, just as she’d refused to think of it for years. “If you want stories, I suggest you make them up yourself.”
“But I—”
The bungo swerved suddenly, cutting D’Alessandro short, forcing them both to grab the sides for balance. Jiméne tumbled forward, and he scrambled back into his seat, his distracted look gone.
“
¿Qué hace
?” he shouted.
The boat scraped along the shore, branches from the overhanging trees clattered on the canopy, and vines trailed over Ana’s arm. She shrank away from the side, staring at Ambrosio in confusion. The boatman’s muscles strained with the pole. Then, suddenly, he dropped it and dove over the side
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