sound. “It makes no sense. If we can’t see where we’re going, how would they find us to attack?”
William pursed his lips and lowered his voice. “They say they know these waters as a blind man knows his own street. They’re able to sail sightless.”
“But if they were sailing, they’d be dead in the water in this soup,” Nic retorted. “We would have to assume they were powered by steam, as are we. And we’d hear their approach.”
William narrowed his eyes, barely covering a grin, and straightened his jacket. “Would we? Or would our own steam engines block the sound of their approach?” He clapped him on the shoulder as he departed. “Don’t let them kill you if they come.”
Nic resumed his pacing along his portion of the steam clipper’s deck. This was the first time the captain had elected to fire up the steam engines, since a steady wind had accompanied them from Uruguay on. But here by the islands the wind had abruptly stopped, an odd occurrence this time of year. It had set all the sailors on edge. The engine made a terrible racket, and they missed the soothing rush of wind and water.
Nic didn’t care one way or another. He only wished for them to return to eating up the miles that lay between him and his life. His life … what was that? Where would he go? What would he do with his time? How would he make money? He leaned against the rail and stared into the dense fog, the passing ship sending it swirling into forms that would make many a sailor believe in ghosts. He shivered, but forced himself to remain where he was. He had to admit that while he missed the release of the ring, it was a relief to not be constantly healing. Life aboard ship was strengthening new muscles, and once his hands healed from that first encounter with splicing ropes, he had had no other injuries.
He rolled his left shoulder, feeling the familiar ache of an old boxing blow there. By the time his father was twenty-seven, he had taken over the helm of St. Clair Press and seen Nic born. He was settled, a success. Happy, at peace. Why couldn’t Nic find the path that would take him to such a position in life? These last years had been a relief—the new towns, new women, new fights an escape, a diversion. But standing here, preparing to round the Horn and make their way toward North America again, Nic thought he felt much the same when he stood on the bookshop’s stairs for the last time in Colorado Springs. He’d experienced much, but little had changed inside. Would life always feel unsettled for him? Would he always have this constant need for something else inside? What food would fill him, what liquor would ease him, what woman would soothe him? And why couldn’t he discover it?
Chapter 7
By the pale hours of the morning, the seas eased, like a spent monster at last taking slow, steady breaths. The weary passengers fell asleep against walls in the parlor, huddled together—depending on one another to sound an alarm in case the monster regained its fury—and they’d secured Gavin and another injured man to two settees, tying them down with long strips of old cloth to keep them from rolling off after they’d dressed their wounds.
Gavin was sitting up a couple hours later, complaining of a headache, but jesting with Moira and others around him, when the captain announced they were clear of any further danger, and they could all return to their cabins. Daniel rose to go, without looking Moira’s way.
“Daniel,” Gavin called.
The man stopped in the doorway and then looked over his shoulder. He was plainly weary, as they all were, but Moira wondered what else was behind the sorrow in his eyes.
“Daniel, thank you for getting me—and Moira—up here,” Gavin said. “We are indebted.”
Moira shifted under the inference of Gavin’s statement—that they were a couple—and watched as Daniel looked from Gavin to her and back again. He gave him a slow nod and then disappeared into the
William pursed his lips and lowered his voice. “They say they know these waters as a blind man knows his own street. They’re able to sail sightless.”
“But if they were sailing, they’d be dead in the water in this soup,” Nic retorted. “We would have to assume they were powered by steam, as are we. And we’d hear their approach.”
William narrowed his eyes, barely covering a grin, and straightened his jacket. “Would we? Or would our own steam engines block the sound of their approach?” He clapped him on the shoulder as he departed. “Don’t let them kill you if they come.”
Nic resumed his pacing along his portion of the steam clipper’s deck. This was the first time the captain had elected to fire up the steam engines, since a steady wind had accompanied them from Uruguay on. But here by the islands the wind had abruptly stopped, an odd occurrence this time of year. It had set all the sailors on edge. The engine made a terrible racket, and they missed the soothing rush of wind and water.
Nic didn’t care one way or another. He only wished for them to return to eating up the miles that lay between him and his life. His life … what was that? Where would he go? What would he do with his time? How would he make money? He leaned against the rail and stared into the dense fog, the passing ship sending it swirling into forms that would make many a sailor believe in ghosts. He shivered, but forced himself to remain where he was. He had to admit that while he missed the release of the ring, it was a relief to not be constantly healing. Life aboard ship was strengthening new muscles, and once his hands healed from that first encounter with splicing ropes, he had had no other injuries.
He rolled his left shoulder, feeling the familiar ache of an old boxing blow there. By the time his father was twenty-seven, he had taken over the helm of St. Clair Press and seen Nic born. He was settled, a success. Happy, at peace. Why couldn’t Nic find the path that would take him to such a position in life? These last years had been a relief—the new towns, new women, new fights an escape, a diversion. But standing here, preparing to round the Horn and make their way toward North America again, Nic thought he felt much the same when he stood on the bookshop’s stairs for the last time in Colorado Springs. He’d experienced much, but little had changed inside. Would life always feel unsettled for him? Would he always have this constant need for something else inside? What food would fill him, what liquor would ease him, what woman would soothe him? And why couldn’t he discover it?
Chapter 7
By the pale hours of the morning, the seas eased, like a spent monster at last taking slow, steady breaths. The weary passengers fell asleep against walls in the parlor, huddled together—depending on one another to sound an alarm in case the monster regained its fury—and they’d secured Gavin and another injured man to two settees, tying them down with long strips of old cloth to keep them from rolling off after they’d dressed their wounds.
Gavin was sitting up a couple hours later, complaining of a headache, but jesting with Moira and others around him, when the captain announced they were clear of any further danger, and they could all return to their cabins. Daniel rose to go, without looking Moira’s way.
“Daniel,” Gavin called.
The man stopped in the doorway and then looked over his shoulder. He was plainly weary, as they all were, but Moira wondered what else was behind the sorrow in his eyes.
“Daniel, thank you for getting me—and Moira—up here,” Gavin said. “We are indebted.”
Moira shifted under the inference of Gavin’s statement—that they were a couple—and watched as Daniel looked from Gavin to her and back again. He gave him a slow nod and then disappeared into the
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