* * *
Bryony hadn’t beenable to write a single thing in her journal. She hadn’t sketched the mountains or the sound either. Ever since the interview with Marshal Hibbs, she’d had a sick feeling in her stomach that prevented her from doing anything at all.
She wasn’t the only one feeling sick. Rosalind had retired to her room for the afternoon, not feeling well either, which had left Bryony without a single distraction.
She didn’t like the direction the Marshal’s questions had gone, and it seemed like something she should tell Mikhail. So she’d tried going for a walk. There was a map of Sitka hanging in the library, and she’d committed it to memory, noting where the Amoses’ shipyard and warehouse were located down by the water. She’d thought maybe if she happened to walk by the office, she just might see him or one of his siblings. Then she just might be able to fall into a conversation with them, which would naturally lead to her asking after Mikhail. And then if he was either home or at the office, maybe she could talk to him and tell him about the Marshal.
But the butler hadn’t let her leave the mansion. He’d claimed there was no one available to escort her, and she most certainly needed an escort in a town like Sitka.
A gentle rap sounded on the library door, and Bryony set down her pencil, then turned to find Dr. Ottingford peeking inside.
“I hope I’m not interrupting, Miss Wetherby.”
“Not at all.” She nodded toward her journal. “I haven’t been able to get much work done.”
“I see. Well...” He stepped farther inside the room. “I just want you to know that all of this is out of my control.”
She frowned. “What’s out of your control?”
“Everything with Mr. Amos. He’s an honorable man, truly, and I wish it were happening differently. But in the world of science, funding is of the utmost importance. I hope you understand.”
“Understand what?”
He blinked at her, as though stunned by her question. “Oh... I, ah... forgive me. I assumed you’d been informed. I’m sorry, dear. It appears that I’ve spoken out of turn.”
She stood. “Spoken out of turn about what? What’s happening with Mr. Amos?”
“I’m sorry, but I need to go dress for dinner. Mr. Caldwell likes things formal, and I don’t wish to be late.” He turned and headed toward the door, then paused and looked back. “If you have any further questions, I suggest you speak with your father after dinner.”
She didn’t want to wait until after dinner. But Dr. Ottingford was right about the time—and Mr. Caldwell’s requirements for a formal dinner. Which meant she had to change as well.
She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths as she donned a formal gown, praying for Mikhail all the while. The trouble was, she didn’t know what to pray for. Did she ask God to keep him safe?
The man’s entire job was to keep other people safe in terribly dangerous situations. What could he possibly need to be kept safe from?
Did she pray that God would give him wisdom? That only made her wonder more about what was happening with him.
She still had no answers by the time she headed down the ornately carved staircase. All she knew was that she didn’t understand how Rosalind could endure living in Caldwell’s mansion. It had polished wood, intricately patterned wallpaper, and thick Turkish rugs.
But it felt like a prison.
The food at dinner tasted like sawdust. It was fancy, yes, prepared by a French chef who’d made creamy asparagus soup, stuffed artichokes, and filet mignon, but she didn’t enjoy so much as a bite of it.
She was trying to force herself to stop staring at her father and eat a stuffed artichoke, when the door to the dining room opened and the butler stepped inside. She stiffened at the sight of the man who’d refused to let her leave the house earlier. But he didn’t head toward her. He went straight to the governor and slid a white envelope onto the table beside him.
The governor set down his fork and opened it, his eyes scanning the page. Then his mouth pressed into a firm line.
“What is it, Simon?” Mr. Caldwell asked from where he sat at the head of the table. “Has something happened?”
The governor slammed the letter down on the table. “The RCS has to release the ship.”
Bryony nearly choked on her bite of artichoke.
“Do you mean theAurora?” Mr. Caldwell paused, a glass of deep red wine hovering near his lips.
“Yes. What other ship would I be talking about?” The governor shoved the letter at his brother. “The RCS didn’t find a single bottle of liquor in it, not even stashed in the captain’s cabin.
Mr. Caldwell set his glass of wine on the table with a thunk. “What did they do? Ban their sailors from drinking?”
