Mr. Henry stared at Graham’s hand, then eyed him with a scowl. “I should think I have spoken plainly enough, Mr. Lambert. There is not—nor ever has been—a ship docked in this harbour under the nameMary Campbell.And I should know. I’ve been at this post these past twenty-five years. Are you certain you got the name right?”
Was he? He thought back, and…yes. The name was exactly what had flown from Mr. Peckwood’s mouth. He squared his shoulders. “I am.”
“Then perhaps Mr. Peckwood got it wrong. I suggest you trouble him instead of me. Good day, sir.” The man turned away, clearly finished with anything to do with the ghost shipMary Campbelland him.
Graham stood rooted a moment more, a loathsome suspicion rising like yellow bile. Peckwood never forgot a name.
Punching his hat back into shape, he jammed the thing on his head and blustered out into the storm. This had been nothing but a fool’s errand, and he was the biggest fool of them all. Peckwood had craftily removed his only source of restraint and was likely even now pushing up his sleeves to present a single-handed performance for his willing audience of gullible journalists. Without Graham’s assistance for such a delicate procedure, Colin’s life would be in danger. Though he prayed he was wrong, Graham took off at a dead run. Too much time had already passed, and his gut twisted at the thought.
He must stop that surgery before it began. Would that he’d not be too late.
Like he had been for his mother.
She never knew colour had sound. That purple was a symphony. Red, the last gasp of an autumn leaf as it fluttered to the ground. And blue. Ahh, blue. Amelia nuzzled her ear against the hem of her sapphire sleeve, humming along with the melody. Blue was an angel song, majestic in its dulcet tones. Satisfying as a lover’s kiss.
And then a cannon fired. Again and again and again. Her head lolled towards the noxious noise, rooting her cheek against the highback cushion of the chair.
Tree trunks strode into the small room. Tall and black. Black, the irregular beat of a heart bent on dying. Lub-dub. Lub. Pause. D–dub.
The walking trunks—three of them—carried something between them. Something long, draped in white. Her eyes closed, for the haunting note of a viola was too exquisite to do anything but shut out the world and float along on its glorious wave.
“Missss Baal-fourrr?”
The words stretched into a thick piece of taffy, too hard to pull any thinner. She blinked her eyes open. One of the trees knelt before her.
“Caan youu hear meee?”
No. She’d been wrong. Trees didn’t speak, and was this not the language of snakes? A shudder shook through her like the sharp slamming of a door.
“Amelia!”
A slap boxed her ears, or was it her cheek? Either way, her head jerked aside, and she gasped. For the space of that breath, the white-haired Mr. Peckwood came into focus.
“Yess, Docc-torr?” Her fingers floated to her lips. Did she speak snake now too?
“The sssurgery wasss…” His mouth moved, his voice droned on, but who cared? Not her. Though she had a deeply embedded suspicion she should care about something. Or maybe about someone.
“Isss that clear?”
She bobbed her head because she was supposed to. Wasn’t she? But then the booming started again and a tree lumbered near, towering over her and the doctor.
“Will ssshe beee all right?”
“Yesss. She jussst needs to—”
She flattened her palms against her ears. Snakes ought not to be listened to. That was Eve’s folly. And besides, there were too many colours now. Too much noise. The ache of it throbbed in her bones.
The trees thundered away, but it took a long while before she dropped her hands, on the off chance they returned. But the only thing that came back was the sweet, sweet viola music, hovering like a butterfly on the air, compelling her towards its beauty.
She rose—no—floated across the room to gaze down upon the lovely sound, but her heart broke at the sight. She dropped to her knees. “Poor mannn.”
She stroked the fellow’s face, leastwise the small portion not swathed in glorious white. And the longer she stroked, the stronger a low keen vibrated in her throat. He belonged to someone, this broken man. Someone who should know he had red gasping into the white on his bandage. She should find that someone. Explain he needed arms to hold him and prayers to lift him.
But instead, she laid her head on his pillow, close to his face, and matched his breathing. For now, she would be that someone who cared for him. This hurt man. This lonely one. She reached for his hand, too big to lift, and smoothed her fingers atop his. Everyone deserved a friend.
Even a stranger in white.
TWENTY-FIVE
