“Good morning,” the man says. “Are you bound for Sabine?”
“Galveston,” Kodiak replies, his gentleman’s mask firmly in place.
“Splendid,” the man says. “I’m Heathcliff Taft, and this is my wife, Desdemona.”
“My father founded a theatre company,” she beams. “Lovely to make your acquaintance.”
Kodiak clears his throat. “You as well. I am William Byron, and this is my wife, Mary.”
I tighten my jaw, breathing steady through my nose. The old woman studies me as if to read my secrets.
“Forgive her quiet,” Kodiak continues smoothly, “Mary has been in delicate health. We are traveling to Galveston to consulta physician who specializes in nervous disorders. The change of air, it is hoped, will do her good.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Taft says, lifting a hand to her lips. “How dreadful. Our son has troubles of his own. His wife passed not three months ago, delivering their youngest. We are bound for Sabine to help him with the children.”
Mr. Taft nods gravely. “Three boys, all under ten. He has his hands full now. We mean to do what we can. No child should grow up without a mother’s care.”
Kodiak’s fork stills where it hovers above his plate. His jaw works once, his eyes dropping to the table. He clears his throat roughly. “Cruel world. No sense in it.” He forces a thin smile and shifts the subject, asking after the weather on the coast.
The Tafts follow politely, though Desdemona lingers on me as if she hears words I have not spoken. I sit stiff, heat prickling my cheeks. To feign sorrow so neatly, to mimic grief for strangers’ approval—damn him. If they clap for his performance, let them. I know better.
Mrs. Taft tilts her head, concern knitting her brow. “My dear, you’ve not touched a thing. You’re far too thin, you must eat.”
My fork lies idle beside the plate. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks but keep my hands folded tight.
Kodiak doesn’t so much as look at me. He lifts his cup, his voice smooth as ever. “Her appetite comes and goes. Nothing to be done but wait it out.”
Mrs. Taft sighs, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “The sea air may do wonders yet.”
His words are silk to them, but to me they’re a knife—his way of saying, fine, don’t eat. Calling my bluff before strangers. If I take a bite now, I lose. If I don’t, I sit starving as they all dine. I stare at the damask cloth until the red and gold blur together, my hunger twisting like a kite taken by a strong wind inside me. He doesn’t care if I waste away. Perhaps he would rather I did.
By evening, the ship rocks steady beneath us, lanterns swaying in the narrow passage outside our cabin. The berth creaks as I sit with arms folded, stomach hollow, head aching from hunger and pride.
Kodiak leans against the wall, studying a map of Galveston. My stomach groans. He smirks. That’s my last straw.
“I suppose my hunger amuses you. You’d have me starve.”
He doesn’t look at me, instead returning to whatever he was doing with the map. “That was your choice.”
“How could you eat? How can you live with yourself having not a day ago relished in a man’s blood?”
“Ate well. Food’s delicious, thanks for askin’.”
My lips flatten and my fists tighten. “Of course. Because you are a monster. Have you no conscience?”
He shakes his head wearily and sighs.
I’m tired of being silent. I raise my chin. “Of course you do not. What a silly question. You are a hollow mask. Soulless. Shameless. You put on an accent, a persona, like an ordinary man tries on a coat. You feign emotion. Even that little act at breakfast, voice breaking—as if you were capable of feeling anything at all. You may have fooled them, but not me.”
He squeezes the map, crushing it into a ball in anger. The paper crumples in his fist, veins bulging in his forearm. He stares at me, chest heaving. For a moment, I see something raw in his expression—shame, sorrow, I cannot tell—but then it hardens into ice.
“You think I ain’t got feelings?” he rasps. “World beat the softness outta me when I was a boy. What’s left is what you see. A man who survives and protects what’s his.”
My throat tightens. And then I hear them again—their voices from the breakfast table. Three boys, all under ten. No child should grow up without a mother’s care. Their son’s wife, deadin childbirth. The children she left behind. That was what drew the flicker from Kodiak, what cracked his mask.
Perhaps it wasn’t a lie.
“Felt somethin’ for you, and now I feel a goddamn fool. Thought you were sweet. Gentle. Pure goodness through and through. But you ain’t. You’re a brat. An ungrateful one at that.” His eyes flash, wild and wounded. “You sit there callin’ me a monster, when the only monster in that room was the bastard you let in. You think he came up with his hat in his hand? You think he’d have left without takin’ what he wanted? I saw it in him. I know men. I know that look. He wasn’t leavin’ empty-handed.”
