I nod, not sure I can speak. My throat is too tight. My body too aware of the blade at my side, the finality in this goodbye, the storm waiting just past the dining room doors.
I turn toward the door, hand on the latch. The ship sways gently beneath my feet as I step into the corridor. I do not look back.
The dining room bustles loud as ever, first-class passengers laughing with their new shipboard acquaintances. I, however, have no interest in chatter. I skim the room, searching. Kodiak had described him—a red vest, a matching tie—but he’s nowhere in sight.
I hover near the doorway, unwilling to sit. The room presses in: the scrape of cutlery, the clink of porcelain, the mingling smells of coffee and fried ham.
“Mrs. Byron,” a voice chimes.
Mrs. Taft sweeps toward me in all her silks and pearls, smiling as though we were fast friends. Her gloved hand touches my arm. “Where is your darling husband?”
“He’s not feeling well,” I say, careful, cautious.
Mrs. Taft’s face brightens with surprise. “Why, how splendid to hear you speak at last! Only yesterday, your husband said you were stricken with nerves. And yet here you are, so composed. How well you seem today.”
I force a smile, though my throat is tight. “Yes…much improved.”
“Oh, but how dreadful for him,” she goes on, slipping her hand through my arm. “You mustn’t sit alone. Come, join us.” And there he is. Vest. Tie. Glinting badge. Sitting beside Mr. Taft, as if the whole arrangement had been staged. As if he’d been waiting for me.
A chill grips my spine as I lower myself beside Mrs. Taft.
Mr. Taft beams. “Good morning, my dear. Have you met Mr. Pennington?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Mr. Taft seems just as gleefully surprised to hear me speak.
“Good morning,” Pennington says, his expression polite, unreadable.
Mrs. Taft fans herself. “Mr. Pennington is a detective. How thrilling to have him aboard with us.”
I swallow hard. “Thrilling indeed. What sort of cases do you handle, Mr. Pennington?”
“All manner of criminals. Often men who have taken what isn’t theirs,” he replies.
My throat tightens, but I laugh lightly, as if he has told a clever jest. Harmless, Alice. Be harmless. A silly wife with no notion of the world beyond her teacup.
“My husband would be delighted to hear your stories,” I say smoothly, “though he is sadly confined to our cabin this morning.”
Pennington does not give anything away. “I should very much like to meet him.”
My blood runs cold. Every word I speak binds me tighter to Kodiak’s lie. To play the dutiful wife is to shield him, but to shield him is to damn myself beside him. This was not how I’d imagined this playing out.
Pennington studies me as if searching for a lie. “And where is home, Mrs. Byron?”
“Ohio,” I say smoothly. “Cincinnati.”
“Ah. A fine city.” He sets down his cup. “And yet you boarded at New Orleans?”
I force a smile. “We’ve family there. My husband wished for me to meet them.”
His expression remains mild, but his eyes sharpen. “And how long have you and Mr. Byron been married?”
“Three years,” I say, the lie slipping out silky smooth. My hands tremble beneath the table.
“Three years.” He repeats it softly, as though testing the words.
Mr. Taft chuckles, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Your husband is a large fellow, quite a presence. Why, Mr. Pennington here was asking after him only yesterday.”
