With a yelp, he rolls off me. I scramble to my feet. Collecting himself as well, he makes a grab for the gouge, but I kick him hard in the knee.
The dog only catches the cat by surprise. In everything else, the more agile cat wins.
Cursing and spitting, Skeleton falls back. Then the snake slithers out the door.
I fall to my knees, suddenly nauseated and unable to draw a breath. What now? He will tell his betters, and my lies, like loosely tied knots, will unravel. The room seems to slide one way, then the other, like a seesaw, but I fight against the urge to give up.
Get up, girl. Put on your trousers. Fetch your boots.
I only get one boot on before my insides roil, as violently as bottles of milk carted over a bumpy road. Holding my bucking midsection, I rush to the porthole, then empty the contents of my stomach into the sea.
Yelling and footsteps rattle the hallway. Catching sight of Marigold Fantasy, I hastily pull it from the hook and toss it, the oversized hat, and the pumps out the porthole, too.
“She’s in there,” exclaims Skeleton in his rusty voice. “A lassie, and she’s been staying in the men’s quarters, like a common whore. I had my suspicions, and now it’s confirmed. Methinks she might even be a stowaway.” The man’s splotchy face invades the doorway once more.
Behind him, the Master-of-Big-Arms peers at me through a half sneer, his stout arms curling at his sides. “You again. Soareyou a stowaway?”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out of my swollen throat but a hoarse, outraged whisper. Fiercely, I shake my head.
The Master-of-Big-Arms glances at the bright spot of blood inking Skeleton’s white jacket. “Get to the infirmary and make your report after.”
Skeleton stumbles off, and the door swings closed behind him.
“Lassie or lad, you’re coming with me till we get this sorted.” The Master-of-Big-Arms clamps a hand as strong as the jaws of a mastiff around my arm. He drags me to the door, not even letting me grab my second boot. “Knew you were a scammer all along. Maybe your kind can’t help it. Wait till the captain hears how you fooled him. Better hope he doesn’t dump you over. The water’s colder than ice. You’ll freeze afore the devil calls your name.”
“It isn’t right,” I croak. “The steward attacked me. He’s the one you should take away. He’s wicked. He fixed the sweepstakes.”
“Didn’t I tell them they should include a brig?” he mutters. “But no one listens to me. Now they’ll be sorry.”
I try to dig in my heels as he tows me down the Collar. People watch in astonishment. To my surprise, we pass his cabin, and he flings open the door into first class. Passing a short hallway, he pulls me down a narrow staircase.
“Where are you taking me?” I gasp, slipping off a step.
He yanks me back to my feet. “Oy, stuff it.”
Fear gnaws the last remnants of my composure, like rats to a melon rind. My nose has begun to run.
At the bottom of the stairs, we turn a corner down another hallway and then another. Windows stretch down the wall on the right, revealing a spacious high-ceilinged room with a floor drawn with lines. It’s a squash court.
But before I can get a good look, the Master-of-Big-Arms marches me down a second staircase. I’m beginning to lose track of where I am, but I guess somewhere on G-Deck. The light has become too dim for my comfort.
Finally, he unlocks a door to what looks like a small closet.
“Not ideal,” he mutters. “Not ideal a’tall.” He shoves me inside, so roughly that I spill onto the floor. The smell of wood and rubber rise up around me. “This will hold you till we figure out what to do with you.”
He slams the door. Keys jangle, followed by the click of the lock, which to me sounds like the cocking of a pistol.
A thread of panic unspools within me. The dark, my old enemy, sharpens its teeth.
“No, please don’t leave me here! Please turn on the light!I can explain!” I cry, my throat still aching and my mouth rinsed with acid. “Please don’t leave me.” I pound on the door, blubbering. “I beg you, turn on the light.”
The hall lights click off, one last insult, and darkness rushes in, as thick as the tide. Frantically, I grab at the walls, feeling for another switch. But I don’t find one. Why put a light switch in a closet?
I bang at the door. “Help! Somebody, help me!”
No one comes.
After several more minutes of yelling, my throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with a horsehair shoe brush, and my knuckles are raw from knocking. I let go of the doorknob and grope at what’s behind me. Perhaps there is something here I could use.
