“I’m sorry,” I tell him, our faces uncomfortably close in the small space. “I’m just feeling...” I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Powerless, terrified of what we’ve done? Completely adrift? “It’s just... This isn’t how I pictured it. Orus.” It’s hard to stand this close to him. He’s tall. Taller than I realized, because he’s always been crouching or dying or lying at my feet. And he’s strong. His shoulders take up the breadth of the narrow hall, and his hands were so steady when they held me. How do I explain that I feel small? That this version of me—the one he’s never seen until now—feels so much less courageous than the one he asked to run away with? The last time I saw him, he looked at me through the fence as if I were the goddess come to save him. And now he’s stuck being my nursemaid because I’m too weak to take care of myself. And it’s wearing him out, but he’s too kind to say so. And all I want to do is puke on his shoes.
“You don’t have to explain. If you’d rather bunk with Julio, I understand.” His brow crumples as if it pains him to say it.
“No.” His eyes lift to mine. I can’t read them. I can’t be sure what they want me to say. “It’s fine. I’ll stay with Poppy.”
He nods tightly. Careful not to touch me, he maneuvers past me down the narrow hall, taking his pullover with him.
22
None Shall Slacken
JACK
“Dammit!” Marie’s shout erupts through the bathroom wall into the cabin just before lunch. It’s the most she’s said in a week, and we all look up from our crossword puzzles, books, and maps, confused by her sudden outburst. Poppy rises slowly to her feet. She reaches into one of the storage cabinets and fishes through a box of camping supplies, withdrawing packages of tampons and pads.
Amber and Fleur exchange concerned looks as Poppy carries them down the stairs and raps gently on the bathroom door. Her shoulders are heavy when she returns to her seat at the table. She’s been skipping meals, persistently queasy since we left the rough seas around the Canaries, and she clears her throat of the cold that’s been bothering her for days. “Thanks for remembering, Woody,” she says with a mournful smile.
“I’m glad you mentioned it,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t have thought of them.” Apparently, neither did anyone else. Not even Fleur and Amber. Seasons don’t age. We don’t experience normal humancycles. Neither do our Handlers. Not while they still have their magic...
Chill hugs his life jacket. The creases deepen around his eyes as he struggles to focus on a loose thread in the seam. With an exasperated sigh, he takes off his glasses, frowning at the empty frames.
Woody acknowledges my unspoken question with a slight nod. Poppy’s sniffles. Chill’s vision. Marie’s menstrual cycle. Their magic is already fading, their bodies remembering what it is to be mortal, progressing through normal stages of life as if time never stopped for them.
I watch Chill huddle deeper into his life jacket, feeling a pang of guilt for every time I questioned my choice to spend the rest of my life bound to him. Suddenly, eternity doesn’t seem long enough.
The cabin falls unusually quiet. No bickering. No low guitar notes from the berth downstairs. The only sound is the scratch of Slinky’s paws against the dry rice we sacrificed to his makeshift litter box and the rain spattering the windows above our heads. Woody’s got the helm, his brow pinched with worry over the low-pressure front that’s blown us another day off course.
I come up behind him, checking our heading against the nautical chart spread across his lap.
“I can make up for a little lost time.” I pitch my voice low so I won’t worry the others. “A little wind. No big deal.” We’re about a week from the mid-Atlantic coast, and I’m as eager to get off the boat as the rest of us.
Woody shakes his head. “We shouldn’t risk it. These fronts are all tracked by radar and satellite. Someone’s sure to notice an anomaly. We’ll be past the worst of it in a few hours, and we’ll need your strength when we make landfall. Might as well save what you can.” He glances toward the kitchen, where Fleur is standing over a pot of soup. Our eyes brush as she pours a mug for herself and retreats to the far corner of thecabin to eat alone. Things are still weird between us. There’s no privacy. No space for any conversation that doesn’t involve everyone. I know what Woody’s thinking. Fleur and I haven’t touched since the morning she woke up. And at some point, that’s going to have to change.
A dry cough from the lower berths breaks the silence. Fleur holds her mug poised at her lips, listening as Julio’s cough becomes persistent. Amber stares down into the pages of her book, her stillness the only clue that she’s listening, too. It’s a sound the three of us recognize. One we’ve learned to listen for. The last breaths of a dying Season start with a tight chest and a mild fatigue but progress quickly into symptoms of the flu.
A sniffle and a groan rise through the floor. I could go to him. I’m strong enough to hold off death for a while, but only just.
Fleur glares at Amber. Amber hasn’t turned a page in the last five minutes, but she doesn’t look up.
Julio’s cough deepens, followed by a rattling wheeze. Fleur launches to her feet, drops her mug in the sink, and heads for the berths.
Amber slams her book shut. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to help him.”
Poppy’s playing cards fall to the table. “Fleur, you can’t!”
I stand in front of the stairs. To slow her down. To make her think before she hurts herself. “She’s right. He’ll drain you dry.”
Marie shoves her way past us into the cabin. “The fever’s already set in. Fleur’s not strong enough.” She drops a bowl of water and a damp towel on the table. Her dog tags rattle as she rakes her hair back from her eyes, making her look like a frazzled army nurse. She rolls up her sleeves, revealing tattoos that don’t quite cover the scars on her wrists. “It’s got to be her,” she says, knocking Amber’s feet off the couch. “Come on. Get down there and get this over with.”
Amber sets down her book. She eases to her feet until she’s standing toe to toe with Marie. The air goes cold, dry as tinder, when she says, “I don’t take orders from Julio’s lackey.”
“So help me,” Marie hisses, inching closer, “if you don’t do this, I’ll gut you in your sleep.”
“And why shouldthatscare me?”
“Because once Julio’s in the wind, there’ll be no one left to bring you back!”
