God help me,she thought.Please let him remain unconscious until his friends come for him.
His friends.She was already building a plan for the next step in his care, which absolutely could not include convalescence in the care of Sabine herself. She’d meant what she said when she’d disavowed all men in her life, including men who were nearly dead. She’d been absolute—how could she not, after what her uncle had put her through—and the choice had served her well these past four years. Stoker’s closest friends were his business partners, and they would simply have to come for him. One resided in Yorkshire and the other in County Durham. She would write to them at once. There was also a middle-aged London couple from his past, the closest thing he knew as “family.” Sabine knew very little about Jon Stoker’s personal affairs, but she had deduced over the years that he preferred not to saddle this charitable couple with fresh burdens.
She would write his partners first, she thought. One of them would retrieve him, seek out the care he required, learn how he’d ended up in such dire straits, and... set him back on the proper course. In the meantime, surely her spotty and reluctant care was better than slowly dying (the rest of the way) in the hull of a ship.
“Water?”
Sabine’s head snapped up and the dog leapt from her lap, teeth bared. She leaned forward to examine the ashen face of the not-dead Jon Stoker, her breath held.
“Water?”
Sabine sat up. She had not misheard. Not only was he not dead, he was alsomaking requests.
She narrowed her eyes, thinking of the doctors proclaiming that he might never reclaim consciousness or even survive the ride to her home. She would write a letter. No, she would write an editorial for the papers—
“Water?” Jon Stoker rasped again and then mumbled what sounded like French profanity.
Sabine glanced around the spare wagon. She looked to the vehicles to her left and right. She clasped both hands on the arms of the wagon seat, the posture of someone about to do something.Water, water, how am I meant to produce water?
“I beg your pardon,” she called to the driver. “Do you happen to have a flask of water? Or perhaps these barrels of yours contain drinking water?”
The driver shook his head. “No water here, missus. Barrels have water, but I wouldn’t drink it.” He laughed, amused by how unfit the water must be.
Sabine nodded and looked again at Jon Stoker. His eyes were closed, dark lashes forming fringed half-moons against his stark cheekbones.
Was it strange that she’d known him from the moment she paused at the door of theDreadnought’s morgue and cautiously peered inside?
She’d seen his tattoo first, winding its way up his biceps in the light of the steward’s candle. She’d remembered it from their brief wedding. She’d not seen all of it, of course, but its terrible, sharp-toothed head could be just seen beneath the cuff of his sleeve. She’d asked him about it, one of myriad questions meant to discern his character as quickly and soundly as possible.
She had not thought of it again until the distinctive, fire-eyed sea serpent stopped her where she stood this very afternoon. She’d marched into the terribly dark, terribly fetid room, her vision tunneling to the ink on his wrist.
The steward she’d met outside—so far, a willing guide—had called her back in the high-pitched voice of disbelief. At her heels Bridget had barked and barked and barked, but Sabine had barely heard.
She’d crossed to a limp arm and extended hand, his palm open like a man waiting for a coin. The closer she had gotten, the more certain she had been. Her heart raced but she swam through fear and dread and stooped to see his face. She’d let out the breath she’d been holding and gulped in air; within moments the gulps had turned to sobs.
She had cried, she told herself, because that was what one did when one encountered death. She cried because theDreadnoughthospital ship was a terrible place, because he had been alone, because even his closest friends must not have known. She had cried because crying was easier than actually pausing to consider what it would mean if this person was dead. Or nearly dead, as it were.
And then, unbelievably, amid the shock and tears, the dead man whose face and serpent she had known, rolled onto his side and retched.
And swore.
And endeavored to sit up.
After a suspended moment of fraught silence, Sabine’s sobs had turned to screams.
Even now, hours later, her voice was hoarse from the sobbing and screaming and rebuking of doctors.
Now she looked again at Stoker’s face, wondering if she’d imagined that he’d called out at all.
“Water,” he rasped again, causing her to jump. She cleared her throat and bent over him. Bridget growled, uncertain of the unconscious man, and Sabine wrapped her gloved hand around the dog’s bony snout.
“Stoker?” she said lowly, with due practicality. “We haven’t any water at the moment, but there will be refreshment when we’ve reached Belgravia.”
She paused and added helpfully, “Which is where we are going.”
After a moment she said, “Can you manage?”
Sabine did not expect him to respond—please do not respond,she prayed—but she waited, watching him for signs of consent. It seemed only polite.
