The steward squinted at the dog, who, with narrowed eyes and bared teeth, looked like no mascot. In truth, the dog looked a little scurvy-ridden herself.
“Mascot, you say?” he said.
“Indeed. Beloved and sorely missed, I should think.”
“How didyoucome to mind her?”
“My brother was among the crew.”
And now the lie grew. Sabine spoke more quickly, trying to prevent the story from taking a life of its own. “He died at sea, sadly. But the crew members who survived left the dog in my care. I promised to bring her to visit.” She swallowed and added, “As my brother would have wanted.”
Sabine snapped her fingers, and Bridget reluctantly lowered herself into a dejected squat, sitting in a crooked approximation of docility. Sabine smiled a sad, wistful smile and batted her eyelashes.
To further distract, she added, “But what is the nature of your work as steward? Do you care for all the patients?” She fidgeted with the button on her glove, flashing the pale skin of her wrist.
He nodded. “All. Except the dead ones, of course.”
“The dead?” Sabine looked up.
To date, the investigation of her uncle had not brought her in the path of any dead bodies, and for that she was grateful. She’d been unsettled enough by the prospect of today’ssicklysailors. Corpses would be quite out of the question.
The sailor looked philosophical. “Aye, dead bodies. Getting on a hospital ship is no guarantee that you’ll get off a healthy man, is it? We stack the dead bodies in the ship’s hold.”
“How... efficient,” murmured Sabine. This conversation had taken an unpleasant turn for the worse.
The man shrugged. “Can’t rightly bury them at sea if the boat is docked. The River Thames is not the sea, is it?”
“No,” Sabine managed. She had no interest in the topic of dead bodies or their disposal.
She redirected. “But might your expertise extend to helping me gain access to the ship? I should very much like to locate these men.” She smiled her most beguiling smile. Bridget growled and she nudged the dog with her foot.
Ten minutes later Sabine and her dog were being admitted to the tidy, weatherworn gangplank of the hospital ship and directed to Deck Three.
Jon Stoker was in hell.
At long last.
His body... on fire. His skin... burned away, limb by limb. His throat stung. His very hair was in flames.
His eyes... seared. Wouldn’t open. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.
Suffocation.
Needed to cough, needed to swallow.
Starving.
Thirsty.
Sick, so bloody sick.
Pain everywhere. Cold and hot all at once.
Call out?No.
Sit up?No.
Turn?No.
