“The serpent,” she whispers. “The necklace gift.”
Lillith touches the little snake at her throat.
Almost identical to the one in the photograph that Carter showed her—nestling in the hollow of “Veronique’s” throat.
AG—“André Gagnon,” a.k.a. Vincent. He’s the Thai naga—or dragon-like serpent—of the song sung on the streets by children in India. She’s read about the song.
The man on the bridge in Amsterdam in Carter’s other photo—clearly Hendrick, Vincent. And he’s not on the ship to target and con a rich old widow. He’swithher.
Poppy’s mouth opens. Her breathing becomes shallow. All the confusing little pieces of the big puzzle are suddenly slotting together like a shattering mirror playing in reverse.Thisis what Dr. Marsh meant about final research on the ship. Vincent has led him to Lillith.
No.
She still can’t grasp it.
“Aline-Claire?” she whispers. “You’re Aline-Claire Lavoie.”
Lillith nods. “I was her.”
“Vincent—Hendrick is my—”
“He doesn’t know about you, Poppy. He never knew I was pregnant. You were the tiny spark that finally helped—forced—me to make a break and run from him.”
“You didn’t die in the train derailment.”
“I swapped passports—identities—with a young woman who did. I was in a hospital for a long time with a severe head injury, but under a different name. It’s where I lost my vision in one eye.”
Poppy stares, mouth going dry. Unable to speak.
Lillith leans forward. “There’s no gentle way to say this other than to just put it out there. I wasn’t born in Mauritius. I was born in a small town in Quebec, across the Saint Lawrence River from Montreal. My parents were poor, but they were good people. I am the middle child of five siblings.”
Blood rushes from Poppy’s head. She clutches the armrests of her chair.
Lillith reaches for her glass, sips her water. As she swallows, the little serpent at her neck glints. And Poppy knows. She just knows it’s all true.
She can now see the shape of her own cheekbones in the man she thought was Hendrick. The similar sallowness of her skin. The color of her eyes. Her hair. The genetic echoes.
“Vincent Kapoor is my father,” she whispers. She looks at Lillith. The shape of her lips—not unlike her own. Lillith’s DNA is hers, too. Poppy has Indian and Vietnamese blood, and whatever else went into the making of this French Canadian woman. Poppy has never understood her own looks, and suddenly her appearance makes sense.
But the truth of her own reflection is even darker than just being abandoned in a Tardis.
“I—I’m the child of killers,” she says quietly, incredulously. “Not just any killers, but one of the worst pairs in recent history.” She stares at Lillith, her world folding in and over itself, and reshaping, and buckling, and ... she feels she might faint, or just black out under the sheer weight of it all.
“And youknow, Lillith,” she whispers. “You must surely know—between the two of you—where all those other missing young men’s and women’s remains are, and how they died. Why isn’tthaton your Death List?”
Roshaan
Roshaan exits the elevator and pushes her trolley of masks toward the Calliope suite. Her path zigzags as she tries to compensate for the increasing side-to-side rolling of the ship. The yawing is becoming more pronounced as wind picks up outside.
She knocks lightly.
Patrick opens the door. He looks like a completely different person, almost handsome in an old 1940s movie kind of way. He definitely cleans up well. But she still suspects something dark has happened to the Lady Fairfax.
She forces a smile. “It’s time to select a persona mask for the Moonlight & Mentalism Soiree. Can I come in?”
He steps back and allows her to push her cart into the suite. She takes it to a table near the window and sets out a tray holding masks in bronze, silver, and gold.
“They’re crafted to look like they’re made of ancient metal,” she explains. “But they’re surprisingly light. They can float, even.” She sets out a second tray.
