My shoulders relax. I chew the meat, not quite as good as anything Hilda would have made, and give one slight dip of my chin.
"We have a stop first. Business."
"But you're still taking me to Boston?" I finally drag my attention up to his face. Nothing but cruel calculation.
Rumi sits taller. "I'm nothing but a man of my word."
"How old are you even?" I drop my silverware and fold my arms over my chest.
"Older than I look." He leans forward as he did in the bar. "And I know that you are...nineteen years old. With a long life ahead of you. When you look back at the five years you spent with me..." He trails off for a minute, his voice softening when he continues, eyes searching for something he can't find. "They'll be so small in comparison...you'll forget."
"I don't believe that. Life is too short. Time is too precious." And you're taking it away from me, I want to shout but don't.
I can't help but feel the way time rushes past me. Every minute, every hour, every day is a moment I'll never get back. Every time I have to play the part of one of the most successful merchants of our area, James Acker's daughter, it takes something from me. If only they knew how we were struggling now.
One day it will be the death of me, I'll have given the idea of who I should be too much. For now, I'm young, I have the energy to pretend. The question remains...for how long? And that's why years run past me like seconds. That's why five years on this ship is too much.
His brows pinch together, his forehead wrinkling under the wisps of yellow hair. "In my experience, a year feels like a fucking century."
"It would seem we experience two very different worlds."
One finger circles the rim of his wine glass, the last of Boston's letter dissolving in the drink. Rumi stares at the doorway, a speculative look glazing over his features. "Do you ever wonder how you're going to die?"
Yes. All the time. Constantly. Too often to count.
"Why would I?" I lie too smoothly.
"Sometimes I know how someone is going to die just with one touch."
Shaking my head in disbelief, I note the way Rumi looks some shade worse than sad. He isn't sad, he's exhausted. His brown eyes still look black without the sun. When he stretches his palm toward me, I tilt back in my seat trying to get out of his reach.
"Would you like to know how you die?" he asks, head slowly tilting the other direction.
"I imagine that I will die an old woman. Happy from a life lived. In a home surrounded by the people I love."
Is that what I want? Is that how I want to go? Somehow I always imagined it'd be something more grand...something better than the life my parents live. I just don't know what.
He shakes his head, grim. "Death always comes too early. Takes people before they consider themselves finished."
I don't take his hand and eventually, his fingers soften and relax before he draws his palm back to himself. When the silence becomes unbearable, I break it. Not that it appears as if it bothered Rumi at all.
"What is it that you and your crew do? What is your trade?"
"My trade?" Those eyes sparkle.
"My father ships textiles all over the world. What do you ship? Tobacco?"
Rumi laughs, a sound so sharp and sinful I feel the room shudder around it. "You don't truly want to know that."
Oh, but I do. More than he knows. More than I even realize myself.
5
After The Deal
Rumi
Most nights I wish that I had a dog. Or a cat, though they aren't suited for the sea. Perhaps even a fucking bird would do.
I've had animals before. A beagle. A tabby. A monkey. I even tried to tame a wolf once. But like everything else in my life that isn't in service to me, it leaves, it forgets, it isn't loyal. Even these souls, on this ship, who owe me, aren't actually loyal. I know that. I hate that. I hate myself and everything I am.
I'm aware it’s a terrible train of thought to be stuck on but the sun is quickly reaching for the horizon, the start of a new day, and I've drunk a little too much wine. My soul aches for what it cannot have.
Millicent Acker is new to my crew and like everyone else the transition is… rocky. I can't get the picture of her out of my head. Eyes like a rich chocolate. Pale freckles over even paler skin. And a spirit of steel. I can feel it, sense it in her stubbornness and bravery. Nineteen years old and angry at the world. Or amazed by it? Both. Probably both. She's an oxymoron I can't quite figure out.
I down the last of the bottle in my hand hoping it drowns out the image of her standing on the bar top. The most daring creature I'd ever laid eyes on. She'd thrown herself into the pits of hell just to find me. No, not to find me—to save her brother, an important distinction. My stomach clenches threatening to throw up the liquor inside of it.
Death called me to the little town of Himond not for one but two deals. And I waited weeks here for the latter. It's nearly always men who make the deals. Men, like me, are always desperate. Millicent, or Millie as she'd wanted to be called, isn't desperate. It's something close. Something else that called my spirit to wait for her. She's determined in a situation that has no hope. She's foolish. She's fearless.
I never expected the way she would look at me to affect me so deeply, as if we were supposed to already be in love. Everyone feels something similar when they make the bargain. A mockery of the power in my veins, a false hope at best.
The air between us sparked, ready to set flame. Still, she extinguished it before it could catch. I felt the way she clamped down on the urge and refused it. Yet another reminder of everything I can never have.
It will be the same for her as it has been for everyone else the past forty-five years of my life. They will come, they will serve, and then they will die or they will leave and they will forget. Forget me, forget the crew, this ship, my kindness, my cruelty. Will that change when I'm finally free?
Never before have I wanted to know more about someone's death. Five years, she gave me five years. When they are done so are the years in service to my father. Will she remember me? Will I be there at her funeral? Will she think of me when one of my brothers comes for her on her deathbed?
A glimpse at her death feels a whole lot like a glimpse at my future.
6
Before The Deal
Millie
There is no way to get out of my date with Desmond. I tried. I woke and lay in bed staring at the way the sun cast itself through the windows and onto my blankets for an hour before Monica knocked on my door. I sent her off to tell my mother I was ill but that only called forth a monster I didn't want to deal with.
My father shoved the door open so hard it banged against the wall and cracked the plaster. His cheeks were heated and his breathing labored as if he'd run to my room.
"You're ill are you?" he'd snarled.
"I have a headache."
"You had a headache the last time you canceled." He took a wide step forward.
"I started my menstrual cycle then," I said stubbornly. A mistake.
"Get up!" Father bellowed. When I didn't move he pulled me up by my hair and shoved the blankets away to reveal the smooth unbloodied sheets. He looked at my white nightgown without blemish or stain. "If you lie to me one more time, Millicent Angeline Acker, I will take a switch to your backside."
My scalp screamed in pain as he yanked me toward my wardrobe. Monica stood meekly in the doorway, her eyes cast to her feet.
"Get dressed. His coach will be here to get you in thirty minutes."
Then he was gone, out the door, and storming down the hall, muttering about the monster he was given in place of the daughter he deserved. The girl who doesn't listen. The girl who refuses. The girl with the wicked soul. The girl with no sense. The girl he doesn't know how he's supposed to love. The girl who is a disappointment.
I'm all those things and more.
I tried my darndest to keep the tears of anger from spilling onto my cheeks as Monica laced me into my
dress. Like everything else inside of me, the anger, the excitement, the curiosity, the desire to live, it all eventually leaked out. I can't help it and I can't hide it.
Monica lifted the apron off her dress and wiped at my face. She spoke softly to me, saying the things that I wish my father would say. "You are the bravest girl I've ever met, Millie. Those others just want to tame the wild out of you and I think that is the biggest mistake of them all. You're a kind spirit." Then softly she said, "And I'm sorry this is happening to you." Then she wrapped me in a hug and sent me on my way to the kitchen to grab the brownies for Desmond, where I promptly had another embarrassing cry in front of Hilda.
Now, a large white buggy is pulling up to my home, the gravel crunching under the large wheels, and the stomp of the horses pulling the carriage greets me before the sight of them does. The coachman calls something and I straighten from my position on our porch.
I can feel the fine lines from the swirling grain of wood I've been leaning on still etched against my arms. Looking down, I see the twisting red lines as proof that I had been in this position for far too long. Father hadn't lied about when Desmond would be coming to get me; he merely wanted me to be prompt, which means standing on our porch with a basket of Desmond's favorite brownies sitting next to me. Another wind blows and I feel like tugging at the sunhat mother had tied around my head. It's no secret that I burn easily. Which would mean little good if Desmond and I were to have children. Poor things would be lobsters all summer long.
Before the coachman takes a step down from his seat to open my door and guide me into the carriage the hinges whisper and Desmond pokes his face out. He then steps down, taking long strides to meet me where I am. I rub my arms willing away the red lines—that if my father saw he would scold me for allowing—and grab the basket Hilda had given me.
My skin still feels tight and my eyes puffy but it's been long enough now that I should no longer look red. I force my mouth into a polite smile and take a step toward him. Today he’s in a beautiful suit that's near black with hints of purple. A muted green cravat is tied around his neck. He adjusts the small scarf and clears his throat.
"Hello, Miss Acker." He offers his arm.
"Hello, Mr. Schuyler." I settle my hand in the crook of his elbow and allow him to lead me into the carriage.
A shiny black nose and a wagging stubby tail greet me. Wiry fur scratches against my fingertips through my sheer lace gloves as I give Phoebe’s head a good pat. Desmond chuckles lightly as he helps me into my seat before he climbs in after me and closes the door. There's the muffled noise of the coachman calling to the horses again before the buggy lurches. We both rock in our seats, silent though he still smiles at me brightly. Phoebe lays down next to me, admitting a small snort as she places her head in my lap.
"I hope you were not waiting for me long.” He glances at his watch.
"Not hardly." I manage. "It's such a lovely day I just can't get enough of this weather." I nod, more as an attempt to persuade myself. I smile down at his small dog, ruffling her ears to keep my hands busy.
"Well, I am looking forward to this time with you."
I set the basket in the seat next to me, my gloves catching slightly on the wicker edges. "I made sure that Hilda made dessert for you, like I promised. I'm sure she's packed us a few other lovely snacks."
There it is again...the word lovely. I just can't stop saying it when I'm around him. Like it is the only good thing that I can offer. Everything is lovely. So, why don't I think Desmond is lovely? Any normal girl would want him. What’s wrong with me?
Absently, I stroke Phoebe’s back. The rest of the carriage ride is full of awkward silence and lingering glances I try to distract myself from. An immense amount of relief floods me when the carriage rolls to a stop on the edge of Frasier Park.
Outside, the warm sun shines down on the grass spotted with wild flowers. The beauty of the plain is broken only by the large paved path that weaves through it. A cool breeze makes the flowers sway and stands as a reminder that spring has not yet yielded to summer.
“Come, Phoebe,” Desmond says, attaching a leather leash to the animal's collar. She hops down from the seat with more enthusiasm than I can muster, anxiously wagging her tail as her owner pushes his way through and sets her outside the coach. He waits quietly for me to gather my skirts and the basket before he guides me out.
People are already littering the cobblestone paths that lead into the park. Benches are sporadically placed with couples already perched on the edges. My attention lands on a girl with a broad smile who tilts in her seat toward the man at her side. That should be me. I grip the handle of the basket tightly while Desmond whispers to his coachman. When I look at him I don’t get that frenzy of warm feelings I think should happen when you look at your future husband.
"I am surprised that you do not have a footman to open the door for you." Desmond looks at me for a minute, his mouth parted, eyes slightly narrowed as if he's confused by what I just said. So I start again. "I mean a man of your status. A man with riches like you, I would expect would have assistance." Even my family in our current financial ruin still has servants for nearly everything.
"Oh." Desmond points a finger down the sidewalk as if to suggest that is the way we should go. I fall into step next to him as we start that way and the buggy pulls off, leaving us alone. Phoebe’s nails click with every step she takes. "I find that I don't need someone to do every little thing for me.” Desmond smiles softly. His green eyes glow even brighter in the sunlight, his orange hair sticking up in odd places as if he didn't bother to brush it this morning.
There's something simply plain but handsome about his face; I understand why he might be coveted for something other than his money.
"How kind of you, Mr. Schuyler."
He laughs a little, tucking his hands behind his back as he shuffles forward. The picnic basket bounces against my legs as I walk.
"Since your parents aren't here, perhaps we should just call each other by our first name? I find it incredibly stuffy to be constantly called Mr. Schuyler by everyone. So, please just Desmond from here on out. May I call you Millie? Or do you prefer Millicent?"
At least he asked.
"Millie."
I can feel the stones through the bottom of my slippers, though I feel as though I'm doing a splendid job pretending as if it doesn't bother me. The air smells crisp. A perfect spring day. There are trees here and there along the path to provide shade even though it isn’t necessary as the sun begins to play peekaboo behind the clouds.
"There's more we can do since your parents are not here. Dates like these, unsupervised, are supposed to be more fun,” he whispers as if it's a secret. I turn my head offering him a full view of my face as I contemplate where he might be taking this. He inclines his head. "Millie, I think I would like to hold your hand while we walk.” He brings his hands forward from behind his back and offers me his palm, fingers splayed.
"I don't know that most people would find that to be a very proper thing to do in public."
His palm remains between us hanging in the air, a continued invitation. "Well, where I come from people do not care about these things. This town is so small compared to where I used to live and the rules are so strict. I fear the little city of Himond is falling behind the times." His fingers curl a little but he doesn't retract his hand. "I'm not one to care about what anyone in this town thinks."
“I gathered that considering your stance on kissing before the wedding day." I laugh but at best it can be considered disingenuous.
Desmond laughs too. "Especially about kissing before the wedding day."
I take a deep breath and offer him my hand but as soon as I reach for him he pulls away. "Oh wait! I almost forgot. Let's give you your gift before I sit down and break it somehow."
I almost forgot about his gift. He reaches into his jacket pocket pulling out a small figurine that he cups in his hand. He offers it to me with two fingers holding it by the
base. Making sure to hold it firmly, so that it doesn’t slip away from these annoying lace gloves, I take it.
I squint to look at it. It looks like a small hairy man, hardly bigger than my thumb. But I can make out the smooth strokes of hair that covers its body and its perfect round eyes. Both of his arms are pulled up over its head as if it's roaring at me and its mouth is open to reveal long sharp teeth.
"I… don't know exactly what I'm looking at Desmond."
He takes the opportunity to walk a little closer as he pokes his wood carving in my hand. "Where I come from there are mountains. Our city surrounded the largest one, however, no one was allowed to climb the mountain. It is said that rabid mountain men live there. Seven feet tall and hairy all over. I've been told they'll eat anything, including humans."
A real smile tugs at the corners of my lips. I let out a breath. “Well, that simply can't be true."
Desmond looks at me, almost smug as if he knew that this would be the perfect gift. "Someone told me that you like to look into old legends to see if they're true or not. So I will give you something new to look into and share something that was a part of my life for a really long time."
I meet his gaze, and even though I may have more chemistry with a street lamp than I do Desmond Schuyler I might have a friend in him. "Desmond, thank you it's quite… "
He wags his pointer finger at me. "Do not say lovely." Of course, but I can hear my mother’s tone behind it.
"This is a very thoughtful gift. I love it, thank you."
“You’re welcome.” He swallows, pointing to the basket. “May I carry that for you?”
“Oh, sure, thank you. Again.”
He grunts slightly surprised at the weight of the basket. It’s not heavy but it certainly isn’t light. “I can’t believe you’ve been carrying this around.”
I shrug.
We continue to walk for just a few more minutes, my hands fiddling with the miniature wooden mountain man. Desmond says nothing as I look at it and think, but he and Phoebe shepherd me so I do not need to look up from what I'm doing.
Chasing Boston Page 4
