by Sara Reinke
* * *
Later that night, Kitty lay beside Rafe in the bed, listening to the slow, heavy measures of his breathing. He had downed enough wine to again lull himself into a stupor. She knew she had not helped matters any by needling him incessantly. I have driven him to drunkenness.
Despite the fact that this had been her intention, she felt a momentary twinge of remorse. He had, after all, offered her clumsy apologies for grabbing her. He had seemed genuinely remorseful, if not sincere in his misery, and―
Kitty shook her head slightly, her brows crimping. What is the matter with you? she scolded herself sharply. The man fairly well admitted this very morning that he means to murder your father, and bloody well likely you, too! Do you truly believe he will just turn loose of you once he reaches Lisbon? Let him drink himself to misery! Do not take pity on him. He has none for you!
With her resolve once again mustered, Kitty slipped her hand beneath her pillow, careful not to make any sound or motion that would disturb Rafe. She felt the handle of the scalpel and drew the blade out and shifted her weight, rolling toward Rafe. She had been resting as far away from him as the chain would allow, pressed against the wall of the berth, disgusted by his proximity, but now she scooted toward him, until she was nearly tucked against his side. She shifted her weight, raising up onto her elbow. She leaned forward until she could feel his breath against her face and then drew the scalpel against his neck, pressing the blade beneath the shelf of his chin.
She held it poised there for a long, uncertain moment. Her hand trembled; her breath tangled in her throat. She had never so much as cut a serving of roasted meat before. It is no better than what he has planned for you, that stern measure of her mind said. Do it, Kitty. Cut him.
She pressed the edge of the scalpel more firmly against Rafe’s flesh, and he felt it this time; he murmured something unintelligible and turned his face, stirring but not rousing. She felt his breath against her face and then he said something she did understand; whether in Spanish or English, it did not matter. “Papa…”
Kitty froze, motionless, her eyes flown wide, her body rigid.
He said more, words in Spanish that had no meaning to her, and his voice grew choked. He turned his face away again, falling silent once more, his fluttering, hoarse breaths resuming their previous, rhythmic cadence.
Kitty let the scalpel waver, then drew it away. He shrugged his shoulder at the tickling sensation as if shooing a fly, jangling the chains slightly between them.
He does not want to do this. The realization struck her like a dousing of icy water.
His heart was broken, just as hers would be if she had lost her father and been helpless to prevent it. He was no monster, and no more of a murderer than she was. He was simply grief-stricken.
If he could weep for his father, he could be reasoned with; he could be made to feel sympathy toward her, and she could convince him to spare her the same pain. I know I could, she thought. Maybe not all at once, or right away, but with time, I could. I can make him see. I can convince him to spare Daddy, to let this go.
Kitty rolled away from Rafe, lying on her back, her sightless gaze turned up to the ceiling. She slid the scalpel back beneath her pillow. He is not a bad man. He can be reasoned with. I can reason with him. I know I can.
I know it.
