Page 77 of As Many Souls as Stars
Rosamund had agreed to Walter’s proposal with only one caveat: they would return to the States in time to see Walter’s father that Christmas. She’d been planning to sail that year for her birthday, anyway, and this seemed like a good excuse to do it. But a winter crossing meant choppy seas, a likelihood of storms—Walt complained constantly in the weeks before their departure.
‘Let’s just wait until spring,’ he said, as she was packing her suitcase. ‘No need to hotfoot it out of here. Don’t you want to spend your birthday on land? Why’ve we got to celebrate on an ocean liner?’
Rosamund took a book from her purse and carefully transferred it to the case. ‘I like the ocean,’ she said, and she pressed her fingers into the book’s cover; the embossed hawk seemed to shiver beneath her touch.
‘What’s so swell about a bunch of water?’
She closed the case and turned to look at him, smiling with the sort of satisfaction only centuries could provide.
‘It’s not the water, Walt,’ she said. ‘It’s the salt.’
20
The RMSMonumental, an engorged, tomb-like construction of steel and avarice, set sail on the twenty-second of December 1931. Its outer shell was imperial purple, its guts velveteen and hardwood; but the veneer of luxury couldn’t mask the sheer manufacturedmassof the thing. TheMonumentalwasn’t elegant. It had been soldered and hammered into shape, plates and nails and engines. Moving like a metal elephant, it groaned and trumpeted as it cast off. The ship didn’t float—it stomped across the ocean floor, a leviathan with a boat-shaped head.
It was nice enough weather, considering the season. Passengers waved with white handkerchiefs to relatives on the docks as theMonumentalmade its interminable slip into the Atlantic. Miriam Richter, who had no relatives, leaned against the railing and pretended to sip an old-fashioned. The breeze ruffled her black curls and pulled threateningly at the lace flower pinned to her suit jacket. She watched the docks of Southampton grow smaller, then disappear.
Tiring of her drink, she tossed the glass out into the water. A pair of young women on deck turned to gawp at her, clutching their hats to prevent their theft by the wind.
‘Well, I never,’ one of them squawked. ‘You can’t dothat.’
Miriam raised a brow at her. ‘Why not?’
‘You ought to take it back to the bar!’
‘I have somewhere to be. I’m sure they have more glasses.’
The ladies traded scandalised looks. ‘Look here,’ the taller one said, ‘I don’t know where you’re from, but in New York, you’ll be expected to act civilised.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Miriam replied. ‘I don’t intend on visiting anytime soon.’
Then she tipped her hat to the two women, and she strode into the bowels of theMonumental.
Miriam was nearly out of time. Twenty-two years, eleven months and twenty-six days this version of Harding had been alive: she knew that much. She had felt the power that was released when her soul had returned, a meteor strike of heat, a brand pressed upon the earth. Miriam had been in the midst of amusing herself with a platoon of soldiers in Bengal, whom she’d lured into the jungle and beset with tiger-shaped shadows. She hadn’t even been hungry; it was simply something to do. But the moment she felt that burning brightness, she’d lost all interest in games.
At first, Miriam had purposefully kept her distance. Triggering Harding’s memories too early would be disastrous—what had happened with Esther was proof enough of that. With three souls, three lifetimes of experience, this version of her would be exceptionally powerful. The fewer risks Miriam took, the better. Still, by the time Harding was in her twenties, Miriam’s resolve had already started to crack. Surely, she could come to her as a crow once more, and see what sort of life her love was living? Surely, that would be enough to assuage this ache inside her, this itch of longing?
And so, she had reached out to the shadows, ordering them to bring her to Harding once more.
The shadows hadn’t replied.
How Harding had remained hidden from the darkness, Miriam didn’t know. She’d sometimes wondered if she’d died again, through sickness or an accident; but Miriam would have realised if that were the case, surely. She would havefeltit. They were so aligned, now, magnets brought together—whether a push or pull, she still couldn’t tell—but the force was there. The forceshouldhave been there. When Miriam wanted to find someone, she found them.
And yet, until theMonumental, Harding had been nothing. An absence, a ghost, a whisper. A memory made unreal. Miriam didn’t panic—it wasn’t in her nature—but she did grow angry. Never before had the subject of a deal gone missing, and she wasn’t certain what would happen if she couldn’t find her. Maybe Harding’s soul would detach itself from her body and find Miriam on its own initiative, leaving only a shell behind. What a Pyrrhic victory that would be: to be served that light on a platter, without the glory of the hunt. It wouldn’t be worthy of the love they’d shared. When Harding was to die, it would be in Miriam’s arms, just as she had two times before. That was only right.
And so, every day, Miriam had searched for her. She had asked shadows in the winding midnight alleys of Quebec and Cairo and Shanghai, enquired with those cast by the harsh sun across temple ruins in Delphi—even the darkest corners of the darkest caverns in the diamond mines of Kimberley. Harding wasn’t likely to be in any of these places, of course, but Miriam asked regardless.
Her frustration had made her reckless. And in England, the place she was most likely to find her, each day of searching led to bloody hands and gnashing teeth, as others paid the price for Harding’s insolence. Miriam tore through deals, pushing her powers to the limit, until she was so engorged with souls, so sensitive to their light, that all she could hear was the shadows screaming at her, all she could see was the furious blaze of millions of people converging in the streets of London like schools of fish, colliding, shimmering, scattering—
Miriam had never beensane, of course, but surely this was some form of going mad.
And then, that morning, something had changed.
She had appeared in Suffolk as dawn broke. The Hall was gone. The village was now a town, the town had motorcars lining the streets, and Miriam stood in front of the old church. It had been rebuilt with white plaster, a war memorial with a long list of martyrs facing it from across the road. An electric lamp stood on the corner of the pavement, illuminating an advertising board that read,Celebrate the Season with Tilly’s Christmas Gift Boxes! Price three shillings from all leading grocers.In the distance, Miriam could see the Saxonmounds the villagers had once danced around, the low hills presiding over the scene in their eternal silence, immutable and unaffected.
She had closed her eyes and remembered that night, the night they met: the dirt and the darkness, the wind and Cybil streaked with mud. But in Miriam’s fantasies it wasn’t just Cybil. It was Esther, too, both of them an amalgam. Miriam imagined Harding as she was, as she would be—and if she could have, Miriam would have merged the image with the third version of her, too, the one hiding someplace out there that Miriam couldn’t find. She pictured her with the shorter hairstyle the women of this era favoured, eyebrows drawn into delicate arches, fingernails lacquered ruby red. Her voice would be the same—it always was, that petal-wilting tone, high to low.
Miriam, she heard her say.It’s you.
