Page 78 of As Many Souls as Stars
Miriam. Come find me.
She had started from her reverie, eyes flying open.Thatvoice—that wasn’t her imagination. It was real.
Miriam. Don’t you want me still?
‘Yes,’ Miriam hissed. ‘Yes—’ And then she was calling the shadows to her, almost crowing in her excitement. The darkness seethed forward with such enthusiasm, it swallowed the light of the streetlamp, and the bulb burst with a pop.
‘Take me to her,’ she’d told them—and then she’d found herself here, on the RMSMonumental, iron grating ringing beneath her feet.
Miriam had paused when she’d realised she was on a ship. She’d avoided ships, of course, because of the ocean—the salt, the lack of shadows, the reminder of her birth. She wassurroundedby salt, in a way: a circle as vast as the Atlantic itself.
Why sail when she could simply step from one landmass to another? This was a novelty, and novelty was a rare thing to her, maybe even precious—but that didn’t make it any less risky. She’d thought of the way salt stung her skin, the way it burnt and ached. It was the only thing that had ever given her pain. Apart from Harding, of course.
Miriam knew how difficult it was to fly over salt water. She had never tried to travel by shadows, either, in the middle of an ocean. Staying here was a risk. It was a risk she would be a fool to take.
And then she thought of Harding smiling, eyes molten gold, soul light dripping down her cheeks—and it didn’t matter, after all. Miriam was decided.
She wouldn’t lose her again.
Miriam had summoned herself a drink to celebrate. She hadn’t drunk it, but she’d pantomimed, simply to amuse herself, perhaps in a show of flippancy: she was not so much in a rush to see Harding, after all, that she couldn’t have a little fun. But all she had thought of, as she had rolled the glass in her hands, was Harding and how achingly near she was—so the drink had gone overboard, and it was time to get to work. The engines were bellowing, the walls thrumming with their power. A push, a pull, a force undeniable: she was here. After twenty-two years of darkness, Miriam had found her.
She’s here, Miriam thought, and her pace increased.
She’s finally here.
Meanwhile, in the bedroom of a first-class cabin, Rosamund was flinging evening dresses through the air. Hovering nervously at the door was the startled-looking maid who’d been assigned to help her unpack, calf-eyed and shifting from foot to foot.
‘Can I do something for you, ma’am?’ the maid asked uncertainly. But Rosamund was too agitated to even look at her. She tossed away a peach-coloured feather boa, and it soared towards the dressing table.
‘No!’ she said, voice high with nervous excitement. ‘No, I’m perfectly fine.’
Where was it? She knew she’d packed it—sheknewshe had—and yet now, with her desperate fingers slipping on silks and velvets and strands of pearls, it suddenly seemed possible she hadn’t. And if she hadn’t, then everything she’d been planning for the past few years might—
Rosamund felt leather and paper beneath her hands, deep in the confines of her trunk, and she sighed in relief.
‘Well, all right,’ said the maid, wringing her hands. ‘Let me know if you need anything, Mrs Jennings.’
‘Of course,’ Rosamund said. ‘Thank you.’
The maid took that as her cue to leave. She backed away, the door shut, and Rosamund was finally alone.
She flung herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling of her first-class cabin. It was a ridiculous extravagance for an ocean liner. There was gold paint on the cornicing, an embossed image of Venus in her shell peering down at the Turkish rug. Everything about the room, in fact, was extravagant: mint-coloured wallpaper, mahogany furnishings, a tulip-shaped Tiffany lamp. The attached bathroom had a lion-footed tub and a mirror inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Rosamund felt like a porcelain doll in a display cabinet, surrounded by lovely and pointless things. When she’d powdered her face on their arrival, lips tinted scarlet, silk dressing gown slipping down her shoulders—she felt like she hardly recognised herself. It wasn’t as if she’d grown up in difficult circumstances, but this was different. This was bigger. Perhaps it was because she knew it was soon going to end.
She took a cigarette from the monogrammed case on the dresser and put it between her lips, bidding the shadows to light it. A dark hand reached up and pressed its finger lovingly against the tip. Smoke curled upwards; Rosamund inhaled deeply and sighed.
A high-pitched yip resounded from beside the dresser. Rosamund sat up at the noise. A black Pekingese that looked like a wad of cotton rolled in soot was pacing around the carpet, barking without apparent reason. At her attention, he wheezed and spun three times, before walking directly into the wall.
‘Caviar, hush,’ said Rosamund, frowning. The dog backed up, then walked into the wall again. She grimaced. ‘Well, never mind. I imagine it must be difficult, having a brain the size of a Brazil nut.’
She blew a strand of ginger hair away from her face, sending another plume of smoke into the air. There was a familiar mixture of excitement and terror roiling in her stomach. Three days until New York. Three days until her twenty-third birthday.
Three days—it would have to be long enough.
Caviar yapped a second time. He was Walt’s dog, and Rosamund had never felt much affection for him. But Walt insisted on hauling him around everywhere they went, and so here Caviar was, on his second transatlantic voyage that year. The Pekingese was four yearsold, and he had travelled more than she had—a woman living her third life in five centuries. That felt faintly ridiculous.
She checked her watch: it was nearly time for dinner. Rosamund stood up from the bed and stripped down, chewing her lip thoughtfully. She had an array of dresses to choose from, each more ridiculous than the last, lacy and sequined and plunging. In her nervousness, she’d packed thoughtlessly, prioritising style over substance. Now she’d have to wear evening gowns to breakfast.
