Aft, too close, the wave erupted —a volcano. Spray speckled the windshield. The deck inclined precariously. They were almost at the summit. Either they crossed, or they plummeted, a heap of wood and steel straight to the ocean's depths. Pedro felt the engine's strength faltering in his gut. They needed more steam. He grasped the engine telegraph, but the boat heaved violently. Pedro crashed to the floor, grunting as pain exploded on his side.
He called Cris, but there was no answer. He was alone.
Unattended, the steering wheel spun on its axis, out of control. The yacht's bow swung aft, straight toward the wave’s breaking point.
Cursing, he crawled to the telegraph and hefted the marker from HALF AHEAD to FULL. The engine’s screw responded, increasing the yacht's steam power. Struggling to his feet, Pedro wrestled the spinning helm to a stop, the muscles of his shoulders burning. With a grunt, he adjusted the steering angle. They resumed the climb.
Only a few yards more.
Time stopped, the wind hushed, a suspended moment of stasis where they were weightless, balancing, poised over a landscape of gray-blue hills and swirling white.
And then it was over. With a last surge, the yacht ascended to the crest.
Pedro descended the ladder to the companionway, splaying his hands on the hull to keep upright, the wound at his side throbbing with each step. The corridor gas lamps spread phantom fingers over the bulkhead. Beyond overturned furniture, the storm had caused no structural damage, but there would be time for repairs tomorrow. He needed a bed. Eyes closing against his will, he ambled to the main cabin.
A whine, high and mournful, pierced the silence.
Pedro rubbed his eyes and straightened. Anne's dog.
The whining sounded again, followed by scratching.
Gut clenching, Pedro sped to her cabin and knocked.
Nothing.
He tested the knob. Locked.
Holding the latch to avoid hitting the dog, Pedro slammed his shoulder into the door. Once, twice, it gave way on the third try.
Inside, there was darkness. Her neroli fragrance wasn't there, just the sour scent of vomit.
The dog shuffled close, pawing Pedro's leg, its bark feeble. Pedro stepped on the carpet, boots crunching broken ceramic. The bed was empty, the recamier overturned. Where was she?
Unable to fill his lungs, he raced to the opposite wall. Her slight frame crouched near the hatch, knees bent, face hidden in her palms.
Pedro dropped to his knees beside her. "Anne?"
Desperate to rouse her, he tapped her cheeks. She didn't move, her skin clammy, her hair grimy and plastered around her shoulders and face. Pedro peeled away the matted strands. Her eyes, glazed, didn't acknowledge him. After a battle, a few soldiers became paralyzed, fear and shock sinking them into oblivion.
Wanting to pull her up, to shake her, he grabbed her hand, but she flinched. Her fingers bled.
"What happened?" He lifted her chin. "Talk to me."
Again, no response. Pedro sagged against the wall. The weight of a cannon bore down on his shoulders, and he closed his eyes, dropping his head at the bulkhead.
James rested his head over his thigh, his bright eyes pleading.
Pedro petted the mutt's ears. "You are a faithful guardian, are you not? All ten inches of you. You are no longer a corporal. I promote you to brigadier." Rubbing his eyes, Pedro shook himself. "I'll take care of her."
Panting, he lifted Anne, one arm around her torso, the other under her knees. His back and shoulders burned under the strain, her familiar weight too heavy tonight. He exited to the companionway, James following close. Kicking his cabin door open, he carried her inside. They needed a bath. Then sleep.
His hands shook when he opened the faucet. Hot water poured from the shower, soaking his arm and misting the air. Thank God the pipes had not been damaged. Pedro unhooked the buttons of her shirt, but she batted his fingers aside. Her large pupils didn't seem to register his presence.
"Shh. Let me take care of you."
Hands falling limply to her sides, she leaned on the wall, mouth pressed into a thin line. With efficient gestures, Pedro peeled away the clothes but decided against removing her shift. Her skin was freezing. Breathing heavily, he wrestled away his shirt and tugged her into the shower. Under the warm spray, her skin regained color, but still, she wouldn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the tiles lining the wall. Ever since they’d met, she had never failed to respond to him, and her insensibility raked at his chest.
"What horrors have you traversed, angel?" Pedro's voice echoed in the bathroom.
