She cannot move, can’t make herself reach for his hand. Seconds seem to stretch. Her world turns syrupy, elastic. Chandeliers swing. Her glass slides a little on the table. Liquid sloshes inside.
Patrick grabs her glass, stops it from moving. “You all right, Poppy?” he asks gently.
“I, ah—” She reaches for the man’s hand. “Sorry. A spot of seasickness, I think. Got distracted trying not to throw up. Nice—” Her voice sticks. She coughs and clears her throat. “Nice to meet you, too.”
He takes hold of her hand, and his gaze fixes on hers. Direct. Full attention. A man who makes others feel special—as though they are all that matters to him in that exact moment. He seems to exude an unspoken promise that he will look out for them if they ever need his help. But Poppy knows, when victims fall for it, they end up poisoned, sick, dead, beaten, hacked, burned. She’s read a lot about the killings on the Hippie Trail in the seventies.
His grip is warm. Firm. Her entire life seems to run through her head as his skin connects with hers. Every little moment since her adoption is reorganizing itself in her brain against all this new information. It changes everything about her self-narrative, about the very idea of who she is.
“I hope you’re enjoying the trip.” Her voice comes out weird. It’s a stupid thing to say.
He suddenly doesn’t seem to notice, or even care what Lillith’s lowly assistant sounds or looks like or says. His attention is now firmly back on the rich widow.
As he takes a seat next to Lillith, she moves her sparkling diamanté clutch out of his way. She sets it on her right-hand side, next to her glass. The shimmer and glitter of diamanté crystals again snares Poppy’s attention.
Her mind spins back to that pouch Avi gave her, and the memory of Lillith slipping it into the clutch. She’s beginning to get a weird feeling.
“You sure you’re okay?” Patrick whispers near her ear.
She nods. “I think so.”
“Don’t fuss about him—it’s sweet, an admirer at her age. He seems harmless enough.”
“Right,” she says quietly, heart still racing, perspiration prickling under her arms, palms sweaty. Everything feels too close, too much.
Roshaan
One Hour, Eighteen Minutes To Impact
Roshaan watches from the back of the Hecate Lounge theater as the guests settle at tables positioned in a crescent shape around the stage at the front. The intent is to give all the guests a sense of being within reach of the illusionist when he appears. The tiny sequins on the curtains of deep velvet on either side shimmer and catch candlelight as the ship moves.
The sway and list of theOrchidmake the glitter on the women’s gowns dance, too. And catches the metal sheen on the masks.
The “big fish” are seated closest to the stage, in a semicircle of tables, as Theo instructed.
Roshaan is strung tight as a wire, her anxiety rising with the surge of the waves and roll of the ship as the winds whip from every direction outside. The storm is worsening. Unoccupied chairs are beginning to slide slightly. She hears china and glass tinkling on the bar shelves, and she sees servers compensating for the movement as they balance trays of drinks.
The pianist—with his long, narrow fingers and haunted air—has stopped playing for a moment. He double-checks the clamps securing the baby grand’s casters to the floor as the seas grow rougher. She watches as he checks the lid-prop latch is fastened so it won’t slam with a sudden roll. He then wedges a block beneath the pedal base to steady it.
Roshaan inhales deeply but can’t seem to draw oxygen fully into her lungs. She looks up at the crystal chandeliers above the tables. They tinkle and wink sparks of light with the vibrations of the thruster engines. The katabatic gusts funneling down the black volcanic cliffs of Santorini are creating violent currents over the caldera, causing theOrchidto swing despite her finely tuned thrusters. It feels as though the very spirits of the place are warning them away.
She fears Captain Bellini might at any moment order the bridge to move the ship out of the caldera. In practice, strong caldera winds have often forced cruise lines to cancel Santorini calls entirely. Part of her wonders why they haven’t moved already, but she trusts that Sophia Bellini, a true master, knows what she’s doing.
What else can one do but trust? The ship is the lesser of her worries right now. She checks her watch.
The show is about to start.
The percussionist begins a gentle roll on the timpani, creating a barely discernible rumble—like soft, rolling thunder. It grows louder. The pianist adds a low, repetitive heartbeat rhythm, faster, faster. Lights over the tables fade. The ship lists again. Candles gutter in jars as wax sloshes. A wave of whispers ripples through the nervous audience.
Curtains are drawn back slightly, readying for Sorin’s appearance.
A woman’s voice sounds from hidden speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, favored elites, thank you all for coming tonight.”
A rising drumroll swells, punctuated by a sudden clash of cymbals that makes everyone jump.
“If you are not presently wearing your chosen mask, please put it on now.”
