Page 34 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

A beating heart. Air rushes through lungs. Eyelashes tremble. Lips part.

Orlando’s eyebrows furrow, as if roused from a pleasant dream. His eyes open slowly. Dark amber-hued and brilliant, they search the sky. When they find me, I cannot help but smile.

“Good morning, Orlando. Did you sleep well?” I say.

He only stares at me, perplexed.

“What?” His voice comes out in a croak, as if he had not made use of it in centuries.

“Darling, you died for a bit, but it seems you’ve returned from the dead.”

Orlando’s brows furrow deeper. It looks utterly charming.

“Can you sit?” I ask, offering my hand. He takes it and, with his other, pushes himself off the ground.

Relieved, I forget myself, wrapping my arms around Orlando’s chest.

He groans in pain. When I let go, he wavers slightly but stays upright.

“I must apologise, I was so—”

“I died?” He interrupts me.

“You had no pulse. No breathing.”

“Everything faded, and suddenly there was nothing. Not darkness, but absence,” he says, sounding dazed.

I have so many questions. I wish to know everything he saw and felt, but even in midsummer, the early morning chill bites my bare forearms bitterly.

“I want to hear everything, dove, but you must be thoroughly frozen.” I drape my coat over Orlando’s shoulders.

A strange look flashes across his eyes, and he gazes at me in a way that constricts my chest.

“Behold what you found,” I say, wrenching the half-buried object from the pit.

His eyes widen when I place the small pouch on his lap like an offering.

“You found this?” he asks.

“No, it was you. I merely followed your directions. Had you dug a bit more after finding your stick, you would have discovered this.”

He carefully brushes the dirt from the leather. It looks minuscule in his hands. Once he pulls at its fastening, the pouch falls open.

Orlando gasps.

An assortment of golden coins, shining as brightly as if they were newly minted, lies on his lap.

Orlando stares silently at the treasure. Then pulls a hand through his hair, covering his face. Seconds pass. Then minutes.

I give him time to recover, wondering if he might be weeping. When his fingers move away, I see no tears, only pure shock on his features.

Finally, he takes one of the coins and holds it to the sun.

“I wonder how old they are? I’ve never seen anything like it,” he says, presenting it to me.

The moment my eyes fall on the intricate relief of the coin, my breath halts abruptly. I stare at the object in Orlando’s palm. My pulse quickens, and I feel as if unfed for millennia.

With trembling fingers, I unfasten my collar. I pull at the chain resting on my chest. The very chain that had been in my possession for over a century.