Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (15 page)

“I need to find you something to drink,” she told him. “I will return shortly.”

Before he could protest, she rose to leave and felt a slight weight at the bottom of her nightdress.

It was soiled with Lucius’ refuse.

Her nerves thoroughly devastated, she nearly ran from him. But the hall was poorly lit, and she tripped over several of the infirm, many of whom seemed not to notice. She muttered apologies, her body trembling with the need to flee this sordid nightmare.

She felt as though she could not move fast enough, as though her feet were dragging, as though her legs had turned to rubber. Yet her heart beat rapidly, her breath came fast and ragged, and the doors on either side of the hall began to pass in a blur. Her body adjusted to the challenges of flying in the dark, and soon she was not tripping or apologizing, but running as though the cholera itself was on her heels. And maybe it was.

She hurried to the nearest source of water, her chest tight and exploding for want of air. She held out her basin and lifted the pump, but when the handle came down, no water came out.

“What?” she cried. “No!”

There
must
be water. There must!

Nearby, a shadow moved. Evelyn screamed and dropped the basin.

“They’ve rationed it,” the shadow spoke. It was a man, who sat against the wall and peered at her from under heavy eyelids. “They only allot so much an evening. With all the madness afoot, we run dry hours ago.”

He lifted a flagon to his lips and took a sip.

Evelyn recovered at the sight of him drinking and reached out a desperate hand.

“What is that you have there?” she asked.

The man swallowed.

“Oh, this?”

He was playing stupid, and Evelyn had to restrain herself from causing him some vicious form of bodily harm.

“Your drink,” she clarified, the words forced through her teeth.

The man examined his flagon as if he had not the faintest clue what was in it.

“Ain’t nothin’ but a spot o’ wine,” he seemed to decide.

Evelyn did not know if wine could help Lucius, but she did not wish to waste any time figuring it out.

“I’ll take it!” she cried.

The man clutched the flagon to his side, away from view.

“I wasn’t offerin’ it, miss,” he grumbled.

“But I will pay you!” Evelyn demanded, her voice shrill with desperation.

He leaned forward, and the light from the nearest lamp illuminated half his face. He was a dirty, greasy, bloated individual, probably somewhere in his forties, and his expression was one Evelyn recognized all too well.

“And if I don’t want money?” he muttered suggestively.

In that moment, Evelyn knew she was capable of murder. But seeing as throttling this low-life would take too much precious time, she settled for placing her hands upon her hips.

“Now you listen, you selfish, hoarding filth. People are dying! I offer naught but money and the very slight chance that you might redeem your soul with this one measly sacrifice. Do we have a transaction or not?”

He had the audacity to look offended.

“Don’t blow your bloomers, Princess. I ain’t touched a woman since we got on this blasted ship. Have mercy on me. I ain’t asking for much.”

“You disgust me.”

Evelyn spun on her heel. She could not waste another second arguing with this insufferable creature. She must find Lucius something to drink, even if she had to go looking in the very bowels of the ship.

She had only taken a step before the man jumped to his feet and followed after her.

“I’ll give it to you for fifteen!”

She turned to face him and nearly knocked her head against his.

“Fifteen dollars!” she exclaimed. “That is ludicrous!”

“That’s my price. But give us a kiss and I’ll give it to ya for ten.”

Evelyn snatched the flagon.

“I will have the purser deliver fifteen dollars to your room, Mr.…”

 “I ain’t got a room, miss.”

Of course he didn’t.

“Then you may retrieve it from his office on another day! Good night!”

The man yelled after her.

“If you don’t make good on this deal, harlot, I’ll have you put in the brig!”

“Just you try, you rat!” she shouted back.

As Evelyn stole away, she opened the flagon and smelled the wine. It was sour and there were no more than a few sips remaining.

“Bloody pig,” she muttered.

By the time she returned to Lucius, he was again unconscious.

“Lucius,” she called, setting the flagon upon the floor and fumbling for her oils. She waved one beneath his nose.

“Wake up, Lucius. I’m back, and I’ve brought you some wine.”

His lids did not flutter.

“Lucius!”

Nothing.

She waited, watching him, pacing the floor once, then twice. He was utterly wasted, and she did not know what was more essential for him now. Sleep, or drink?

Perhaps it was better not to wake him. The past twenty-four hours had been murder on his body, and even in the darkness, he looked wretched. Some more rest might do him well, might even prevent him from further bouts of sickness. 

Evelyn decided to wait for him to wake on his own. She had the wine. When he woke, she would have him drink immediately. But until then, she could do nothing but watch over him, and wait until he stirred once more.

She felt weary, for her adrenaline had begun to wane, and she was beginning to stagger on her feet. When was the last time she had slept? Eaten? Drunk? It did not feel as though any of those pleasant refreshments had taken place in her lifetime. This was her life now. Dismal, dark, and miserable. Her tongue felt cottony from lack of water. Even the wine- sour, spoiled, and ancient- was somewhat appealing. She forced herself to refrain from drinking what she hoped would be Lucius’ elixir.

Too exhausted now to even cry, she sank against the wall opposite Lucius and prayed that they may yet see the light of a new day.

She did not know when or how it happened. If she had been in a normal state of mind, nothing in the world could have induced her to sleep there. But somehow, she did, to the lullaby of sick and dying men.

Some hours passed during her unexpected slumber. The bottom half of her body had fallen asleep, and her neck ached because her head had fallen sideways while she slept.

Lucius had not moved since she last looked at him, though his body had purged more precious liquids. She was furious that she had fallen asleep, and she was concerned that Lucius might be malnourished beyond repair.

She called his name once, twice, but it was not enough to wake him.

So, lacking any ability to restrain herself, she slapped him.

Perhaps insanity had claimed her after all, manifesting in the form of desperation.

“Wake up, Mr. Flynn!” she cried hoarsely, stunned at the sound of her own pathetic voice. “It is important that you wake up! You must drink!”

She waited for a moment, watching to see if some member of his body moved. An eyelid? A finger? A toe?

In the darkness, she could not be entirely sure of what she saw, or didn’t see. So she called to him again.

“Rouse yourself, Lucius!”

She stopped and stared hard at him.

He was so still. So impossibly still.

“Lucius?”

She leaned over his face, listening for breath.

It did not come.

Down the hall, someone moaned. It was a dreadful sound, but all Evelyn could hear was Lucius’ silence.

She felt pinpricks of trepidation spread across her skin.

No. No, he couldn’t be. He
was
not…

“No,” she said aloud. “No, Lucius! Open your eyes, you mongrel! Don’t toy with me. This is not a game. Wake up! You are not allowed to do this. Do you hear me? You are not allowed to do this! I will not let you!”

She slapped him again and again, until the dismal sight of his sunken face began to blur from the burning tears that welled within her eyes.

“Lucius!” she called to him again. “I do not permit you to give up your life! Don’t you rot on me. You are stronger than this!”

She took up the flagon and poured it into his mouth, but the wine pooled and spilled over his cheeks.

Evelyn slapped him once more.

“Drink it!” she sobbed. “You must drink it, Lucius!”

Nothing. Not a gurgle. Not a stir.

Evelyn threw the flagon aside and reached for the towel. The oils. Everything. She would give everything she had to bring him back. To wake him up from sleep.

None of it, however, was any good.

She sank back, lingering on the brink of defeat, her hand pressed over her mouth in disbelief. Her tears were hot as they spilled over her fingers.

What had made her think she could save him? When had she become so arrogant as to believe she could make any difference in whether he lived or died? Lucius was ill. He was not getting any better, and she had wasted these many years with the selfish notion that he would live forever, that she could go on hating him until she saw fit to forgive him.

And now, and now…

She could not think it. She could not bear it. If Lucius was gone, then she had lost every last piece of herself.

No, she had said she would not allow it, and she wouldn’t.

“Lucius!” she cried. “You
must
tell me what to do. Oh God, I cannot bear it. Oh God! Tell me what to do!”

Suddenly a new sound pealed through the hall. It was soft at first, and Evelyn questioned whether or not she had even heard it.

It came again. A small cry, and not belonging to a man.

It was the cry of a girl.

Evelyn’s own cries ceased as she listened, and a small spark of hope was birthed within her, for there was only one girl this could be.

The impervious one. The one with the healing hands.

Josephine.

Chapter Thirteen

Evelyn rose and followed the sound of the girl’s voice. She discovered her at the end of the hall, sitting on the floor with a man cradled in her arms. As Evelyn drew closer, she realized that this man was without life, and the child’s tears were falling heavily onto his withered body. Josephine rocked him, back and forth, her eyes trained on his face.

“Josephine,” Evelyn said, her voice barely above a whisper. She did not want to startle the girl.

Slowly, Josephine looked up at her with an agonized expression of love and sorrow. Evelyn’s heart nearly broke at the sight. Had Josephine known this man? Or was she simply moved to compassion by the tragic death of a stranger?

Whoever he was to the girl, he was gone, and Josephine was needed elsewhere.

“I believe he has forfeited his spirit, Josephine. There is nothing more you can do for him.”

The maid’s face tightened with the onslaught of more tears.

“Josephine, please, come with me. I have great need of you.”

The fire of the lantern illuminated Josephine’s eyes, and her tears glistened like sparks in the dark.

“Lucius is terribly sick,” Evelyn told her, her voice breaking. “I believe he is dying, and I do not know how to tend to him. Will you help me?”

The girl nodded, another sob escaping her throat. She looked once more upon the man and removed herself from beneath him, releasing him gently onto the floor.

Evelyn led her away, but the girl stopped at each sickly victim, kneeling in puddles of excrement and touching enflamed foreheads with her cool fingertips. Some of the men sighed in response, and others made no sound at all, to which she wailed anew.

This could go on all night, as there were sick people everywhere.

“Come, Josephine!” Evelyn pleaded. “We must be quick! Lucius will die if we do not hurry.”

She did not say,
could
not say, that he might be dead already.

Finally, at what seemed the close of a hundred years, Josephine came to Lucius, where he remained unmoved from where Evelyn had left him. Josephine knelt beside him and touched his face, her sad eyes dripping tears onto his still body.

“I have nothing to give him but this,” Evelyn said, offering the flagon of wine to the girl. “It is not much, but it was all I could find.”

Josephine took the flagon and released the cork. She steadily lowered it to Lucius’ mouth and poured a little onto his lips.

The liquid came out clear.

Evelyn started, then leaned in closer for a better look.

It was not wine. It was water.

That weasel of a man had lied to her, and she had believed him. His lips were even stained! Either he was too drunk to know the difference, or he had wanted to make her believe it was something other than what she wanted. But she had smelled it, had been repelled by its sour scent; was it merely a residue? She had seen it, had watched it spill out of Lucius’ mouth; was it the lighting that made it appear dark? Whatever the explanation, it was the exact medicine Lucius needed.

And this time, it was not spilling over.

Lucius was taking the draught, because Lucius was alive.

Evelyn heard a woman laughing, and she realized the woman was herself.

The wine had been worth fifteen dollars. If she had known this was water, there was no price she would not have paid.

Josephine waited a moment, then took Lucius’ hand in her own. She brought it to her face and kissed it, then poured some more water into his mouth.

He received it with a low moan, his eyes darting open with sudden alacrity. In waking, the girl’s silhouette was the first thing he saw.

“Lucius!” Evelyn cried. “Oh my God! Lucius, you are awake!”

He did not reply, did not hear or see anything but Josephine. She was naught but a shadow, her skin melting into the dark; yet somehow, he knew she returned his gaze. His every fiber could
feel
it, as if the very hope that burned within her had scorched his soul, igniting the life within him. His heart pumped with renewed fervency, his skin tingled, his bones ached. Oxygen burned hot as it entered his ravaged throat, progressing towards his eager lungs. His stomach, purged of every morsel, was pierced with the knowledge of emptiness. 

Hunger. By God, he felt hunger.