There was a storm brewing over the Atlantic.
One hour until sunset, and all the passengers of the RMS Monumental had been sequestered in their cabins in anticipation of the rough weather.
The sky had gone grey, a half darkness falling like an uncertain nightfall.
The wind wasn’t howling, not yet, but it was in the dangerous moment of susurrus that heralded a tempest: the windowpanes trembled in their moorings, the chandeliers quaking a soft, occasional chime.
The silence that had fallen meant that Miriam could hear each of her footsteps against the carpeting with absolute clarity: the plush, almost flesh-like squish of her dress shoes as she crept between empty tables and up abandoned staircases.
In the bar, a phonograph had been left to play a soft piano piece, the jolting of the ship punctuating the music with an occasional harsh crackle.
The water in the Turkish baths quivered with the groaning of the hull.
In the observation lounge, the tiny mechanical ship was blissful and untroubled in its journey, cogs turning, the sky of the mural unflaggingly blue.
Miriam paused to observe it for a moment, then pulled the tiny ship out of its mechanism entirely, tossing it over her shoulder.
Their deal was almost up, and Miriam couldn’t find Rosamund at all.
She’d disappeared in an instant as brief as a blink.
Miriam was sure she wasn’t dead—she couldn’t be; Miriam would know—and so she must have travelled somewhere, stepping through the darkness as Miriam herself often did.
A final moment of stubborn defiance, a final display of power.
Miriam admired it as much as it made her furious.
She turned to the shadows. Bring her to me, she told them, but they faded only partially before returning without result: they couldn’t decide which master they served. And the wind, that infernal wind, kept battering the side of the ship like fists on a drum, mocking her failure.
Miriam was starting to believe that Rosamund had left the ship entirely.
Maybe she had transported herself back to England, or straight to New York.
It was no use, of course—the deal would complete either way, Rosamund’s soul tearing free from her body, flying like a shooting star across the Atlantic so that Miriam could consume it.
But the thought of such an outcome gave Miriam no pleasure.
She wanted to hold Rosamund in her arms as her light left her, to give her empty shell the mercy of a death.
Why would Rosamund deny her that? Was she truly so petty as to remain a walking corpse?
Miriam returned to the Jennings’ cabin. It was empty, of course; as was the promenade, the metal grille beneath her like a spiderweb of steel. The only one caught there was her. To her left, the sea roiled, water made ink dark by the clouds.
Frustrated, convinced that Rosamund was gone, Miriam stepped forward, intending to emerge at the port of Southampton.
Her foot came down on metal. The Monumental groaned with the force of it, and when she lifted her shoe, she’d stepped so hard that she’d dented the steel.
Miriam tried again. Nothing happened.
Mystified, she turned to the ocean, frowning. The ship juddered over a wave, misting her with spray. She licked her lips.
Salt.
Miriam threw her head back and laughed. Circle of salt, water that runs.
She’d known this was a possibility, hadn’t she?
Rosamund had believed the water would contain her, and she was right.
Unless she attempted the painful flight to shore, Miriam was stuck until the ship made port.
Rosamund would turn twenty-three before then, of course—and the deal would be complete—but Miriam had to admire her gumption.
The Monumental rocked. In the distance came a thunderous boom, the howl of thunder as it snapped at lightning’s heels.
Miriam raised her head to watch the storm, and then noticed—far above her—the iron monolith of the crow’s nest, teetering dangerously with the swaying of the ship.
A figure stood in the window, watching her.
Miriam grinned and grew wings.
She took flight. As she ascended, the wind buffeted her, the storm picking up speed.
Miriam landed on the sill of the window, digging her talons into the metal.
Rosamund was leaning against the wall on the opposite side, watching her with an inscrutable expression.
She was still dressed in nothing but her feather-edged silk dressing gown.
Her cheeks were flushed red with cold. On the back of her hands, eye-shaped slits glowed so brightly with soul-light, it was as if she was studded with stars.
The crow’s nest was nothing but a steel box, all four sides half open to make space for the windows, which were all broken. Shards of glass littered the floor in front of them. Miriam didn’t know whether the storm or Rosamund had done that.
‘Hello, Little Shadow,’ Rosamund said. ‘You took your time.’
Miriam became a woman again and crawled inside. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘I know.’
‘Circle of salt,’ Miriam said. ‘Very clever.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Where do you intend this to lead, my dear?’
Rosamund shook her head. ‘You killed Walter,’ she said, ignoring the question.
‘My love for you is violent, Rosamund,’ Miriam told her, with straining patience—was this truly such a revelation? ‘My love for you is furious and hungry. If it were otherwise, we wouldn’t be here now. You would be a skeleton under Suffolk dirt.’
‘Your love for me is a lightning rod,’ Rosamund returned. ‘I am sick of the storm.’
Miriam swept her arm out, gesturing to the sky. ‘Then why have you done this?’
‘Clouds without shadow: no light, no darkness.’
‘Just us,’ Miriam said.
‘Just us,’ Rosamund agreed.
‘You can’t kill me.’
‘I don’t intend to.’
‘The pact is soon complete.’ Miriam stepped closer to her; Rosamund stood her ground. ‘You can feel it, can’t you? The way your soul sings for me. It will leave you soon.’
Rosamund said, with grim resignation, ‘I know.’
Lightning flashed again. The thunder, this time, was so loud it took hold of the crow’s nest and shook it like a petulant child.
Miriam smiled. ‘This reminds me of the fete. Do you remember?’
‘Yes. Why did you always call for storms, even though they weaken the darkness?’
‘I told you the first time we met: storms suit you, my dear. You are always most beautiful with a little fear in your face.’
Rosamund’s lip curled in fury, gold eyes sparking like embers. Her fingers twitched, and the Monumental suddenly pitched upwards at an acute angle. It hit a wave prow first, a wall of water slamming down on the deck like a hammer hitting a nail.
Miriam felt a moment of unease. ‘Temper, darling.’
‘You’ve underestimated me,’ Rosamund said, and there was triumph in her voice now: a promise Miriam could not decipher.
‘Maybe so.’
‘My entire life, I’ve been alone.’ She breached the space between them, and then—to Miriam’s shock—she wound her arms around her neck.
The look Rosamund gave her then was as fond as it was furious, as loving as it was hateful.
It was Cybil in the orchard, Esther beneath her on the bed, it was every storm they’d ever stood in and every kiss they’d ever shared.
‘Until you came. You’re the only one who’s ever understood me, I think. ’
Miriam pressed a hand to Rosamund’s neck, feeling the heartbeat she had ended and begun; wondering what it would be to hear silence instead. ‘And you me.’
‘I’m grateful that I met you,’ Rosamund said. ‘My blessing, my curse. I love you, Miriam. I always will.’
‘Me, too,’ Miriam echoed, confused, unable to resist as Rosamund pulled her in for a kiss.
It was sweet, soft, the sort of kiss that promised something they’d never had: something without transaction, without deadline.
And when Rosamund pulled away, her expression was entirely without hostility, mouth curved slightly, eyes half lidded.
‘I love you,’ Rosamund said. ‘That’s why this must end.’
Then she lunged sideways and threw herself out of the crow’s nest.
Miriam screamed. Miriam had never screamed before: the sound was unlike anything she had ever heard, like someone was ripping the air apart, a vacuum of noise simultaneously silent and cacophonous.
And then, as the scream itself died—replaced by another crack of thunder—she saw a bird fly down towards the promenade.
Miriam, enraged, leapt after her.
A hawk sliced through the air, golden-eyed, glowing with light.
A crow followed it. Above them, the clouds swirled with the wind, lightning arcing toward the ship.
The wind was roaring, buffeting them with such force that it took all of Miriam’s concentration just to stay airborne; it felt as if the shadows that formed her feathers would be torn away from her.
All she could focus on was the brightness in front of her, the meteoric glow of Rosamund as she carved a path across the storm-grey sky.