Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Alex
Alex’s stomach rumbled with hunger, and he scratched a rising welt on his temple. Even aboard a cargo ship in the middle of the Mediterranean, mosquitos seemed to find a way to get to their prey. Maybe he should learn a thing or two from them.
The corridor reeked of coal tar, stale seawater, and the metallic, sour tang of condensation leaking from the overhead pipes. Alex crouched low behind a bulkhead where a brass rail ended, pressed flat against the cold steel wall, and listened.
Above him, the deck groaned beneath booted feet.
The upper grating flexed as a man passed with slow, heavy strides.
Not a sailor—one of the men whom he’d been following since home.
Alex knew their rhythm by now. The guards walked like they owned every board in this rust bucket.
The real crew moved faster, heads down, and spoke exclusively in Arabic.
Fortunately for him, he’d been speaking the language for years.
That had helped more than he’d realized. Angry as he was with his father for—well, whatever it was they were keeping secret from him—Papa had spent years giving him instruction and knowledge that had served Alex well during this unexpected and sometimes terrifying adventure.
If I ever make it back home again, I might not be so eager to roam.
Fending for himself had meant days of thirst and hunger, brutal elements, and fear.
He counted as the guards passed, holding his breath. One, two, three … four.
The footfalls faded. Silence again.
He moved, fast, taking almost noiseless steps, toe to heel, down the corridor.
The overhead light was a weak yellow filament caged in wire and swinging with the ship’s motion that highlighted the glistening condensation on the pipes.
A loud hiss of steam burst from a junction ahead, and he slammed to a stop, heart hammering.
A steadier breath left him, and he waited for his heart to slow.
He was two decks below the galley, one aft of the engine. This corridor was for storage and cold rooms.
Ivy was in one of them.
There hadn’t been time to go for help when he’d seen her get shoved into a motorcar near Penmore. He’d been at the farmhouse, spying on the men who’d been watching the hospital all morning, when he’d seen her walking the familiar path toward him, dinner basket nestled in the crook of her arm.
They’d grabbed her. And he’d taken off running.
He’d barely had time to grab onto the car and hitch a ride on the sideboard as they rode into town and toward the train.
They must have threatened her, because she’d walked with them onto the train, and then later boarded her onto this ship, without her saying a word.
He’d managed to sneak on after her each time, but it hadn’t been easy.
And now they were here, ten days later and in sight of an Egyptian port. Not Alexandria—he’d docked there enough that he’d recognize it. Most likely Port Said.
Since stowing away on the ship, he’d mapped it one sliver at a time: memorized crew shifts, found crawlspaces, timed patrols to the minute. He’d jimmied open a fuse panel for a tool. Lifted wire scraps from a crate. Borrowed a hinge pin from a lifeboat crank. No one noticed.
Alex reached the service corridor—unlit, narrower, the walls hemmed in by mesh cargo cages and rope coils slung on hooks. He ducked beneath one, careful not to snag his filthy shirt. Then he knelt beside a maintenance hatch half hidden behind a rotting sack of potatoes.
He scraped his fingernail along the top bolt to loosen it.
The hatch eased open, and he slipped inside, gulping a breath.
He didn’t like tight spaces, and the duct was barely eighteen inches wide—just enough for his shoulders.
The space inside was freezing, and his breath fogged the space in front of him as he inched forward, ribs brushing the walls as he crawled.
This was not the time to think about getting wedged so tight that he’d starve here slowly, his body recovered only when the stench of his decay got bad enough to attract someone’s attention.
He drew a slow breath and counted every bolt. Every rivet. Ten feet.
Twenty.
The smell changed—less grease, more brine—and the temperature dropped too.
He’d reached her compartment.
Alex shifted forward, bent his head, and pressed his face to the slatted grate at the junction.
Ivy sat slumped against the wall of the cold room. The room was lit by a single hanging bulb with a chain switch. A metal bucket sat in one corner, a tin cup beside her. A blanket on the floor served as her bedding. He knew they’d been feeding her, at least. That was something.
He tapped the vent twice with a knuckle, trying to restrain his anger.
She jumped. Then she turned, eyes sharp, scanning until she found the vent.
“Ivy,” he whispered.
Her eyes darted nervously toward the door. “Alex?”
“I’ve got it ready. You need to listen to me carefully. We’re almost at the dock and we don’t have a lot of time.”
Ivy pushed upright and winced. “Are you inside the wall?” The other times they’d spoken, he’d managed to whisper through the door, but he couldn’t take that risk now.
He rolled his eyes. As though it’s that hard.
“Yes. The lock’s set. I disabled the tension spring last night and jammed the catch. When you turn the handle, it’ll stop at the midpoint. Then push hard—it’ll give.”
“You rigged the lock?”
“And the whistle,” he said. “I’m going to spark the relay and make it look like a pressure blowout. When it sounds twice, you count to six, give the guards time to clear, then open the door. Then we’ll find an exit, and either jump into the water or climb onto the dock.”
Or so he hoped.
Ivy didn’t respond right away. “They said if I try to escape, they’ll kill Mama,” she whispered, a tremor to her voice. “That they have a man waiting at Penmore to make sure I cooperate.”
He couldn’t believe that was true. Kill Aunt Victoria? What purpose would it serve?
More than likely, Aunt Victoria was driving herself mad with worry over Ivy, the way she always fussed over everything where Ivy was involved.
Somehow the thought of Aunt Victoria’s being anxious bothered him more than the thought of what his own family might be thinking and feeling.
Mama had a stoicism to her personality that gave Alex every assurance she’d survive his absence with more calm.
“Your mom can take care of herself, Ivy. And as soon as we’re free, we can find a way to send her a telegram and warn her,” he said.
They’d been friends for long enough that she knew his schemes didn’t always turn out as planned.
And even though he tried to sound confident, he knew she must be terrified.
“Besides, I doubt they’re serious. What would be the point of killing your mother? They’re just trying to scare you.”
“Are you sure this will work?”
He couldn’t lie. Not to her. She probably was the only person he’d never fibbed to.
“No,” he said, setting his forehead down against the cold wall. “But it’s the best shot we’ve got.”
Please, Ivy. You’ve got to try.
She could be brave, if she wanted to be.
It didn’t just come as naturally to her as it did to Clara.
Ivy always hesitated a bit more, worried more about getting injured.
Sometimes he wondered if it was her mother’s influence—his own mother seemed unfazed by their scrapes and bruises, while Lady Victoria frowned at him whenever Ivy showed up with an injury.
But in the last year or two, he’d sensed Ivy was changing too. In ways he couldn’t quite understand.
Come on, Ivy. Do be brave.
A faint creak—her weight shifting. “Where do I go once I’m out?”
Relief filled him. Thank goodness. “I’ll be waiting two doors down, behind the coil racks. Soon as you’re out, turn right. Hug the wall. We’ll move together from there. Don’t stop.”
She sighed, a tremble to her breath. “I’m scared, Alex.”
“I know.” His voice dropped, and a sudden, unexpected urge to hug her filled his tense muscles. “But you’ll be all right. I’m right here. They lose any sort of leverage they think they have by killing you. It’s in their best interest to keep you alive.”
A few more beats of silence followed before her voice came again, smaller somehow. “Okay.”
“I’ll be no more ten minutes,” he said in a low voice.
“I’m going now to do it.” Alex backed out of the duct slowly, his elbows scraping against the tight curve of the metal.
The walls scraped his chest with every inch he crawled, the cold biting through his shirt like a layer of frost. His shoulder snagged on a bent bolt, and his teeth clenched as he hissed with pain.
Damn. He tested the word on the tip of his tongue, remembering the scolding he’d received from Mama for using a foul word just a few weeks earlier.
God, she must be so worried about him. Furious, too.
That was one of the nicer things about this sudden bout of independence.
He doubted he could make her more disappointed now—and that was oddly freeing.
With a sharp exhale, he forced himself forward until his feet hit the rim of the hatch.
One arm, then the other, braced against the sides as he slid down and landed in a crouch beside the sagging sack of potatoes. The stench made him want to vomit and, for the first time in a few days, he was grateful he had little in his stomach to get rid of.
The air outside the shaft was warmer, but not by much. The sourness of the rotten food mixed with rust and the faint acrid scent of fuel oil drifting up from the bilge. He reset the area in front of the hatch quickly. This would be a poor moment to leave behind clues of his presence here.
He needed to move.
Alex straightened and slipped out of the alcove, into the deeper corridor. Here, the lights were further apart, casting long shadows in irregular patches on the floor. Every step he took echoed faintly, a soft padding of worn soles against iron.