Wave
The feeling of being watched was manageable when he was alone. The strangeness of it would never fade, but alone he could be sure that it was this . . . curse . . . nothing more.
In a crowd, bustling and loud, it felt dangerous. French pickpockets were less aggressive than Italian ones but quicker, more efficient.
Victor had things on his person that he could not afford to lose.
There were also the authorities to contend with.
It was a far cry to imagine that in the two weeks since he’d left Ingelstad that he’d been pinpointed as the source of the evening’s chaos.
Much less that anyone managed to alert French police to search for a man of his description in time to catch him in the forty-eight hours he was here.
But standing in the center of a crowd, feeling a persistent gaze on the back of your neck, was chilling.
By the time Victor made it to his carriage to the sea, he was twitching with anxiety and his headache was back. He was certain he looked a fright. But the carriage driver took his money with a disaffected glance.
Victor was granted several hours of reprieve of silence and solitary to wind down the beating of his heart.
Traveling by ship was odious at the best of times. Victor had to save his money for the more expensive voyage from Scotland to the Mediterranean. So his selection for this jaunt to the Netherlands was below him.
The guests’ quarters were dark and musty, reeking of mildew, salt, and rotting hay. They dined on dry bread and salted meat.
Victor had purchased lemons preserved in honey for his journey. But a quick look at his company let him know that it wasn’t wise to eat them in the open lest he return to his bunk to find the entire jar missing.
Guests were not allowed to roam the deck during any time other than afternoons and could be sent below at the captain’s whim.
This wildness didn’t suit him. Victor wasn’t a person in search of the spray on his face. These bracing winds didn’t make him think of freedom. The sun’s glare was like being beneath a microscope.
He knew some men would board a ship and get lost in her. Preferring—somehow—the sweat and stink of men, salt in the air, and the promise of paltry pay to true civilization. He’d even heard stories of men leaving entire farms behind in the hands of their women never to return again.
Victor couldn’t imagine it. If one more sailor looked at him and commented on the fairness of his hair or the sweetness of his mouth, he would consider working out how to make peace with killing again.
But the trip did come to an end, as it always does, and Victor stumbled from the deck to the street.