sigh just before the metal pitcher cleared the table and hit the floor beside her with a jarring clang.
"What the devil are you doing here, Abigail Merchant?" She pushed herself up and maneuvered so that her back was against the door and she could brace against the movement of the ship. "Charging off on an expedition by yourself…" Her mouth was dry; her words were more difficult to form. "Risking life an'
limb… spending the money you should be using to buy a sensible little house and settle down to a sensible job in a sensible profession…"
Sensible. Her mother rose in her mind, speaking oft-repeated words: "You'll have the rest of your life to be sensible , Abigail."
Her gaze went to the large, battered trunk and leather-bound volumes strewn across the cabin floor—the gift fate had dropped into her lap—or, more accurately, almost dropped on her head. Keys to the adventure of a lifetime.
"She's right. The rest of my life to be sensible." Her tongue felt thick and clumsy. "The professor may have started this quest, but it's mine now. Just what Mother would have wanted me to do with her legacy. 'Go and explore, Abigail,' she'd have said. 'Do something bold and breathtaking.'" A roll of the ship made her stomach clench, and she gritted her teeth and fought through the urge to be ill. "After all…
who b-better to finish the search for the greatest library ever assembled than a classically trained librarian?"
Anybody . Or at least, anybody with sea legs, she thought moments later, sitting on the cabin floor…
chilling in her soaked nightdress, clutching an armful of journals, and trying desperately to ignore the way the cabin floor seemed to be undulating around her. She was so cold she was shivering, yet she could feel sweat running down the side of her face.
Hubris—she tried to force her thoughts from her physical misery—it was pride in her own intellect and judgment that had propelled her into this disaster. Repentance… the 200's… Religion . That, and just possibly a reckless desire for glory and fame and scholarly vindica—
Oh, God—not again.
She pressed her head back against the door closed her eyes and fought the contraction working its way up through her. Spotting the chamber pot nearby, she flung the journals she was clutching across the cabin, onto the dry part of the floor, and headed for that vessel. After a few moments of pure misery, she sagged and the motion of the ship began to damp in her consciousness.
Everything began to grow blessedly darker and warmer and easier…
Pounding on the louvered wooden door of his cabin jarred Apollo Smith awake, and he burrowed deeper into his bunk and clamped his arms around his head to ward off the racket. After several minutes he realized it was the ship's steward thumping the door and calling his name, and that, despite his lack of response, Haffe showed no sign of going away.
"Damned ship had better be sinking," Apollo muttered as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk and gave the porthole a dark glance. Sunshine, not seawater. His eyes felt like they were filled with sand as he struggled to keep them open and staggered across the tilting floor to the door.
"What the bloody hell—"
The wild-eyed Moroccan rattled off something in a puree of Berber, French, and English as he pulled Apollo out into the narrow passage. The belated sense of what the steward had said and the stench of sickness struck Apollo at the same time.
"Good God." He clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, muttering into his palm, "Who died?"
" Engleesh m'am… assistez !"
"Englishman? It's not like we're all related, you know."
Haffe dragged him frantically to the open door of the adjoining cabin and pointed to a form in a wet cotton nightdress, crumpled on the floor and wedged between an open steamer trunk and a chamber pot.
Papers and books littered the cabin floor and female garments dangled out of open baggage.
" Assistez ! English m'am. Assistez… vite,
"What the devil are you doing here, Abigail Merchant?" She pushed herself up and maneuvered so that her back was against the door and she could brace against the movement of the ship. "Charging off on an expedition by yourself…" Her mouth was dry; her words were more difficult to form. "Risking life an'
limb… spending the money you should be using to buy a sensible little house and settle down to a sensible job in a sensible profession…"
Sensible. Her mother rose in her mind, speaking oft-repeated words: "You'll have the rest of your life to be sensible , Abigail."
Her gaze went to the large, battered trunk and leather-bound volumes strewn across the cabin floor—the gift fate had dropped into her lap—or, more accurately, almost dropped on her head. Keys to the adventure of a lifetime.
"She's right. The rest of my life to be sensible." Her tongue felt thick and clumsy. "The professor may have started this quest, but it's mine now. Just what Mother would have wanted me to do with her legacy. 'Go and explore, Abigail,' she'd have said. 'Do something bold and breathtaking.'" A roll of the ship made her stomach clench, and she gritted her teeth and fought through the urge to be ill. "After all…
who b-better to finish the search for the greatest library ever assembled than a classically trained librarian?"
Anybody . Or at least, anybody with sea legs, she thought moments later, sitting on the cabin floor…
chilling in her soaked nightdress, clutching an armful of journals, and trying desperately to ignore the way the cabin floor seemed to be undulating around her. She was so cold she was shivering, yet she could feel sweat running down the side of her face.
Hubris—she tried to force her thoughts from her physical misery—it was pride in her own intellect and judgment that had propelled her into this disaster. Repentance… the 200's… Religion . That, and just possibly a reckless desire for glory and fame and scholarly vindica—
Oh, God—not again.
She pressed her head back against the door closed her eyes and fought the contraction working its way up through her. Spotting the chamber pot nearby, she flung the journals she was clutching across the cabin, onto the dry part of the floor, and headed for that vessel. After a few moments of pure misery, she sagged and the motion of the ship began to damp in her consciousness.
Everything began to grow blessedly darker and warmer and easier…
Pounding on the louvered wooden door of his cabin jarred Apollo Smith awake, and he burrowed deeper into his bunk and clamped his arms around his head to ward off the racket. After several minutes he realized it was the ship's steward thumping the door and calling his name, and that, despite his lack of response, Haffe showed no sign of going away.
"Damned ship had better be sinking," Apollo muttered as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk and gave the porthole a dark glance. Sunshine, not seawater. His eyes felt like they were filled with sand as he struggled to keep them open and staggered across the tilting floor to the door.
"What the bloody hell—"
The wild-eyed Moroccan rattled off something in a puree of Berber, French, and English as he pulled Apollo out into the narrow passage. The belated sense of what the steward had said and the stench of sickness struck Apollo at the same time.
"Good God." He clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, muttering into his palm, "Who died?"
" Engleesh m'am… assistez !"
"Englishman? It's not like we're all related, you know."
Haffe dragged him frantically to the open door of the adjoining cabin and pointed to a form in a wet cotton nightdress, crumpled on the floor and wedged between an open steamer trunk and a chamber pot.
Papers and books littered the cabin floor and female garments dangled out of open baggage.
" Assistez ! English m'am. Assistez… vite,
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