“His slate was on the shelf,” he continues a moment later. “It was where he always kept it. If he returned from York to fetch something from his quarters, he would not have brought it along and put it there—”
The ship lurches again, and this time, we both slip and smack into the railing. Nicolas’s hands cover mine as we wait for the ship to even out again. Then we carry on in silence. When we reach the spot where he hung the rope, he peers over the side.
“Miranda?” he says, his voice strained. “Do you see a rope in the water?”
I lean, gripping his hand and the railing, and I squint down to see the pale snake of a rope whipping along the side of the ship.
“The skiff,” I whisper. “They found the skiff.”
“Found it and cut it loose.”
The ship makes a sound. A terrible, low creak that has Nicolas’s head jerking up. He scrabbles to his feet and looks around. Andrés appears, running across the deck. He’s motioning wildly at the ship.
“Something is wrong,” I say. “Something is breaking.”
Andrés nods and continues gesturing, telling us to get off the ship and quickly.
I turn to Nicolas. “Andrés is here. Tell me what I can ask him to know what is wrong.”
Andrés shakes his head, his gestures turning panicked.
“Non,” Nicolas says. “It does not matter what is happening. We cannot fix it.”
Andrés nods emphatically. He runs to the side and looks down. When he glances back at me, his eyes are huge.
“Yes, the skiff is gone,” I say. “Is there another lifeboat? Another way off the ship?”
Both shake their heads.
“Can you swim?” I ask Nicolas.
He gives a harsh laugh. “I swim as well as I walk. But this is the North Sea. We would perish of the cold before we made it to shore.”
I squint over the railing. I can barely see the shore. When I turn, the lights of Whitby are fading to my left. The abbey looms on the hill. We have passed the town already.
I’m turning back to Nicolas when I see another light. This one is behind us. At sea.
“A boat!” I say. “There is a boat right there. A night fisherman.”
I start to make my way back to the rear of the ship. Nicolas grabs for me, but I wave him off and keep going. The small boat is no more than a hundred feet off the stern.
“It is following us,” I say. “It sees we are in distress. We need to let the fisherman know there are people aboard. Then we can descend the rope, and they can pick us up.”
Nicolas says something, but the wind whips away his words. I stand at the railing and wave my arms over my head. The small craft is even closer than I thought. And there is a man on the front of the ship, arms crossed. I wave more.
He gestures back. A gesture that even I know is a rude one.
I stare, my breath catching. Then my cheeks heat in shame.
“That is not a night fisherman, is it?” I say as Nicolas moves up beside me. “It is not a fishing boat.”
“Non, chérie.”
“It is the men who set us adrift. Which they did not do accidentally while you were aboard.”
“Non, chérie. They knew I was here.” He turns to look behind us. “Andrés? Are you there?”
“He is,” I say as the boy runs over.