cupped his hands to catch the dirt so he could fling it over the side.
“Swear,” his father said again.
Hollis awoke with a jolt, damp sheets twisted around his legs and waist. His head felt much better, but his heart was pounding. The only light in his bedroom was a thin rectangle that outlined his door. Was his mother still entertaining? It felt like the small hours of the morning. He slid from his bed and fumbled into an old pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt, then opened the door just enough to peek out with one eye.
Four men in Dakota uniforms were scattered about the room—two flanking the door, two sitting in leather armchairs across from his mother, whose nightdress trailed on the floor beneath the sofa. One man was speaking in a low voice, barely above a whisper. The other man was sipping from a cup and balancing a saucer in his lap.
“So y’see, Mrs. Dakota, the doc thinks it might’ve been the liver pâté. At least, that’s what he’s determined might be the cause of the … uh…”
“Speak freely,” his mother said. She sounded amused.
“The cause of the bowel, uh, troubles.”
“ Digestion issue, ” said the officer with the tea.
“And just so we’re clear, he sent for all of us?”
The first man nodded. “He says to me, ‘Everett,’ he says, ‘Go and fetch Lucy and Hollis.’”
The second man chimed in. “He kindly requested your presence in the infirmary, ma’am, along with your son. And Robert, too.”
Hollis thought his mother was going to burst out laughing. “Should I wake Father Cairns for last rites? This sounds like a very serious episode of indigestion.”
“I’m sure he’s not in that kind of mortal danger, ma’am.”
“We’re just obeying orders.”
“Of course you are.” Hollis’s mother slapped her hands against her knees and rose to her feet. “But I see the rest of you haven’t touched your tea. How rude, to make poor Steward Bailey cart it here for nothing.”
It was then that Hollis noticed the tray, upon which rested three identical and untouched teas. What was going on? Why would his mother spend so much time entertaining Castor’s errand boys at such an hour?
“Wasn’t necessary,” said one of the burly men by the door.
The man’s barrel-chested partner rumbled in agreement. “Shouldn’t have bothered.”
Hollis’s mother hesitated for a moment, eyes fixed upon the door as if she were waiting for another guest to arrive. Then she threw up her hands in resignation. “Well, I suppose I’ll go attempt to lift his spirits. But I’m not waking the boys for this.”
The men looked at each other as if they were unsure of how to proceed. Hollis wondered if they’d forgotten whose name was on the ship. He stepped out into the sitting room.
“It’s okay, I’ll go with you. Let Rob sleep.” He was already anticipating the look on Castor’s face, crippled by stomach pains, his orders almost—but not quite—obeyed.
“Morning, Hollis.” His mother smiled.
“Is it?” He locked his fingers together and stretched his arms above his head.
“Half past four.”
“Ungodly.”
It occurred to him that an even more satisfying facial expression might be derived from Castor’s orders being completely ignored. He could try and talk his mother out of going altogether. But then he wouldn’t be able to see his stepfather’s face, which was the whole point. He decided to stall while he figured out how best to play his hand.
“What’s this about liver pâté?”
“It’s rendered your stepfather’s bowels inoperable, apparently.” She cast a quizzical eye at the man draining his teacup. “Or have they become too operable?”
Flustered, the man placed the cup and saucer carefully on the table. “Much obliged for the refreshment.”
A hurried knock on the door proved to be a formality, since it swung right open. Hollis recognized the dim shape of Steward Bailey, a modest crewman with whisper-smooth movements, well suited
“Swear,” his father said again.
Hollis awoke with a jolt, damp sheets twisted around his legs and waist. His head felt much better, but his heart was pounding. The only light in his bedroom was a thin rectangle that outlined his door. Was his mother still entertaining? It felt like the small hours of the morning. He slid from his bed and fumbled into an old pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt, then opened the door just enough to peek out with one eye.
Four men in Dakota uniforms were scattered about the room—two flanking the door, two sitting in leather armchairs across from his mother, whose nightdress trailed on the floor beneath the sofa. One man was speaking in a low voice, barely above a whisper. The other man was sipping from a cup and balancing a saucer in his lap.
“So y’see, Mrs. Dakota, the doc thinks it might’ve been the liver pâté. At least, that’s what he’s determined might be the cause of the … uh…”
“Speak freely,” his mother said. She sounded amused.
“The cause of the bowel, uh, troubles.”
“ Digestion issue, ” said the officer with the tea.
“And just so we’re clear, he sent for all of us?”
The first man nodded. “He says to me, ‘Everett,’ he says, ‘Go and fetch Lucy and Hollis.’”
The second man chimed in. “He kindly requested your presence in the infirmary, ma’am, along with your son. And Robert, too.”
Hollis thought his mother was going to burst out laughing. “Should I wake Father Cairns for last rites? This sounds like a very serious episode of indigestion.”
“I’m sure he’s not in that kind of mortal danger, ma’am.”
“We’re just obeying orders.”
“Of course you are.” Hollis’s mother slapped her hands against her knees and rose to her feet. “But I see the rest of you haven’t touched your tea. How rude, to make poor Steward Bailey cart it here for nothing.”
It was then that Hollis noticed the tray, upon which rested three identical and untouched teas. What was going on? Why would his mother spend so much time entertaining Castor’s errand boys at such an hour?
“Wasn’t necessary,” said one of the burly men by the door.
The man’s barrel-chested partner rumbled in agreement. “Shouldn’t have bothered.”
Hollis’s mother hesitated for a moment, eyes fixed upon the door as if she were waiting for another guest to arrive. Then she threw up her hands in resignation. “Well, I suppose I’ll go attempt to lift his spirits. But I’m not waking the boys for this.”
The men looked at each other as if they were unsure of how to proceed. Hollis wondered if they’d forgotten whose name was on the ship. He stepped out into the sitting room.
“It’s okay, I’ll go with you. Let Rob sleep.” He was already anticipating the look on Castor’s face, crippled by stomach pains, his orders almost—but not quite—obeyed.
“Morning, Hollis.” His mother smiled.
“Is it?” He locked his fingers together and stretched his arms above his head.
“Half past four.”
“Ungodly.”
It occurred to him that an even more satisfying facial expression might be derived from Castor’s orders being completely ignored. He could try and talk his mother out of going altogether. But then he wouldn’t be able to see his stepfather’s face, which was the whole point. He decided to stall while he figured out how best to play his hand.
“What’s this about liver pâté?”
“It’s rendered your stepfather’s bowels inoperable, apparently.” She cast a quizzical eye at the man draining his teacup. “Or have they become too operable?”
Flustered, the man placed the cup and saucer carefully on the table. “Much obliged for the refreshment.”
A hurried knock on the door proved to be a formality, since it swung right open. Hollis recognized the dim shape of Steward Bailey, a modest crewman with whisper-smooth movements, well suited
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