All this wind will travel somewhere
Far away perhaps to blow your
Hair aside to reveal your eyes,
Green as the purest rock moss.
-The Lonely Forest-
Chapter 2
"If you'd stop wriggling so much, it would be easier for me to put it in," William said, his voice tense with exasperation.
"Well, it hurts!" Elizabeth whined.
“Once it's in, it won't hurt so much. And darling, if we don't finish this soon, we'll be late for dinner.”
“Fine, I just don't understand why it has to be so hard.” She sighed deeply in capitulation. “I'm ready for it. Do me.”
William chuckled, as he pinned the last strand of hair in place, completing her chignon. “You do approach getting your hair styled as something akin to being ravaged by a beast, love.”
“Monsters? Bring 'em on. They’re a breeze compared to hair torture. As if gloves and hats and those irritating buttons on shoes weren’t bad enough…”
She caught herself, and reached up to run her fingers gently down the back of his hand. “Not to be ungrateful. If I had eyes in the back of my head, I'm sure I'd tell you that it looks terrific, William. It's just that sometimes I miss ponytails.”
She stood up and smoothed out her skirts, smiling up at him.
“You're a vision, Elizabeth.” She was, but then, she always was. Tonight, however, she was resplendent - dressed in one of his favorites: the rose patterned gown. The skirt, not overly full, accented her tight bodice; the pink and red rosebud pattern highlighted by green leaves brought out her emerald eyes in the most enticing way.
“You're pretty dashing yourself, Mr. Pratt. I love you in this grey suit.” She reached around and pinched his ass, firmly. She was always full of surprises, his Elizabeth.
Brrrng....brrrng. Two short bursts from the bell atop their door startled them both.
Elizabeth laughed. “You know, when George told me the ship was electrified, I thought it meant we wouldn't have to mess around with oil lamps any longer. To have the bragging rights of 'electricity' and only use it for a system of bells just seems kind of silly.
“That's the second call to dinner.” He adjusted his ivory cravat before opening their cabin door. “I'm afraid we'll be amongst the last to arrive. Are you ready to depart, love?”
She nodded and stepped out into the hall; William closed the cabin door behind them and took her arm in his. Although they were well past the shores of Ireland, a thick evening fog had begun to reach tendrils up through the interior of the ship, shrouding the hallway in mist. The gentle rocking of the waves forced them to step cautiously as they made their way up the hallway toward the front of the ship and the sounds of people's voices.
The dining saloon ran the entire width of the bow end and glowed brightly, even through the thick mist. The last few stragglers were just slipping through the entrance when they approached the door. Elizabeth inhaled slightly and then let out her breath in a long, slow sigh.
“You'll do wonderfully.” He patted her arm comfortingly.
“Wonderfully-schmunderfully. I can say what I like around you or George, but the stuffed-shirt crowd intimidates the crap out of me. I'm constantly worried that I'm going to greet a person the wrong way, or poke a food item with the wrong fork.”
“As long as you don't greet the food and poke people with a fork, you'll do fine, Elizabeth. And I’m always proud of you. You know that,” he reassured.
She squeezed his arm tightly in response. “I'm still going to go with my usual battle plan of 'say little and keep my head down'.”
“You’ll charm them all. You’re certain to be the talk of the ship in no time.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she grumbled. “And when you say prophetic-sounding things like that, it gives me the willies.”
The head steward, a fussy blonde man with impressive mutton chops, greeted them with a deep bow. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Pratt.”
“How could you possibly know who we are?” Elizabeth blurted, incredulously, her battle plan for the evening momentarily forgotten.
“It's my duty to know all our passengers,” the head steward said, in a slightly affronted tone. “Please allow me to show you to your table.”
Elizabeth stepped in behind the steward, and William followed closely behind.
The dining saloon was quite magnificent, lined in mahogany panels and adorned with brass oil lamps. Coal burning fireplaces were set within marble mantles, giving off the illusion of a grand country home. They wove through luxuriously set tables, around which were seated resplendently dressed men and women, involved in animated conversation.. William could feel several sets of eyes upon them, curious and assessing.
The steward led them to a table toward the back of the room, near a large port-side window. As the other diners were already seated, William nodded a greeting and attempted to pull out Elizabeth's chair. When it remained cemented in place, a soft murmur of laughter rose from the table.
“They're bolted down,” a kind voice said. It belonged to a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties, seated to William's immediate right. He had dark curly hair and dark eyes surrounded by laugh lines. “The chairs quite fooled me as well.”
“I shall just have to manage sitting down all by myself,” Elizabeth said with a grin. “You said this would be an adventure, William, but I had no idea I'd need to learn so many new skills.”
The kind man laughed heartily. “I can see our late-to-arrive companions are going to make it worth our while. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Crowdner, and this is my wife, Jane,” he said, gesturing towards the petite blonde seated beside him.
“Pleased to meet you. William Pratt,” William said with a slight bow, “and this is my wife, Elizabeth. Please forgive our late arrival.”
Since the first course was in the process of being served, William and Elizabeth seated themselves hastily and made quick introductions to the other diners. Besides the Crowdners, there were two German couples traveling together: the Pollweins and the Sturcbechers. The Lovells, Daniel and Elizabeth, were seated immediately to Elizabeth's left. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, and easily ten years senior to his wife, who, with raven hair and white skin, had the appearance of a porcelain doll. The pair of them were quite over-dressed, more appropriate to having an audience with the Queen than dining on a steam ship. Probably Americans, William surmised.
As soon as they were seated, a waiter whisked the first course before them: a version of potage à la reine with a remarkably rich broth.
“It seems that Elizabeth Pratt shall ruin your plans, Dr. Crowdner,” Elizabeth Lovell said, giving the doctor a bright smile.
“I did what now?” Elizabeth Pratt asked, looking around the table in confusion.
Dr. Crowdner smiled at her reassuringly. “Mrs. Pratt, I had suggested that we do away with formalities. Since we’ll be dining together nightly, I’d thought it might do to use our Christian names,” he said in an upper-class English accent. “Hope isn’t lost, however. This problem could be solved most efficiently if either of you ladies had a nickname.”
“I've never had a nickname,” porcelain doll Elizabeth said softly, but stopping hard on her r's. Yes, they were most definitely Americans.
“I don't have a nickname you could use either,” Elizabeth Pratt said. “I was once called 'Bessie' for a short time, but I don't think that would work. It seems like a name for a cow, and I much prefer dining rooms to pastures.”
There was a moment of silence before Dr. Crowdner laughed heartily; he was quickly joined by several others. “Very well then. We shall name you numerically: Elizabeth the First and Elizabeth the Second.”
His Elizabeth grinned. “I take it that I'm 'the Second'?”
Dr. Crowdner raised his wine glass to her in a toast, “I'm afraid that's the penalty for being tardy to dinner, Mrs. Pratt. Second in line to the throne.” The ship bobbed a little more aggressively than usual, causing a splash of wine to escape his glass.
Once the introductions had been made and the Elizabeths sorted out, several of the diners began talking amongst themselves, the Germans proving to be quite conversant in English. Since the topic centered around the surprisingly fine quality of the meals thus far, the Pratts remained silent, as they had foregone lunch in favor an extended session of love-making.
The waiter soon replaced the soup with the next course, fried sole in tomato sauce. The ship pitched and yawed, providing the waiter with a challenge, yet he managed to leave the white tablecloth in pristine condition.
Jane Crowdner spoke up, saying in a soft and carefully modulated voice, “Mr. Pratt, you must tell us what brings you and your wife on a journey across the Atlantic.”
In between bites of fish, William gave the table a very brief biography of William and Elizabeth Pratt – leaving out such 'small details' as being cut off from his inheritance and the fact that he'd just wed his former maid. He concentrated, instead, upon the venture they were undertaking: their partnership in a California winery. The Crowdners seemed delighted by their similar circumstance, as they were leaving England so that Dr. Crowdner could join an established practice in Virginia.
When William caught his wife smiling he followed her gaze across the room to see George the porter. The lad was smartened up and wearing a waiter's uniform, serving at the far end of the saloon. Elizabeth’s hand rose of its own volition, ready to give him a friendly wave, when she caught herself and returned it to her lap.
She gave him a look which said, It would be so much easier to talk to George!.
Perhaps, but you’re doing splendidly, his eyes told her.
Dr. Crowdner interrupted their unspoken conversation with a burst of laughter. “William and Elizabeth the Second, you are a most perplexing pair. You have the look of a pair of doe-eyed honeymooners, and yet you communicate in the fashion of old marrieds. Which is it, the Second?”
Elizabeth beamed a grin towards the good doctor. “Could it be a little bit of both? We are newlyweds and yet, it quite seems as if I've known him for over a hundred years.”
Elizabeth the First graced them with a smile. “Oh, Daniel and I are just returning from our own honeymoon. Three months in Italy and France. You must tell me all about your wedding. I'm certain that it was terribly grand.”
“Oh, it was a very small affair,” the Second said, as she concentrated upon pushing bits of fish around her plate. “Not much to tell, really.”
“What about your gown? I must know details,” the First enthused, continuing to press.
“Oh, it was...you know, white. And it had these sleeves which poofed,” his Elizabeth said vaguely. Her dress had been purchased ready-made, and although William thought her a vision in it, he was perfectly aware of what others would think of such a gown.
Elizabeth the First had a very dissatisfied expression on her face. Sensing that she was being terribly disappointing, his Elizabeth changed course and turned the tables on her interrogator. “Why don't you tell me about your gown, instead?”
The First was quite happy to comply and launched into an intimate description of her wedding gown. By the time the waiter had replaced the course with braised ham, she was still carrying on about the dress, clearly building up to her pièce de résistance. “And the designer was Charles Frederick Worth,” she announced.
Elizabeth smiled politely. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Worth,” the First said it again, because it clearly hadn't had the desired impact the first time around. “The premier fashion designer. He designs for Sarah Bernhardt. I was terrified that he wouldn't be able to work my gown into his schedule. His normal waiting list takes eighteen months.”
“It's great that he had room for you on his abnormal list then,” Elizabeth the Second said, as she took a sip of water and cast a 'help me' glance at William.
There was an uncomfortable lull in the conversation and the ship dipped on another particularly aggressive wave, causing water to splash from the goblets. William had hoped desperately that the First would lose interest in his poor wife, but the American kept looking toward the pair of them and smiling politely.
“Oh, is that your wedding ring?” the First asked, gesturing toward his wife's hand.
“Yes.”
“A small sapphire. How very...unusual. Such a frugal husband would be a most practical match, I'm sure,” the First soothed.
“Oh, I assure you, he's most generous in all the ways that a new bride would want a husband to be,” his wife reassured, nodding most emphatically.
Elizabeth the First sat in stunned silence, her jaw falling open in a manner that rather made her resemble a sea bass.
With the American Elizabeth effectively stunned into silence, his wife would be able to dine, at least. He noticed, however, that she still only managed to push food around on her plate. Her color was off as well; she appeared paler than usual and kept stealing worried glances at William through lowered lashes.
“Are you quite feeling all right, love?” William murmured to her, while the rest of the table was distracted by the waiter, who was clearing the table to make way for the next course.
“Fine, William. I'll be fine.”
But her pale complexion said otherwise and he didn't believe her for an instant.
~*~
Down in the aft cargo hold, the creature waited (hungry like sharp knives in the gullet). Curled up on her side on the floor, looking into blackest nothing (and waiting, waiting).
She had company, dark little friends lined up on the floor of her crate. She could feel them in the dark - one, two, three and four, pretty maids all in a row. They were quiet now, but then, they were always quiet before the Shining Man appeared. He demanded silence from the lot of them and they were good little girls all.
She drew her knees in, holding them tightly to her stomach (and the aching throat, so thirsty). The Shining Man would come because the Shining Man would not lie. He'd told her of the box, hadn't he? He’d shown her a vision of the world that was to be; the world of dark delights which he could help her fashion. And so she did what he said; she pushed the hunger down back her throat and waited for him (won’t say a word).
When she first saw the glimmer of light, she thought it was a dream (pretty pictures but they don't take away the hunger), but then the light shimmered and waved before snapping into place with an audible POP!
He appeared as he always did – a shining bluish image (her celestial savior, her Shining Man) that wavered and flickered (and danced so prettily). The tall, dark-haired man in the hologram looked around the crate with an intense glare, before settling upon her location in the dark.
His lips cracked into a grin, as he leaned toward her and said, “Help me Obi Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.”
When she remained silent, the Shining Man stood up and rolled his eyes in disgust. “See – that joke would have killed back home. That's the problem with working with people from your generation. You don't get any of my references.”
She said nothing. (But the hunger it bites and burns)
“Oh, don't look at me that way. I know you're hungry. This isn't any picnic for me either, sister. But you know that bitch that sent me here?” The hologram shimmered; the Shining Man's voice a wave of pure rage. “The dirty little cunt that ruined everything? Well, it's time for her to get hers. And I can't, you know, do that and take care of your dining issues at the same time.”
The creature held back a whimper in response. But that wasn't good enough, not nearly good enough, and the Shining Man roared – his image growing as bright as his anger.
“Goddamned demanding females! Even in the afterlife, I can’t get away from your fucking, incessant nagging. Do you think I want to leave you hungry? Do you think I like exacting revenge?” He paused, settling a bit. “Well, actually, I do kind of like that last part. I like it a lot. But I can't be everywhere at the same time. The afterlife's floor isn't exactly littered with dilithium crystals and I can't have Scottie beaming me in and out of everywhere I need to be. Even my kind of power has its limits.”
(But soon. Please, soon. A feeding. The hunger.)
“Tomorrow. You'll be free from your crate by tomorrow.”
The creature looked at him, her eyes swimming with tears of gratitude. The Shining Man returned her gaze with cold, dead eyes.
“In the meantime, keep thinking positive. You're the main part of the plan, kiddo. Just have a little patience and try to stop nagging me!” He paused before adding “Ha, ha. Just kidding. You're great. You'll see. Tomorrow night, you'll get out of here and feed and we'll get on with the plan. You remember the plan, don't you?”
She nodded. Oh, she remembered. A future that was glorious and terrifying, enough to make the angels weep (and the pretty maids – crying lovely fat tears). Oh yes. That vision would be worth it, worth what she'd given up, worth the crate, worth the terrible unending hunger. Just one more night.
She lay back down on her side, holding back the tears, holding back the hunger. She could endure this. She could endure anything for the terrifying and beautiful future. Dizzy with the thought of it, she closed her eyes. And waited for tomorrow night (good girl, silent as the grave).
~*~
By the time the dessert course was served, the rolling of the ship had become so severe that even the seasoned waiters were having difficulty navigating the saloon.
The Adriatic rolled and yawed, causing the oil lamps to flicker and dim. Idle chitchat came to a halt, not just at their table, but all around the room, as the diners concentrated on keeping their plates and silverware on the table.
Elizabeth did not lift a fork to her plum tart, however. Her eyes were firmly trained on the far wall, her complexion the color of spoiled milk.
“Darling, are you feeling unwell?” William asked again.
“A little barfy,” she mumbled back. When he gave her a blank look, she clarified. “A little sea-sick, William. I think I’d better leave.”
William excused the pair of them from the table. It had rapidly become evident to all that Elizabeth the Second was in some distress and so their fellow diners said hasty farewells. As they made their way from the room, he could see that Elizabeth wasn't alone in being affected by the pitching of the ship. At least a dozen passengers were making their way toward the exit, all of them looking quite green around the gills.
Just as they reached the door, William felt a tapping on his shoulder. When he turned around, he was surprised to see George, wearing his usual expression of perpetual slight embarrassment.
“Sir?” George held out a napkin which had been neatly folded. “If it's not too forward of me, I noticed your missus wasn't feeling well. Ginger biscuits might be just the thing.”
William smiled at George, and placed the napkin in the pocket of his suit coat.
Elizabeth managed a weak smile. “Thank you, George. It's very thoughtful of you.”
“Not at all, ma'am. Also, it helps to keep your gaze fixed on the horizon, if you don't mind my saying so.” And with a quick bow, George turned and made his way back into the kitchen.
The moment they stepped out of the saloon, Elizabeth placed her hand up to her mouth, and spun sharply to her left, rushing toward the starboard promenade deck. Once she reached the iron rails, she leaned over the side and vomited. William followed closely behind, unsure of quite what to do. He could see several other seasick passengers some distance away suffering the same fate.
After a few moments, she turned around, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth. “Dramamine,” she muttered inexplicably, before turning around to lean over the rails again.
After a few more moments of retching, she quieted, but remained slouched over the side of the ship. He placed his hand on the back of her neck. “Better now?” he asked.
“I think so.”
He took her arm and they returned to the main hallway, the thick mist combined with the rocking of the ship to cause them to bump against the walls of the narrow passage. Glowing orbs of oil lamps dipped and danced with the rolling of the waves.
Once inside their cabin, she gave him a doleful smile. “At least I can’t throw up any more tonight. There’s nothing left.”
She went to the wash basin and ran the tap for a moment, before scooping up a small handful of water and rinsing out her mouth.
He was going to ask if she wished to go to bed, but before he could form the question, she’d already begun to undress. She was in a great hurry, as she left her dress on the floor where it fell and began to slip out of her underthings.
He turned and shrugged out of his jacket, laying his clothes out on his trunk. When he was nearly undressed, he looked to ask her a question regarding breakfast, but the thought flew immediately out of his head. She was sitting in the center of the bed, completely nude. Moonlight spilled in from the portal window splashing a bluish light upon her breasts, which rose and fell as she moved her arms, carefully undoing her hair. She was Aphrodite incarnate, his wife.
“Shit, stupid goddamn hair,” his goddess cursed, struggling with a hair pin. A grumpy and seasick deity, but his Aphrodite all the same.
He shed his remaining clothes as quickly as possible and didn’t bother with nightclothes as sleeping in the nude was their custom. By the time he'd joined her, she'd finished undressing her hair and had pulled back the covers for him.
As he lay beside her, she tucked her head beneath his chin. He wrapped his arms about her, tracing gentle circles on her back, the way she liked him to do whenever she was unwell or restless.
“I was going to bring you back here and seduce you,” she grumbled.
“You 'seduced' me before we even set sail, love. Twice.”
“Still, not much of a honeymoon when your wife gets all yacky on her first night at sea” Her voice was growing thick, as it did when she'd had too much wine or was especially sleepy. Wise husband that he was, he said nothing, and continued to soothe her back with gentle strokes.
Her breathing evened out in no time at all, her muscles growing slack as she fell into slumber.
Sleep didn't come for him quite so quickly; now that he was alone with his thoughts, the significance of the day's events began to settle down in his mind. He couldn't help but contemplate the life he was leaving behind and the life in California he was sailing toward.
His wife twitched next to him, lost in a dream.
“Fucking bugs,” she grumbled. His mysterious, amazing wife. He was quite used to her talking in her sleep. She'd done it since the first night they'd been together. Usually it was something from their shared past. Sometimes it was something from her far past – when she was Buffy and she knew him as Spike. And sometimes it was something else, entirely.
“Sears, where America shops,” she mumbled.
Apparently tonight her sleep talking was going to fall into the 'something else entirely' category.
As he began to drift off to sleep, he thought about the man he'd been a mere six months prior – before she'd burst into his life. He'd been living a milquetoast existence, a man afraid of life, afraid of love – and so lost in everyone else's expectations that he didn’t know who he was. Then she'd come along, burst into his life and torn down the walls. She’d shown him himself and remade the man.
He stroked her hair, feeling a wave of contentment wash over him.
She'd saved him from that life – the one he hadn’t known that he didn't want. She’d saved him from himself, and every day she continued to remake his world. Every night she saved him.
And with that thought, he fell into slumber – oblivious to anything else that his Elizabeth might say to him in her dreaming.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Much thanks to Lutamira, DoriansKitten and MsJane for beta'ing this for me!