The Book of the Seven Delights (2 page)

As it happened, there were three containers of T. Thaddeus's things: a trunk of lecture notes, maps, correspondence, and journals; a barrel filled with reference books on classical antiquities; and a pasteboard carton of memorabilia: faded tassels, silk cording, a weathered wineskin, a pair of brocade Persian slippers, and yellowed photographs of tents, camels, and sand dunes.

"What did you study, Professor?" she muttered, removing the leather-bound journals from the trunk and thumbing through the pages of the one on top. She froze. It appeared to be written in Greek.
Classical
Greek. Inside the front cover she found in somewhat faded ink: "The journals of T. Thaddeus Chilton, Ph. D., assistant professor of Classical Studies, Oxford University… the search begun in the year A.D.

1849."

A search? Almost fifty years had passed since those journals were begun. Had the old fellow been on a single scholarly quest throughout his entire career?

On the first few pages of the first journal she found her answer and fell a little in love with old T.

Thaddeus. He was a man after her own heart. It seemed he had spent his entire working life looking for a
library
.

"Seasickness," world traveler Maude Cummings had said in her best-selling book
A Female Adventurer
Abroad, "is very much a state of mind. "

Abigail gripped the edges of her narrow bunk aboard the storm-battered
Star of Persia
—and fought the urge to hurl herself across the cabin to the chamber pot once again. Clearly, Maude Cummings was full of horse manure. Abigail couldn't remember ever being this miserable. Her stomach roiled and heaved—standing, sitting, or lying, it was all the same—she felt like her body was turning itself inside out.

The
Star
was a steel-hulled freighter with double smokestacks and deep cargo holds covered by a quarter acre of weathered decking… built for the quick and efficient transport of goods and materials—not passengers. The
Star
did, however, have half a dozen cabins that could be booked by persons in need of conveyance. And since the renowned Maude had stated with such authority that the best value for one's money when it came to sea travel was to be had on a freighter, and since Abigail was paying for her passage from her modest inheritance from her mother, she had felt no qualms about booking an economical cabin on the
Star of Persia
.

Thank you so very much. Maude. May you be seized by a violent case of the scours while riding
on the back of a camel somewhere.

But in fairness, Maude Cummings had stated that her advice was based on the fact that freighters sailed to places that ocean liners and cruising ships did not: far-flung ports of call favored by adventurers. And Abigail was not exactly an adventurer.

Her earlier Atlantic crossing—Boston to Bristol—five months ago, had been on an ocean liner filled with staterooms and salons and a surprisingly well-stocked library. It had been a most agreeable crossing; no gales or unsettling incidents. She had decided, on seeing the way other lady travelers spent days in their cabins "indisposed," that she must be something of sailor.

She was rethinking that conclusion.

Torrents of rain beat at the porthole that was her only source of light and the ship gave a shuddering roll and bucked sharply, throwing her against the side of the bunk and smacking her head on one of the metal flanges that ribbed the seaward wall of the cabin. Dazed, she lay for a moment, disoriented, seeing flashes of the last few months swirling like a kaleidoscope in her head.

The ship from Boston…
Travel, the 900's, Geography and History
… the British Museum…

Museums, the 000's, Generalities
… her employment interview with the irksome Jonas Pratt…

Abnormal Character Development, the 100's, Psychology
… weeks spent in the dark basement of the museum, sorting and cataloging things no one would ever read… the
Emancipation of Slaves, the
320's, Social Sciences
…

The ship pitched violently, tipping her from the bunk, sending her sliding across the tilted floor toward the cabin door. Unfortunately she wasn't the only thing sailing across the cabin; her open trunk was headed her direction and picking up steam.

As she braced for impact, all movement around her—cabin, trunk, and contents—abruptly stopped.

The ship hung suspended, motionless for a moment, then seemed to drop a long way and landed with a thunderous splash. The trunk toppled over, and one of the straps on the open front snapped open and books and documents came pouring out. Then the
Star
rolled back toward level and her trunk slid back toward its original position, spewing papers along the way. An overturned pitcher on the nearby table came rolling toward the edge, slinging water in a wild arc.

"Aghhh!" She scrambled across a carpet of strewn documents in time to snatch several of them out of the water's path. Teetering on hands and knees, struggling to swallow her stomach back into place, she lost her balance and fell over into the spreading puddle.

It took a moment for her to realize that the danger to her precious maps and journals was past; she and her nightdress were soaking up most of the water. She issued a miserable 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, vite
!"

"Ohhh. Not Englishman, English m'am."

The little Berber pointed at the unconscious woman and thrust Apollo by the arm into the open doorway. Apollo didn't resist at first; he was torn between scrutinizing whatever catastrophe had taken place in the cabin and averting his eyes and nose. Then the steward's demand dawned on him.

"Ohhh, no."

Haffe scuttled around behind him, jammed a shoulder into his back, and braced both feet against the opposite passage wall, pushing with all his might. Apollo caught the sides of the door frame and held on for dear life.

"Sympathies, old man. It's a mess. But it's
your
mess." Then he looked back at the woman on the floor and recalled an even better reason for not getting involved.

"She's the one who kept banging on the wall that first night. I could barely hear the bets. Lost the fattest pot of the night thanks to her."

He pivoted, deflecting Haffe's force and sending him sprawling in the passage. But Haffe quickly recovered and darted around Apollo to make a stand between him and the bunk that was calling his name. Through the throbbing in his head, he made out the words "English," "lady," and "infidel."

It was suddenly all too clear. As a good steward, Haffe felt responsible for the woman's welfare. But as a good Muslim and an even better Berber, he could not bring himself to handle an infidel female, even a sick one.

"
Assistez
, Smeeth." Haffe was gray with desperation. "
Pleeeease
."

Apollo squeezed his eyes shut and fought a growing urge to retch himself.
Steady on
.

"Where's her husband? Let
him
help you."

More linguistically mixed exclamations and ejaculations, of which only one was understandable to him:

"no man."

"Figures. Who'd marry a chit who pounds the walls during poker games?"

He turned back to the woman's cabin and stood for a moment weighing the situation. They were still the better part of a week out of Casablanca and she was clearly in bad straights. Left untended, she could die before they reached port. He might be a lot of less-than-sterling things, but he was not the sort to stand by and let a woman die without raising a finger to help. Muttering a few choice oaths, he sucked a deep breath and ducked into the woman's cabin.

"Get me a couple of blankets," he ordered Haffe, and knelt to pick her up.

"
Merci
, Smeeth!" Haffe began to rip blankets from her bunk. "May all your wives be gloriously fat!"

The distant voices of crewmen wafting up from the cargo deck awakened Abigail. She grew steadily more aware of her surroundings; the roar of the storm and the groans and shudders of the sea-battered ship had subsided, and monstrously fierce light was stabbing straight through her eyelids. She squeezed her eyes tighter shut, but something prevented her from turning away.

After preparing herself for the onslaught of light, she pried her eyes open enough to see that she was on the deck of the
Star
, wrapped in a restrictive cocoon of blankets and propped in a chair like the one in her cabin.

She had no idea how she'd gotten wrapped up like a mummy, why she was on deck, or what was wound so tightly around her head and under her jaw.

Opening her eyes wider, she took in the metal railing, the weathered wooden decking, and the rusted metal stairs nearby and realized she was on the narrow upper deck. Looking up she found she was wearing her own straw sun hat, tied firmly around her head with—good Lord—with her own stockings!

With concentrated effort, she was able to slide one of her arms up under the blankets to her face.

Rubbing her eyes turned out to be a bad idea; they burned as if she were grinding salt into them. She groaned and a deep male voice from nearby startled her.

"Don't do that. Here. Open up."

She squinted and made out a hazy human outline moving between her and the fierce sun. Coming toward her was a cup of something dark and smelly. The man holding the cup didn't give her a choice about drinking or much of a chance to swallow; he just kept pouring the lukewarm liquid in a steady stream between her parched lips and down her ravaged throat. She gulped and gurgled and finally drew air enough to protest.

"You're drowning me," she croaked out.

"It's good for you," came masculine tones with a pronounced English accent. "You need liquids." He sighed with exasperation when she fended off the cup a second time. "That is, assuming you aren't one of those females who make a career out of hovering on the edge of oblivion."

He lowered his face toward hers and she could finally make out that there was a black leather patch over one of his eyes. The sight caused her to gasp, and her parched palate rattled so that she emitted a resounding snort. He winced at the sound and she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.