The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl (25 page)

“Let’s go on deck, Outil.”

***

As they stood in the open wind watching the dark earth fly beneath them, Marguerite shoved her hands deeper into the scratchy pockets of the borrowed coat. She let her fingers caress the cool brass of the small cricket, the only possession she had left. The land was growing thicker and the sea had dissolved into small patches of lakes and rivers below. They would be in Montreal before sunset. Despite the hood and tie of the coat, the wind whipped stray pieces of hair into her eyes. She wished desperately that she’d grabbed her goggles before leaving the escape boat, but she had been thinking only of Vivienne. The goggles were a small loss compared to the death of her friend.

There were so many things she wished she’d done differently.

A bot approached them as they felt the slick metal deck slope slightly to the bow. He spoke quickly over the wind. “We’ll be landing in Montreal soon. It is recommended that you go below deck to the observation room.”

“Thank you,” Outil boomed, before taking Marguerite carefully by her good arm and leading her to the stairwell where she added more quietly, “It’s almost done, m’lady.”

Below deck the warm air surrounded them like blankets. Marguerite shed the coat and hung it back on the hook by the stairwell for the next adventurer to use. She kept the cricket firmly in her hand and plunged both deep into the pocket of her flight suit.

They made their way to the observation room at the bow of the ship, all the while feeling the elevation drop steadily. There were a few chairs set out, mostly filled with women wearing similar suits, some still in their less-tattered dresses. A few bots milled around, offering assistance and food.

“M’lady, you should probably have a bit of tea or toast. Your body needs fluids and nourishment.” Outil put her hand gently on Marguerite’s shoulder.

“I suppose I could drink some tea,” she admitted.

“I’ll fetch it right away.” Outil reminded Marguerite of one of the manor dogs back home, quickly bounding off to fetch a stick she’d thrown for them. What would she have done without this bot? She pondered all the amazing things Outil had done for her over the past week as she found a seat and watched the city loom nearer.

The glass had been tinted to block out the brightest rays of the setting sun. Still, golden arms stretched from the horizon straight at them, embracing their slow approach. Marguerite gazed in wonder at the beauty of it all, but felt her heart drop as she thought about Vivienne never seeing this amazing place.

The St. Lawrence River danced and sparkled in front of brick buildings like a rich necklace laid out on the land. Pillars of steam rose into the sky from a patchwork of rooftops and trees. Marguerite could only guess which were factories and which were workhouses. It was like a bustling mini-Paris. Her nerves began to calm a bit at the familiarity of it all. She imagined the last ounces of energy being pulled from every bot and human in the city before night fell, the steam rising up from the efforts of their diligence.

A hand alighted on her shoulder, and she turned expecting to accept tea from Outil, but instead came face to face with Jacques. He had crouched down beside her and began to say something in a low tone. She turned back to the amazing scene before her and imagined herself alone, flying like a bird to land in one of the bell towers of one of the many little churches she could make out now.

“Marguerite?” He sounded kind, but insistent. “Did you hear me?”

She did not look at him, but only squeezed the cricket harder. “I’m sorry, no.”

“I asked if you would like help making arrangements with immigration and”—he paused—“Vivienne.”

She kept her face straight ahead. “No, thank you. Outil and I will manage.”

“Marguerite,” he nearly whispered, “look at me. Don’t be foolish. What’s the matter?”

She turned quickly and caught him with her cold blue eyes. “I know I am a fool, sir. I do not need you to remind me.”

Outil stepped in. “Your tea, miss?”

Jacques stood. “Excuse me, Outil.” He took a few steps back while Outil handed Marguerite her cup. He looked like he wanted to say more, but by then many eyes had turned from the spectacular view of the city to the captain of the now-lost Triumph and the woman who was rumored to be his mistress.

A circus of people and machines was waiting for them as they deplaned in Montreal. The docks were alive with newspaper reporters carrying the latest in photographic equipment. Flashes of light and smoke were exploding all around them while officials tried to sort the mess out.

Marguerite held Outil’s arm firmly as their lift touched down on the wooden planks. While small, Montreal was a modern city. Glancing around her, Marguerite could see that the clothing was probably not as fine as back home, but some of the automated carts and bots were as fine as any her father owned.

Another military ship docked just after them. It had been collecting survivors farther out in the wide seas. The whole town seemed to be alight with the excitement of it all. Marguerite was just glad to know that more ships had found more people besides the handful on her vessel.

Marguerite and Outil rode a large cargo lift with a sailor and two other girls. She felt like they were descending into the middle of an ant pile. Anxiety started to creep into her throat and her chest tightened. When they alighted on the deck the sailor and several other military officers helped push them through the crowds as reporters called out questions and quick-draw artists furiously scrawled sketches in notebooks as they passed. News had spread quickly of the pirate battle and the loss of France’s newest airship. Everyone wanted to know how they felt, how they survived and most of all—their names.

Marguerite thought of all the loved ones waiting back home to hear if their daughters had survived; she thought of Vivienne’s parents receiving the telegram, but she quickly pushed those thoughts aside as she pushed her way through the crowd after the sailor.

A group of nuns was standing at the back of the throng, their hands demurely folded and their eyes bright with searching. As she approached, one of the portly little ladies reached out and pulled Marguerite into a warm embrace.

“You’re safe now, dear, come with us.”

It was not an unwelcome gesture.

The commoners obviously respected the clergy here in New France. They immediately parted and let the women in black and white robes pass through with their charges. A few stayed back to wait for the girls aboard the latter rescue ship, but as Marguerite followed her hostess she heard a cry go up from the crowds once again. She turned to see what the commotion was.

Jacques was descending in the lift now, along with two armed guards and two bots. He appeared to be shackled. People were frantically crying out all kinds of questions. Her heart raced for a moment as she wondered what had happened, but she remembered his last words, about how foolish she was, and turned her head back to the path the nun was leading her down. Her free hand found its way back to the little cricket in her pocket.

The convent was warm and smelled of cinnamon. The nuns were all very compassionate. They had already been informed of Marguerite’s loss and had prepared welcome quarters for her and Outil to rest in. An official was on hand from the town coroner’s office. Word had already been sent to Vivienne’s family. They should know by now about the loss of their daughter.

Marguerite felt relieved, but wondered at the fact that there was nothing for her to do. Everything had been arranged and it seemed to be a matter of just waiting.

Waiting for what? She found herself pondering this again and again as they walked her through the passages and explained the life she would be living in New France. How had she come to be in a tiny bed in a convent wearing a flight suit and speaking in hushed tones to nuns?

“What would you like to do now, my dear?” asked one of the elderly ladies cautiously approaching what would be her room.

That seemed to be a fine question. What did she want to do?

She sat heavily on the bed. Her arm and shoulder ached. She hadn’t noticed it with all that had been going on, but now it was distinct and distracting. She looked out the little window, then down at her lap where the cricket lay. Suddenly her purpose came back to her.

“I need to find Claude.”

“Claude?” The elderly woman seemed puzzled.

“Yes, Claude Vadnay. He’s a soldier. He would have come here two weeks ago. I need to find him.”

“Oh!” The nun nodded. “Of course! Yes, we’ll help you find him first thing in the morning, but I meant what would you like to do tonight. Are you ready for some dinner or would you like to be left alone to sleep?”

How silly, of course that’s what she meant. Thinking of Claude filled her heart with the slightest bit of warmth and she felt she could eat. She slipped the cricket in her pocket and agreed to go to the dining hall.

Outil started to follow her. “No, Outil, stay here and recharge for a bit. I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure, m’lady?”

“Yes, quite.” She took a step into the hallway then turned back. “And Outil?”

“Yes, miss?”

“Thank you.”

The hearty meal did her much good. She was given a bath and clean nightclothes more suited for a lady and clean dressings for her swollen and bloody mess of an arm.

“I suppose you won’t mind me throwing these things out?” a younger nun asked while gingerly holding her flight suit aloft.

“Actually, I’d rather like to keep it.” Marguerite’s reply took the woman by surprise.

“Whatever for, dear?”

“I found it quite useful, actually.” Marguerite felt silly giving this reply, but it was the truth. “I imagine it might come in handy here in New France.”

“Suit yourself, love!” The woman chuckled. “I’ll have it washed for you at least.” She turned her nose up at the blood stains in the sleeve.

“Thank you.” Then Marguerite added, “My friend, who died … ” She paused again, hardly believing she was saying the words. “Do you know where they took her body?”

The woman’s face was soft and understanding. “She’s right here, love, in the preparatory rooms. Once we hear from her family they will decide what to do with the poor child. We’ve a place for her here in the yard, but we have to know from her family what they’d like to do.”

Even though Marguerite felt incredible guilt over Vivienne’s death, the thought that her parents could summon Vivienne back to that home she despised, even in death, twisted her gut. There was nothing she could do now, however. She just prayed they didn’t trump up any kidnapping charges against her.

She thanked the nun and stood, rubbing her arm and wincing.

“Does it trouble you a great deal?” The little woman had a soft face and kind features.

“Yes.” Marguerite felt safe admitting this. “It hurts more now than before, I’m afraid.”

“I have something for that. Just a moment.” She bustled away, her skirts rustling like a deer in a thicket, and returned with a small bottle of brown liquid. “Take this just after you lie down. It will ease the pain and help you sleep, although you might be a bit fuzzy-headed in the morning.”

Fuzzy-headed sounded wonderful to Marguerite at the moment. She thanked the smiling nun again and returned to her room.

Outil was powered down in the corner but came to life as soon as Marguerite sat on the bed.

“How are you, miss?”

“Just fine. I have girl clothes, medicine, and a full belly. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight then,” said Outil.

Marguerite threw the bottle back in one long gulp that burned her throat and mouth. She gasped a bit and coughed, then set it on the night table and curled up under her covers, her whole body quickly losing feeling and seeming to float away. She wondered if the nun wasn’t perhaps a fairy who’d given her a magic potion that would make all the bad go away like a nightmare. She’d read stories like that as a girl. Maybe if she could just sleep she would wake up back at home.

Marguerite did, in fact, sleep solidly until light streamed in her window and landed squarely on her pillow. She felt heavy and thick as she tried to roll over and blink open her eyes. The unfamiliar gray stone walls puzzled her at first. The bed was so hard, and too small, the table with the cricket and medicine bottle so tiny and rough. Her head was swimming in a pool of questions. Slowly, reality came floating to the surface.