“Lucien, my love —”
“Pardon me,” he said. He walked unsteadily to the leeward rail and was sick over the side.
“The ship hasn’t even raised anchor!” Marie-Josèphe said. She brought him some water. He did not drink, but splashed it on his face.
The anchor cable groaned around the capstan. The sails fell open; the wind whipped them taut.
“It has now,” Lucien said, and leaned over the side again.
“My poor friend,” she said. “You’ll feel better soon.”
“No, I won’t,” Lucien said. The ship rolled a few degrees. He groaned. “I wish I were on the battlefield... in the rain... unhorsed... without my sword. I wish His Majesty had left me in the Bastille.”
“How can you say that!”
“Do me the kindness,” he said, “of leaving me alone.”
On the rough crossing from Martinique, many of Marie-Josèphe’s fellow passengers had been seasick, but none with the marvelous sensitivity of Lucien. The galleon sailed through calm coastal waters with barely enough breeze to make headway, but Lucien’s illness intensified. Marie-Josèphe worried as much about him as she worried about Sherzad. The King showed no sympathy for either of them. Even when the ship sat pitching and yawing at anchor all day while the skiff searched for Sherzad’s rocks, Louis showed no impatience. Marie-Josèphe became convinced that he found malicious enjoyment in stripping Lucien of his position and his blue coat and subjecting him to misery.
She tried, unsuccessfully, to coax Sherzad to eat a fish; she tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade Lucien to drink some broth.
The captain came to her under her canopy. He bowed.
“My respects, mamselle, and His Majesty demands your presence.”
In the King’s luxurious cabin, Marie-Josèphe curtsied.
“Where is this treasure you promised me?” he said.
She fancied that the King felt sick because of the ship’s slow erratic dance, and she felt glad of it.
“Your Majesty, Sherzad can’t see the ocean from the deck. Please free her. If she can hear the ocean properly, she’ll lead me to the right cove.”
“I will see,” His Majesty said.
Sometimes he meant it, but all too often he meant to refuse but did not care to say it. It was pointless to try to change his mind. Marie-Josèphe curtsied again. The King turned away, dismissing her.
“Your Majesty,” she said, pausing in the hatchway. “M. de Chrétien’s of no use to you here. Put him ashore, send him back to Versailles —”
“Where he has too many friends!” His Majesty exclaimed. “He’ll stay here, in my sight, until you find the treasure.”
Marie-Josèphe fled. She understood: His Majesty held Lucien hostage to illness on the flagship, he held Yves hostage under guard at the chateau, until Marie-Josèphe succeeded and the King returned safe to his court.
On deck, she bathed Lucien’s face with a wet cloth.
“I don’t like you to see me this way,” he said.
“You saw me after the surgeon bled me,” Marie-Josèphe said. “If I only stand with you during good times, what kind of a friend would I be?”
He managed to smile. “You’re a friend without boundaries.”
“And without limits,” she said. She took his hand. As yet, they had done no more than touch each other’s hands. She wondered what would happen when they could do more.
My heart can hardly beat faster, she thought.
“Are you otherwise recovered?” she asked. “From your extraordinary situation?”
“There’s something to be said for sea-sickness.”
“What’s that?”
“It takes one’s mind off one’s other misfortunes.”
His Majesty’s guards approached Sherzad’s basin. One carried a musket, another a club. Sailors followed with a net and a coil of rope.
Marie-Josèphe leaped up. “What are you doing? She enjoys His Majesty’s protection!”
“It’s His Majesty gave the orders, mamselle,” the lieutenant said. “Stay back, now.”
“Are you freeing her?” Marie-Josèphe cried, amazed, overwhelmed. “You needn’t threaten her.” She sang to Sherzad, joyously, a simple child’s song. “Lie quiet, Sherzad, as you did when they freed you into the Grand Canal. The King is keeping his word!”
Sherzad obeyed restlessly. The sailors loosened the net and used it as a sling. Sherzad’s hair was dull and tangled, her eyes sunken, the swellings on her face deflated and venous. Pallor greyed her mahogany skin; her wounds were red and swollen.
Marie-Josèphe followed Sherzad. The sailors carried her to the bow. Sherzad growled and hummed and trembled.
“Farewell.” Farewell, she sang, her voice breaking.
Instead of opening the net, the sailors tightened it, holding Sherzad fast, pinioning her arms, restraining her clawed feet. Sherzad screamed. Marie-Josèphe cried out in protest and seized the net. The mesh ripped her skin.
A musketeer grabbed her and pulled her away, indifferent to her struggles. Dazed with illness and lack of sustenance, Lucien staggered to his feet and drew his sword. He tripped one of the guards with his cane and stumbled toward Marie-Josèphe.
The lieutenant aimed his pistol at Marie-Josèphe’s head.
“Surrender,” he said to Lucien.
Lucien stopped. He put down his useless sword and raised his hands. A sailor shoved him to the deck. Incredulous, Lucien tried to rise. A cutlass grazed his throat. Marie-Josèphe kicked the lieutenant’s knee. He cursed and flung her down. She crawled toward Sherzad, dizzy from the fall.
Lucien’s sword-cane rolled across the deck and bumped against Marie-Josèphe’s hand. She snatched it up and scrabbled to her feet, flailing around her with the sword. The musketeers backed away, laughing. She barely noticed the pistol aimed at her.
“Stop or he dies!” the lieutenant shouted.
A drop of blood flowed down Lucien’s neck, staining his white shirt.
Marie-Josèphe and Lucien were overpowered, outnumbered, each held hostage for the other’s safety.
Marie-Josèphe lowered the sword, defeated and betrayed. In a fury she jerked away when the musketeer took her arm. She could only watch as the sailors slung Sherzad between the arms of the golden figurehead and left her hanging beneath the bowsprit. The guards lowered musket and saber, and allowed Lucien to rise.