I had four dreams in a row where you were burned, about to burn, or still on fire.
—Straw House, Straw Dog, Richard Siken
For everyone who thought they couldn’t go on, and did.
"I don't trust him, Diablo."
Wynn's voice was soft, a whispered secret against the engine of the ship, the quiet nickering of the horses. Mila moved through the ocean liner's stable, the sawdust-strewn paths lit only by the flicker of low-turned gaslight. A bay mare stamped her hoof lazily, once, twice, her dark eyes large under feathery lashes as Mila passed.
"He has cold eyes."
Wynn's voice was closer now, and Mila heard Diablo's low whinny. He'd caught her scent.
"Wynn, Mother will kill you for this," Mila said as she rounded the corner.
Wynn bolted up from Diablo's glossy back, her small hands pushing off his withers. Mila was the only one who could ride Diablo, but Wynn was the only one who could fall asleep on him, her face tucked against his powerful neck, hands dangling down his ebony flanks. She'd sleep like a tired puppy and Diablo would wear her like a saddle, her black hair—just like their father's—almost invisible against the stallion, her white skin and red lips like a splash of stark paint against his hide.
Wynn's dark eyes stared at Mila a moment, then her face flashed with the look of haughty command she'd learned from their mother, shifting from a twelve-year-old child to a duchess in training. "She's asleep," she said, tossing her long hair back. She stroked Diablo's mane and he nickered softly. Mila sighed and gently scrubbed the horse's muzzle. His fine hairs were like velvet and her heart eased a little from the comfort of it.
"And we'd better return while that's still true," Mila said.
Wynn bit her lip. "I want to go back to Venice."
"And I want Father to return! I want to see him once more without the madness of opium in his eyes," Mila said, her voice flashing out amongst the sleepy stalls. Diablo's long ears trembled at her tone and a dappled grey kicked the boards of the neighboring stall. Wynn's eyes slid down, childlike once more.
Mila sighed again.
"I'm sorry," she said, touching her sister's arm.
"He scares me," Wynn said with a frown.
Mila knew she wasn't speaking of their supposedly deceased father.
"We have to adapt," Mila said. "Mother will marry him. We can't change that."
"That's easy for you to say." Wynn's fingers clenched in Diablo's mane. "You're seventeen. You can marry soon, escape him."
"I'm not going anywhere without you." Mila grasped Wynn's fingers tight.
Wynn's sharp jaw tightened. "You promise?"
"I promise," Mila whispered, leaning her forehead against Diablo's side. His breathing was slow and steady, and she wished she could leap astride him, Wynn's arms tight around her, press her heels into his flank, and ride for the ends of the earth. "We have to get back."
Wynn sighed and slid down from Diablo, landing with a little whoof in the wood shavings that lined the floor. Diablo shifted, restless.
"We'll be there soon," Mila crooned to him. "Tomorrow, you'll be free again. We'll ride for hours."
He nosed at her face gently, and her blonde hairs stuck to his nostrils. Mila smiled and pulled away as he snorted, his breath a warm puff of air against her cheek.
"Come on," she said to Wynn.
They made their way through the stables, the endless rocking of the sea almost undetectable beneath their feet. One of the stable hands smiled as they passed, his sandy hair escaping in messy tufts from beneath his striped cap. Mila smiled back at the boy. He was lean and tall with a strong face and stronger hands, and she knew she'd take a sweaty boy covered in dirt over a fine-suited gentleman with cold eyes any day.
They passed into the echoing crew passageway, up a narrow metal stair, and out into the plush carpet and walnut-paneled walls of the SS Majestic. It was after midnight and the grand halls and salons were quiet now, just the occasional scotch-swilling gentleman playing cards and trading cigar puffs with the other wealthy specimens of his kind.
Their gazes slid over her and she knew what they saw: a tall blonde with eyes too bold to be ladylike. She saw the way their brows darkened at the sight of two girls wandering the ship unescorted at this late hour. She stared back at them, one hand tight on Wynn's narrow shoulder.
I've as much right to be here as you.
She knew her mother would not agree.
They ascended the grand staircase, the leather soles of their shoes clacking on the polished marble, then passed through the long corridor that led to their staterooms. The red carpet was thick underfoot, and the gaslight gleamed against the dark wood paneling and golden sconces.
Mila put a finger to her lips and Wynn nodded. The black door eased open under her hand and they slipped into the sitting room. Only a single lamp was lit, and the gas flame cast moving shapes against the wall's elaborate wood inlay. Wynn ambled to the small bar in the corner and poured a glass of water from the heavy crystal pitcher. Mila moved to turn the gas down.
"Have you been out?"
Mila turned with a quick indrawn breath. Their mother stood in the doorway of her stateroom, long blonde hair loose against her shoulder, her sweeping satin nightgown dark red against her pale skin. Wynn stood frozen in the corner behind Ada Kenton, still unseen.
"I couldn't sleep," Mila said, her voice calm.
Ada's sharp eyes swept her daughter's unkempt state—the hasty upsweep of her blonde hair, the uneven knot of her sash, the sawdust clinging to the bottom inch of her blue satin gown.
"I went down to check on Diablo."
This moved her mother forward. Wynn gave Mila an anguished look and slipped behind their mother's distracted form, disappearing into the bedroom she and Mila shared.
Ada Kenton slapped her daughter.
"You're not even wearing a corset. My God, what must people think?"
Wynn was safe in their bedroom, and Mila felt the relief stronger than the blow to her left cheek.
I don't care what they think.
"I am about to marry the wealthiest man in all of Canada, and you will not bring shame to me," Ada hissed.
No, you do that all on your own.
"Your father tried to disgrace me with his weakness and filthy habits"—Ada's mouth twisted—"and it took all of your grandfather's connections to clean up that mess—"
"You had him declared dead!" Mila yelled, unable to stop herself, unable to stop the tears that formed in the corners of her eyes.
"He is dead," Ada said, stepping within an inch of Mila, her chest heaving, cheeks flaming with color. "Dead in every sense of what it means to be a man in good society. Now, if you bring so much as a hint of your father's bad character to reflect on this family, I will send you to a convent. And I'll have that horse sold for glue."
"Yes, Mother," Mila said, her voice under tight control once more.
Ada turned and swept back to her bedroom, slamming the door. Mila quickly smoothed the breath that shuddered up her throat, turning to the mirror beside the lamp. A red handprint flared against her pale skin, but she knew from experience it would be gone by morning. She stared at herself, wishing the messy softness of her insides were as sharp and steady as the face that gazed back at her.
She looked like someone who had learned the trick of turning pain to ice.
She took the pins from her hair and let the long blonde strands fall around her shoulders as she walked to the bedroom. The room was dark, but she could hear Wynn's breathing, fast and heated.
"I'm sorry," Wynn whispered.
"It's all right," Mila said, letting her gown fall in a heap on the floor. "I shouldn't have mentioned Father—that was stupid." She pulled on the nightgown she'd discarded earlier that night and slipped into the cool sheets.
There was silence, then: "Can I sleep with you?"
Mila opened her sheets in answer.
Wynn fidgeted for a few minutes, searching for just the right angle against her sister, then finally stilled with her head tucked tight against Mila's collarbone.
"Is Father really dead?" Wynn asked very quietly.
"I don't know," Mila said. "I guess it doesn't matter. He's gone, and now we are too."
