2

November 14, 1916

It is possible to be surrounded by people...yet be also totally and utterly alone. Lislea O'Rourke knew that firsthand. Each day, she drifted through her duties like a wayward wrath, unseen, unknown, and unremarked upon...save for in the harshest of tones, and even then only by Nurse Forsythe. Lislea was accustomed to isolation, as she had known nothing but in her girlhood, but there were times when it weighed so heavy upon her breast that she could scarcely breathe. Nights, in her cabin on B-Deck, were the worst: Lying awake and staring into the darkness, no company but her own thoughts and no sound but the rushing hiss of absolute silence, she invariably returned to her failings, each one lined up and cast under light like artifacts in a museum.

In school, she was mediocre on her better days and downright incorrigible on her worst. Her father made bitter accusations that she did not apply herself, but she did - concentrating came difficult for her, and as she sat in the one room schoolhouse near her village, her mind wandered. Her teacher believed her a dullard and so, too, then did Father, adding to his already dim view of her.

At home, she was useless as a son and a daughter. She could not sew, knit, cook, or keep home well enough, nor could she carry out the hard manual labor required of men. She made earnest attempts at all of these, but they each ended in her somehow blundering. Her family was once wealthy, but before her birth their fortunes declined. Her father was titled and owned the estate, but was virtually penniless, and as such, they were stateless, accepted neither by the higher class nor by the lower. Lislea, therefore, had not so much as a friend growing up, none close, at least, though she was acquainted with some of the local girls. When she was fifteen, she was perused by the son of a cobbler - his hair was like summer wheat and his eyes the most dazzling shade of blue she had ever seen. She liked him very much, but her father did not approve, and it ended. Lislea did not allow herself to dwell on the matter, but sometimes, in the dead of night, unable to sleep, she did, and she bitterly resented her father for sending him away.

Days were easier to cope with just so long as they were busy. The first two days of Britannic's current voyage were abuzz with activity, keeping both her mind and her body occupied. Beds needed dressing, supply cabinets stocked, the surgical theater (once the first class dining room) washed, the main ward - a reception area under better circumstances - made ready, and the wards on the upper decks, all housed in the ship's public rooms, supplied. Lislea and three dozen other nurses bustled to and fro during the first days at sea, running, bending, lifting, carrying, and making a thousand beds all under the stern and watchful eye of Nurse Forsythe.

The old woman, beefy and stout with boring brown eyes and doughy flesh, stood by with her arms crossed as the nurses and orderlies under her charge worked, snapping and barking orders, insults, and derision for the smallest infraction...or, in some cases, no infraction at all. On the first day abroad, she came behind Lislea and yanked the clothes off a dozen beds in the infirmary off the promenade deck saying You dressed them wrong. Do it again. Lislea made them as neatly as she always had - as neatly as anyone had - but the brute chose her, again, to bully. She spread her misery around but kept an extra helping for Lislea. Knowing that she was not the only one to suffer made it easier to bear, but in her bunk with the lights off, she still found herself wondering if she could have done better that day, if she could have altered one tiny thing and earned a commendation instead of a condemnation. She had convinced herself that she would never pry the latter from Nurse Forsythe regardless of her conduct or abilities, but deep in her heart of hearts, she longed for for it anyway, just as she once longed for even the faintest sign of approval from her father.

That line of reasoning always lead her to work harder and to improve upon herself; wracked with nerves and conscious of every move she made, she would carry out her duties like a woman with stage fright, which lead, inevitably, to an error. Yesterday, she was carrying a crate full of empty vials into the A-Deck recovery room when she stumbled; it fell from her hands and struck the floor with a calamitous sound of breaking glass. Nurse Forsythe, engaged in a disagreement with one of the officers, whipped around and flew over like a banshee, her brows knitting and fire filling her eyes. Lislea, standing with her hands fists defensively to her chest, winced and took the dressing down as best she could, moving aside to let the officer and several other nurses pass; each one of them glanced at her with pity, and her cheeks blazed with shame. Look what you've done this time, you cross-eyed Irish wench. I task you the simplest thing I can think and you manage to bumble that like you bumble everything. Every other woman on this ship can make it more than five minutes without ruining something, why can't you?

I-I'm sorry, ma'am, Lislea mumbled to her feet. Hot, stinging tears welled behind her eyes and she fought hard to keep them from overwhelming her.

Nurse Forsythe parked her hands on her ample hips, leaned in, and pulled her lips back from her crooked yellow teeth in a doggish sneer. I'll say you are. Two days out and you've already broken something. Get the broom and clean this mess up, then go back to the hold and get more; try to do something right for once and don't drop these or else it's back to bed pan duty with you.

Feeling two inches tall, Lislea slunk off like a castigated dog and fetched the broom, her gaze downcast. She swept the glass while Nurse Forsyth stood behind her, pointing and spitting into her ear. Get it all. Look, you missed a piece there. Are you blind as well as cross-eyed? When she was done, she returned the broom and stole away to her cabin, where she sat on the edge of the bed, covered her face with her apron, and wept. She should have jumped ship when she had the chance; she should never have enlisted in the first place.

She did, however, and that couldn't be helped. She had no choice but to see it through. When the war was over, she would leave and go somewhere she could start over. America, maybe, or Australia, a big place with wide, open space and plenty of room to lose herself in. She would meet a man, a farmer, perhaps, with strong hands that were tender only for her, and, from there, she would worry only after her children and her home.

That prospect flicked in her breast like a feeble spark. The more she pondered, the more she realized that she would very much like to be married, to have someone holding her through the long, cold nights, a hand to hold and a romance to last until the end of her days. Aside from the cobbler's son, she had never been the apple of a man's eye, and sometimes she feared that she never would be. The face that stared back from her mirror was homely and dull, like the Irish hills, and, indeed, one of her eyes was crossed, not by much but enough to be a constant source of shame.

Her mood darkened, but she forced those thoughts away and drew a deep, resolute breath. One thing at a time, girl. Getting to her feet, she returned to the deck and went about her day, moving with extra care and caution so as to not wreak anymore havoc.

Now, past midnight, she lay awake in her berth, hands laced on her chest and sleepless eyes pointed at the ceiling. Her bedside lamp cast an amber glow across the oak paneled walls, and cool air drifted in through the open porthole. Prior to unlatching it, the room was insufferably stuffy, not it was too cold and she shivered beneath the covers, goosebumps creeping up and down her arms and her nipples stiffening. She wore a modest white night dress that clung tight to her form, and if she laid just wrong, the fabric pooled between her legs, the warm, silken weight of it against her loins making her heartbeat quicken. When she first laid down, her mind traveled back to dropping the vials. She forced it to more...agreeable territory, and began to wonder what it would be like to be married. Not just the domestic trivialities or companionship of such an arrangement, but also other things, things that an upstanding girl ought not think of - strong, rough hands grazing her soft flesh; affectionate lips plating gentle kisses along the slope of her neck; powerful arms pulling her body flush with another; the moment of soul-stirring bliss when, with a tender thrust, two become one, as God intended.

Those were fantasies she rarely allowed herself to entertain, for they unfailingly lead her to where she was now: Skin flushed with fever, heart palpitating sickly against her ribs, stomach in knots, and loins burning with wet, sinful fire the likes of which only a draught of cold water could douse. Several times as she lie there, her legs began rubbing together as if on their own will, demon hands urging her to move faster and gather as much friction as it took to send her body tumbling into the Pit.

Presently, she took a deep, shuddery breath, swung her legs out from under the cover, and sat up, the uncomfortable sensation of moisture between her thighs giving testament to her wicked indulgence. Hot guilt colored the back of her neck and she swallowed thickly. She needed a walk. Those usually helped. She'd rather not take a cold shower but, if all else failed, she would.

Getting to her feet, she crossed to the wardrobe, pulled out her coat, a long, black affair with a belt and furry lapels, and shrugged into it. She slipped into her shoes, went to the nightstand, and retrieved a pack of Woodbine cigarettes. Next, she grabbed her lighter and shoved them both into her coat pocket. She paused at the mirror over the basin: Her thick brown hair was down and matted. She hurriedly put it up in a bun, then left. The hall, long and narrow in both directions, stood empty and dimly lit by brass, wall-mounted lamps, each door along its length firmly closed. Going left, the followed the corridor to the second class stairwell: The floor here was tile and surplus medical equipment - wheelchairs, bedpans, and other things - lined the walls of the landing.

Lislea climbed the steps to the boat deck by way of the first class smoking room, which had been converted to Royal Army Medical Corps offices, her hand trailing on the banister along the grand staircase, smooth but solid English oak containing elaborate wrought iron grilles with ormolu swags in the Louis XIV style. A giant glass and wrought iron dome allowed natural light to spill in during the day, setting the ornate woodwork afire with silvery suffusion, but now the only glow came from the lamp at the bottom of the Y-shaped passage. On the landing, a massive clock held aloft by richly carved figures struck the hour, and Lislea went right. As she passed, she met several RAMC officers, each dressed in full uniform - brown slacks, tunic, belt, cap, and Red Cross armband. They nodded politely and tipped their hats, and Lislea absently returned their greetings. Every one of them, Lislea noted, would make a fine husband, or it seemed.

Reaching a door marked BOAT DECK, she went through and into the chilly night, a shiver racing through her body. She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced forward, then aft: Lamps dotted the exterior walls, and in their muddled illumination, she discerned that she was alone save for the lifeboats festooned to their davits like spiders to webs. For once, she did not mind: Smoking was unladylike and earned her reprimanding glances from women, furrowed brows from men, and a verbal caning from Nurse Forsythe. She did it infrequently, sequestered in a dark, shadowy corner, but by the looks of it, she had full run of the ship.

Even so, abiding shame blossomed in her chest, and she crossed to the railing, boats on either side and shielding her from view. You would never know she was there unless you walked past.

She slipped a cigarette from her pack, stuck the end into her mouth, and pulled out her lighter, waiting for a cold gust of wind to die down before sparking it.

The wick did not catch.

Frowning, she tried again, but for naught, as her only reward was the dry, rusty grate of the wheel turning.

Sighing, she hanged her head in defeat. "Blimey," she muttered to herself.

***

Marshall Collins stood on the starboard bridge wing and peered over the bow, his hands, clad in black leather gloves, resting on the chest-high wall running the length of the forward bridge. Below, the forecastle was dark and deserted, the only beings in the sight capstans, cranes, and cargo winches. Ahead, the forward mast jutted into the sky - he could not see crow's nest from here, but despite the wind, he fancied he could hear the lookouts talking to one another.

It was half past midnight and his watch was ending soon. His first night onboard, he took the midnight to four shift, observing First Officer Mason as training. He was apprehensive about taking sole command of the bridge, but quickly grew to enjoy the sense of responsibility. During his turns at the front, he imagined himself a master like Bartlett, whom he had already come to immensely respect. It was hard, then, to not walk about with his head held high and his back straight, the flush of importance and authority like a good, warm drunk. He was not unaware that such a feeling could lead to abuses of power, especially since he had a prime example before him each day: Stone, Britannic's Chief Officer and resident tyrant.

Of course, as with many things in life, Marshall 's experience was not universal. Wright was the only one he'd spoken to in depth on the matter, and while the Fifth Officer was no friend of Stone himself, the treatment he received appeared to Marshall a good sight better than that he incurred. Marshall 's first full day on deck, he was watching over the boatswain and his men as they cleaned when Stone strode up and savagely tapped Marshall on the shoulder, his finger hard and sharp as a blade. Where Marshall came from, doing that to a man was a good way to earn a cloutting, superior or not. Have your men swabbed the port foredeck? Stone asked.

Aye, sir, Marshall replied.

Then would you care to account for the mess?

Marshall showed no expression, his upper lip stiff despite his confusion. Boatswain Thomas and the men under him had just returned from the port foredeck; Marshall checked their work, found it satisfactory, and marked it DONE in his log. Mess, sir? He asked evenly. The only ones with access to the foredeck were crew, Major Harrison of the RAMC, Mr. Rigby, Sergeant-Major of the Red Cross, and, owing to special circumstances, Nurse Forsythe - those circumstances being her deeply-held belief that her position as head nurse of one dead entitled her to special consideration. She was very much like Stone - were she younger or he older, they'd make a lovely pair. Regardless, only a small number of people were allowed on the port foredeck, so the chances of it being messed in so short a time were slim.

Mess, Stone repeated coldly, follow me.

Offended but unwilling to allow his composure slippage, he followed Stone through the navigation bridge, crossing to port, and up the boat deck. At an alcove formed by the meeting of the officer's quarters and the wireless room, Stone stopped, turned to face Marshall , and jabbed his finger at the deck. This mess, Mr. Collins, the one you either missed through incompetence or blatantly ignored in a fit of apathy.

Marshall 's brow hardened and a ball of outrage ignited in his chest. In his time at sea, he had learned to take a lot, especially from a higher ranking crewmen, but standing there on the windy deck of Britannic, he came disconcertingly close to offering a nasty rejoinder. Instead, he held his temper - purely out of respect - and looked to where Stone was pointing.

A tiny pile of gray ashed and tobacco, some of it brown but most charred black, stared up at him, some of it blowing away in the wind. Ten minutes ago, fifteen at the most, Marshall closely inspected this part of the bridge, and the offending blight was not present. Someone must have come along and tapped his pipe after he retired to starboard. This wasn't here when I did my round, he said steadily.

Hard to believe, Stone retorted, as no one but myself has passed through. With that, he pulled a pipe from the pocket of his overcoat and prodded it at the mess; sprinkles of brown tobacco fell like rain and joined the rubbish on the deck, the new indistinguishable from the old. Marshall 's eyes narrowed to slits, for understanding crested upon him like the spreading rays of the morning sun. Someone did tap his pipe on the ground, and even now that someone was packing it again, a very faint but very pronounced light of smug merriment dancing in his blue eyes.

Had Stone been anyone but the chief deck officer, and had Marshall not been so charitably promoted by the company as a trusted employee, he would have eaten that bloody pipe and gone over the side. Taking those factors into consideration, Marshall simply nodded and promised to have one of the men come and clean up. Good, Stone said, and keep a closer watch on them. We're running a hospital, Mr. Collins, not a common doss-house. He rudely bumped his shoulder into Marshall 's as he departed. Marshall turned to watch him go, his twitching jaw betraying his anger. The proper thing to do would be lodging a complaint with Captain Bartlett, but meditating, Marshall decided to forego such action. For one, it would likely serve only to make Stone more antagonistic in retribution, and for another, this was Marshall 's first full day on Britannic, immediately crying foul - against the Chief Officer no less - could very well reflect poorly on him.

That, then, was where he stood. He shot a displeased look at the ash, then crossed back to starboard by way of the navigation bridge. Finding a seaman, he directed him to sweep the mess then went on with his work, forcing thoughts of Stone away lest they enrage him further.

He didn't have to strive very hard, it turned out, for less than twenty minutes later, he had the distinct displeasure of making Nurse Forsythe's acquaintance.

A squat bulldog of a woman with a doughy face and hard, glinting black eyes, Nurse Forsythe was in charge of the women on B-Deck, and was, admittedly, far more of a tyrant than Stone. The previous night, lying in bed, he and Wright chatted a bit, Wright cluing him in on shipboard politics, gossip, and the like. When the topic of Nurse Forsythe came up, the fifth officer made a sound of disgust. She's the scourge of the deck, I say. You're apt to know her very well after the trip; she was constantly running Jessup down and squawking 'bout this 'n' that. I'd say I pity you, but better you than me!

Marshall was supervising a crew of men inspecting the lifeboats when the old hag stalked up - short, bullish, and tight-lipped, the wind rippling the white fabric of her dress and lending her the appearance of a giant and exceptionally ugly gull. I've a problem, she grated, and it was clear from her tone that he, too, now had a problem.

Ma'am? Marshall asked dispassionately.

Three vials of morphine are missing from my cabinet and I just know one of your men took them.

Did you see one of them acting suspiciously? Marshall asked. None of the men currently in his employ - eight not counting Boatswain Thomas - had been authorized to leave the boat deck. Yesterday, after putting off, Major Harrison gave him a tour of the medical facilities: Offices off A-Deck, sick wards and operating theaters on B, isolation wards, quarters, and the mess hall on C, and, finally, D, where one would find the patient's dining room, intensive care units, and lavatories. Major Harrison entrusted him with a set of keys that opened every room currently in Royal Army Medical Corps use in the event he needed them. He was still waiting on a complete inventory of supplies, and would be, he reckoned, until at least tomorrow, as some poor RAMC sap had to count it all by hand.

No, but who other than an opiate addled seaman would steal morphine intended for the boys?

Marshall could have retorted but chose not to. Perhaps they were misplaced?

I counted the stock myself. Three were there this morning, now they're gone. Come see for yourself.

She whipped around and stormed off, stopping and casting a lowered glance over her shoulder. Come on, then, see what your barbarians have done.

Inwardly sighing, Marshall looked at the clipboard in his hands, then to Boatswain Thomas, who knelt next to one of the crane davits, a panel open and the inner workings of its motor laid bare. Can I step away for a moment? Marshall asked.

Boatswain Thomas lifted one hand but did not look up. Aye, sir, I've a handle on this 'ere.

Nodding, Marshall followed Nurse Forsythe through a gangway and down a set of metal stairs to the A-Deck promenade, which ran the entire length of the ship, enclosed for much of the way. As they went, Nurse Forsythe groused incessantly. You sailors are as bad as the Irish. Are you Irish, young man?

No, ma'am, Marshall said, I was born in London.

Then perhaps you've at least a shred of decency about you. I want the scoundrel who did this shut in the brig. He shouldn't be too hard to find; opium freaks are shiftless, you know. Most likely passed out in a stairwell somewhere in front of God and everyone like a common sot. She shook her head sadly as she lead him through a doorway. Inside, a hall lead to the first class dining saloon, presently the ship's largest and best equipped operating room. Just past the gangway, she ducked into a storage room: Crates, metal cabinets with glass doors, boxes, and medical supplies flanked the walls, revealed in gray, muted light falling softly through the windows. She snapped on a light and pointed at a cabinet directly ahead, its doors standing open. There. The manifest is on the first shelf, count everything and see what else your villains stole.

See here, Marshall was getting peeved at her insulting his crew, and were she a man, even a man as important as Stone, he would have said so. Yes, ma'am. He crossed to the cabinet, picked up the inventory sheet, and laid it on his clipboard. He scanned the log then carefully counted each vial, tube, and bottle: Morphine, aspirin, anesthetic, and a thousand other medicines for everything from toothaches to severe burns to sleeplessness. He counted eight vials of morphine then consulted the manifest.

8 morp.

He frowned slightly, recounted, then looked again.

Eight.

He looked over his shoulder at Nurse Forsythe, who filled the doorframe, arms crossed and a scowl on her face. She couldn't have been more than fifty - the hair peeking out from beneath her white cap was coal black with nary a hint of gray - but she reminded him of sour old women he knew in Whitechapel, the kind who'd been beaten and sullied by life and came out the other side hating everyone and everything. Ma'am?

What else is missing? she spat with the self-assuredness of a woman who'd seen the future with her own eyes.

Nothing, ma'am. In fact, none of the morphine is gone either.

She knitted her brow and came over. What?

Marshall stepped aside and tapped the manifest with his pencil. Eight marked here and eight in the hold.

Flashing, she snatched the sheet away, studied it, then counted, tapping each jar with her index finger. A shadow of confusion flickered across her face, and from that alone, Marshall was able to tell that, unlike Stone, she was not giving him the runaround: She sincerely believed some of the drug to be missing. She counted three more times before shaking her head. The thief must have put it back, she declared.

Hm. Couldn't admit her own mistake. Marshall wasn't surprised. She seemed the sort - they're never to blame, and when you offer evidence to the contrary, they'll foolishly maintain that they are right regardless. Thank the heavens for that at least.

Marshall opened his mouth to ask whether or not she required his presence further - as he wanted to make sail away from her and her dogged self-righteousness as quickly as possible - but cut off when something shattered against the ground. He and his present company looked up as one to find a nurse standing in the doorway, her head down in contrition and her hands fisted to her chest, her face frozen in the scolded wince of a young girl who'd done something wrong and knew she was in the soup.

All at once, Nurse Forsythe was off, jabbing her finger at the poor girl and looming over her like the mistress of a plantation o'er an errant house slave. Look what you've done this time, you cross-eyed Irish wench. I task you the simplest thing I can think and you manage to bumble that like you bumble everything. Every other woman on this ship can make it more than five minutes without ruining something, why can't you?

Raising his brow, Marshall observed coolly. Bloody hell, and he thought Stone was bad. A day or two under this woman and he'd be begging for the man.

The girl hung her head in disgrace and nodded miserably in agreement with all of Nurse Forsythe's ignominies. Muted sympathy panged in Marshall 's stomach and he shifted his weight uncomfortably.

He meant to wait out the storm so that he could be formally dismissed, but the old women kept right along, dressing the nurse down once, twice, three times; had the admonishment been physical, the girl would have been battered and bloodied by now.

Finally, he closed the cabinet doors and crossed to where the dust up was even now occurring. I really should be getting back, he said as he brushed past. Nurse Forsythe made no acknowledgement, having finished with him.

Today was a bit easier, though Stone made it a point to come round every so often and criticize the quality of his work. This afternoon, the seamen were engaged in painting along the boat deck, and though they did a top job of it, Stone was unhappy...especially when he leaned against a section and got white on the arm of his coat. There should be a sign here, Mr. Collins, he said, why isn't there a sign? I ought to have the cost of my jacket docked from your pay. There was indeed a sign...for some odd reason, however, it lay face down on the deck. I apologize, sir, Marshall said, even though he was fairly sure that Stone himself sabotaged the sign so that he had something to be on about. Some people are like that: Not satisfied unless they're upset. Poor buggers was what Marshall called them in his more charitable moments; bastards is what he called them the rest of the time.

At dinner in the officer's mess, he sat across from Wright and confided in him regarding Stone's actions. Huh, Wright said, I guess he just doesn't like you.

I'll say, Marshall said and carved a piece of roast with his fork, can't claim to like him much either.

Presently, Marshall stared out into the night, looking for anything suspicious but knowing he probably wouldn't see anything until it was too late. German U-Boats were known to be active in the area, and he paid special attention to the sea, searching for the telltale white streak of an oncoming torpedo but finding only slick-black, moon-dappled surf.

A steward appeared at his left holding a saucer upon which rested a cup. Steam curled up and blew away in the breeze. "Your tea, sir."

Marshall took it. "Thank you."

Nodding, the steward rushed off, leaving him alone. Pinching the saucer between his thumb and forefinger, he lifted the cup to his lips, puffed, and took a sip, the liquid hot against his lips. Ahead, lights appeared in the distance to the north. That would be Gibraltar, the gateway to the Mediterranean. From there, Britannic would steam east northeast toward the craggy Italian coastline. They would dock at Naples about the seventeenth, barring unforeseen circumstances. From there, it was onto Lemnos, Greece, to take on sick and wounded from the recent campaigns.

Taking another sip, Marshall returned to the darkened wheelhouse, where Quartermaster Hutchens, a tall man with a neatly coiffed mustache, stood at the helm. Marshall went over to the binnacle, checked the compass, and glanced at Hutchens. "Steady ahead." It was a cursory order, a formality if anything, but a ship thrives on routine and ritual.

"Aye, sir."

On the port wing bridge, the cold air flowing over him and numbing his face, Marshall squinted toward Spain. He took a sip and sighed contentedly. Yes, he very much enjoyed watchstanding. Not only did it make him feel vital, it was also the most peaceful time of his day save for bed, but even then there was Wright, who fancied talking until he collapsed from exhaustion. Marshall liked the man enough, but he would like him a bit more if he'd close his mouth every once in a while.

"We're passing Gibraltar, then," a voice said beside him, and he turned to find First Officer Mason, a nondescript man of interment height and average weight. His face was like a thousand others and his voice unremarkable. He was the very picture of physical mediocrity. His position as First Officer, however, marked him as a man who knew what he was doing and did it better than most; for that, and his even temperament, Marshall respected him.

"Aye, sir," he said and took a drink of his tea. "Steady on course and nothing to report."

Mason nodded curtly. "Right then. You're off. See you tomorrow."

"You too, sir."

Marshall crossed through the navigation bridge and started for the entrance to the officer's quarters, but decided to stroll the deck and smoke first. He finished his tea and took the cup to the stewards' mess next to the barber shop, then slipped his cigarette case from his coat pocket. Walking leisurely aft, he removed one, put it into his mouth, and lit it, the harsh smoke filling his lungs and rushing to his brain like a tide of euphoria. He thought for some reason of Nurse Forsythe and her assertion that one of his men took her morphine because he was an opium freak. The more he entertained it, the more offended he became - he grew up amongst opium freaks, and to him, there was so more abject insult than to be lumped in with people of that stock.

Amidships now, his attention was arrested by a soft, rusty grating sound followed by a breathy, hissing oath. "Bloody goddamn thing. Work." He looked to his left, and a figure stood in a pool of shadow betwixt two lifeboats; a spill of light from an exterior lamp revealed it to be a woman with long chestnut colored hair held back in a sloppy, disheveled bun. A thick winter coat reached her ankles and, as Marshall watched, she hunched forward, a cigarette jutting from her thin lips, one hand cupping the other, a lighter in the latter and sparking impotently. Her brow wrinkled in frustration and her eyes shone with evident irritation.

Amused, Marshall walked over; she was none the wiser to his presence until he held out his lighter and lit it. She jumped a foot and pressed one clawed hand to her chest, the cigarette dropping from her mouth and landing on the deck. "Sorry to frightening you, miss," Marshall said, "appears you're having a spot of trouble."

The woman favored him warily, as though he were Satan incarnate come to trade a light for her soul. In the glow of the lamp, her big, doe-like eyes sparkled a limpid brown and the freckles smattered across her harried face seemed to swirl like celestial constellations. Her chest gently rose and fell as she fought to catch her runaway breath, and, all at once, she came alive, stooping down to pick up her fallen cigarette. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come up," she said in a very faint Irish accent. She put the cigarette into her mouth and Marshall touched the flame to the end; she inhaled the smoke and nodded her thanks, the tip of her cigarette smoldering orange.

Marshall put the lighter away and took a puff of his own. "Cold night," he said by way of conversation, having noticed a light flush about her face.

"Very cold," she said, her breath misting in front of her. "I musta been here ten minutes trying to get my lighter to work." She uttered a humorless laugh and turned to the railing. "I appreciate it."

"No bother," Marshall said. He turned his head up to the moon, its dim light illuminating the sky. "Nothing quite as tragic as needing a smoke but not having a light."

The woman hummed her agreement and took another puff, one arm crossing her chest and propping beneath her opposite elbow. "Or needing one and not being able to have it."

"I take it you're a nurse," Marshall said. There were, if he recalled, seventy-seven of them aboard, all female. There were no other women and, outside of the crew and the RAMC detachments, no other people. "You're not allowed to smoke on duty, are you?"

The woman shook her head sadly. "No. And if the head nurse saw me doing it at all, she'd draw and quarter me."

Following a hunch, Marshall asked, "Forsythe?"

The woman grimaced, as though simply hearing the name caused her pain, and nodded.

"She's quite charming, that one," Marshall said with a trace of sarcasm.

Smiling wanly, the woman said, "Try working under her."

A group of RAMC men passed behind them, talking lowly and smoking pipes. "I've considered what that must be like," Marshall said. "Think I'd rather jump into the drink."

The woman laughed, more genuinely this time, light and airy, reminding Marshall of warm spring wind in lush green treetops. "She's a curse." Seeming to think better of her words, perhaps worried that Marshall would report her to the hag, she said, "Pardon my saying so. She can be quite difficult sometimes."

"I've noticed," he replied archly, "I made her acquaintance yesterday. Can't say I enjoyed it."

"No one ever does," she said. "Least I don't fathom they do." She took a drag, tilted her head back, and blew out a long stalk of smoke that dispersed on the wind. Marshall quietly studied her from the corner of his eye, his gaze traveling over her features. Her facial structure was pleasing, her pert, upturned nose and freckles lending her a vulnerable, girlish appearance, as though she belonged at home with her mother and not at sea in the midst of such a big war, Dark bags bespeaking long hours and sleepless night hung beneath her eyes and moonlight drenched her lusterless hair. She was rather on the plain side, but Marshall found himself unable to look away, not entirely captivated but relishing her countenance nevertheless. She darted him a distressed glance, noticed him looking at her, and quickly turned her head away as though to hide herself and the deepening flush of her cheeks.

Marshall realized with quiet horror that he was all but leering at the poor girl, and faced the sea, missing a beat as he searched for an excuse. "I didn't mean to stare, miss, I was wondering after your age. You look far too young for an RAMC post. Unless they've lowered the threshold without my knowing."

"Nineteen," the woman said. "I'll be twenty in December."

She wasn't much younger than his was. Or many of the boys currently fighting in Europe, for that matter. "Have you been in long?" he asked simply for something to say. The minimum age for volunteering with the RAMC was eighteen, though, if he recalled, there were detachments of younger corps members on the homefront.

"Almost two years," she said and took a drag. "I applied when I was seventeen."

Marshall nodded. "How long have you been on Britannic?"

She thought for a moment, her head tilting back, one eye squinting in concentration, and the corner of her mouth curling slightly, these ticks combining in a prepossessing manner that Marshall could not help but find fetching. He turned his head to her, and his recalcitrant eyes traced the smooth curve of her jaw, wandering about her soft countenance like distrait schoolboys gathering wool whilst the headmaster droned. A serendipitous gust of wind came over them, and brought, or so Marshall imagined, her clean scent to his nose, fresh and pure like spring rain.

In the light of the Mediterranean moon, she was quite lovely.

"Almost a year," she said with a slow nod. She attempted to look at him, but her eyes darted away again like timid goldfish in a bowl.

"That long?" he asked with earnest curiosity.

She nodded. "That long." She closed her mouth then, as if making a dark, painful confession, she added, "It feels like much longer sometimes."

Marshall dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke out. "I can imagine," he said. He'd never seen the effects of war himself, but from what the papers described - aeroplanes, machine guns, tanks, and artillery - he could vividly picture the horrors it had visited on boys both British and otherwise. Blasted bones, charred flesh, missing limbs - it was enough to make one ill if they entertained it too long. Surely this attractive creature had endured the worst of it in her capacity as a nurse. "I don't think I could stomach your line of work," he said honestly.

"Sometimes I don't think I can either," she said heavily. "It's hard to take. Seeing so much suffering. I started here because I wanted to help and it was the only way I could, but now I think maybe...maybe I regret it." Her words came in a rush, as though she'd been holding them in for a long period of time and wanted, nay, needed to get them out. Her eyes widened strickenedly when she realized she'd poured out her soul to a complete stranger. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, "I've just been thinking a great deal about my lot recently."

Flicking his cigarette over the side, Marshall gripped the railing and stared off into the night so as not to further embarrass her. "Understandable. I was being sincere when I said I couldn't do it. The fact that you have, and for a year at that, makes you stronger than I." He paused and resisted the urge to look and see whether his compliment affected her - he suddenly wished to see her smile. Would it light up her face? He imagined it would, and the sight would surely rival even the most beautiful ocean sunset. "If you'd rather not do it any longer, then don't."

The woman sighed. "It isn't that simple."

"Why not?"

She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again. "I'd rather not discuss it. It's...it's somewhat personal." She bowed her head demurely and threw her cigarette into the sea.

"Very well," he said, injecting the words with as much warmth as was acceptable under the circumstances. She seemed to tense slightly like a bashful fox preparing to take a hurried leave, and a twinge of loss pinched Marshall 's stomach. He was taken with her diffidence and agreeable features and didn't want her to go; he wanted to chat her up and come to know her better. That was unlikely to happen, however, as she looked ready to depart. He wanted to at least learn her name before she did so. "Might I know who I've had the distinct pleasure of speaking to?" he asked.

She stole a look at him, and his keen eye noted the deepening of her blush and the delighted upward twist of her lips. "Lislea," she said.

"Glad to make your acquaintance," Marshall said, "I'm Marshall ."

"It's nice to meet you too," Lislea said. "I really must be going."

Ah. He was hoping to persuade her to linger, but in vain, it seemed. "Right," he said, "I'd better go myself." He pushed away from the rail and turned. Lislea flashed a tight smile, her eyes flicking appraisingly from his feet to his head, then looked as though she were going to speak. Instead, she turned and rushed off with her head down. She was either being coy or simply didn't fancy him; either way, he watched her go with the most peculiar and irrational sense of longing. Taking a deep breath, he started back toward the officers' quarters, hands slipping into his coat pockets. This wasn't the first time he'd noticed a woman, of course, but something struck him as different about it, perhaps...a tad deeper? How he could rightly think that without even properly knowing her, he could not say, and that unsettled him, for, like noticing a woman, this wouldn't be the first time he'd convinced himself he felt something for one when he shouldn't. He'd see one of the train or walking across the deck, and something would draw him - the radiance of her smile, perhaps, or a certain light in her eyes - and he would get carried away if he allowed himself, to the point of dreamily thinking words like love. Only a fool - or a poet - develops feelings for a woman he does not know, and Marshall Collins was neither.

He was a man, however, and every man has certain needs, both physical and spiritual. The soft warmth of a woman...the closeness of her body and of her heart; the base and the transcendental. Having those needs unmet tends to make him batty, which is where the poet comes from, a man who feels too deeply and too strongly. A lot of rot if you asked Marshall . He was closer to that than he liked to admit, and it was a weakness that dogged him if he let it.

So he wouldn't.

Putting Lislea out of his mind, he stepped into the warm officers' quarters and closed the door behind him, then removed his cap by force of habit. He visited the washroom then went to his cabin: Wright sat up in bed with a Wodehouse novel open on his lap. "Bout time you showed," he said sourly, "have you any idea what I've gone through today?"

Marshall 's step faltered. No, he did not.

Wright looked up. "I iron your shirts, raise your children, and slave over a hot stove only for you to waltz through the door after midnight smelling of another woman. I ought to divorce you." He snapped the book closed and shot Marshall a withering glare. "What does she give you that I can't?"

Chuckling, Marshall crossed to the wardrobe and shrugged out of his overcoat. Wright, ever the jocular sort, had already pulled this once - playing the role of the nagging wife for what reason he alone knew - and Marshall was a bit vexed that he was fooled again. Wright, he quickly discovered, had not a single serious bone in his body. He was the sort of man who'd tell his bride jokes as they consummated their marriage - or perhaps in place of consummating their marriage. "To start with," Marshall said and hung up his coat, followed by his suit jacket, "she's younger than you and not as soft round the middle."

A vision of Lislea crossed his mind, and he frowned.

Wright humphed and opened his book again. "Maybe she can bear you a son. Since Marshall Jr. isn't yours."

Marshall sat on the edge of the bed, untied his shoes, then kicked them off. He got up, went over, and dropped onto Wright's. "Don't be that way, dear," he said and laid his hand on Wright's leg.

"Don't touch me," Wright said, then, "I mean it, you're not my type, Mr. Collins."

Chuckling, Marshall got to his feet. "And what is your type?"

"I take my men as I take my coffee. Black."

Marshall looked at him and he at Marshall , then they both broke into side-splitting laughter. "Well, to each his own," Marshall said.

"I hear Stone's available," Wright replied and opened his book again. "The way he acts around you is rather like a schoolboy with a crush."

Sitting on his own bed once more, Marshall stretched out. "He's about as irritating as one." Even as he spoke, revelation dawned over him.

That was precisely how he felt in regards to Lislea the nurse.

Hm.

He didn't like it.