I dipped a finger.
Bitter.
Not salty.
Bitter.
A memory surfaced.
That afternoon, one of the junior deckhands had been replacing a cabinet latch near the aft passage when he saw Adrian hand me a cup.
He had looked at the cup.
Then at Adrian.
Then away.
A tiny thing.
At the time, meaningless.
Now it bothered me.
I went back to the bedroom.
Adrian had rolled onto his side.
His breathing looked steady.
I dressed quietly.
Then left.
The Mercer Star at night was a different vessel.
No laughter.
No glasses.
Only low deck lighting and the thrum of engines below.
I walked slowly toward the bridge.
Halfway there, dizziness hit.
I grabbed the wall.
Waited.
The boat’s chief purser appeared at the end of the corridor.
He looked startled to see me.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
“My name is Claire.”
“Of course.”
“Where is the nurse?”
He hesitated.
“Resting.”
