The Dark Deeps (29 page)

Despite being cold, he wanted to drink from the ocean, but he knew that would only quicken his death. “ ‘Water,
water, everywhere,’ ” he whispered hoarsely. “ ‘Nor any drop to drink.’ ”

“I suppose that’s one of your British poets,” Colette said. They were the first words she had spoken since he’d revealed his face. “Poetry cannot be written in English.”

Modo did not have the strength to defend Britain or its poetry. He looked to the horizon. The world became four things: the sky, the water, the sun, and the cold. Where would the currents take them? As he watched Colette close her eyes and drift off, he wondered how long they could last without water. His throat was a parched tunnel.

He slept. Awoke. Slept. He dreamed about sweet biscuits. In the distance someone called his name—Mrs. Finchley calling him to dinner. There was always a pitcher of lemonade.

But it wasn’t her voice. Still, it was familiar. A shadow fell across the diving bell. “Ho there! Ho there!” a woman shouted.

Modo blinked. A fisherman’s boat, sails flapping, sat a distance away. But right next to them was a rowboat with two bearded men at the oars. Standing at the stern, like a figurehead, was a young woman.

“Is that you behind that neckerchief, Modo?” Octavia said. “I’ve come to take you home.”

“I
s Modo well?”

Octavia looked across the boardinghouse table at the woman who had spoken. When they’d found Modo she hadn’t recognized the French agent, but on the return voyage to Reykjavik, Modo had said her name repeatedly and Octavia had drawn her own conclusions. Many conclusions.

“You mean Mr. Warkin?” Octavia said with a raised eyebrow.

“No. I mean Modo. He told me his real name. In confidence.”

“Hmm. He’s well. No thanks to you.”

Colette calmly sipped her tea. Octavia remembered that Colette was three years older than her and had done much with her life. She had an intensity in her eyes that even Octavia found disconcerting.

“You are protective of Modo,” Colette said. “I understand your hostility.”

“He’s a fellow agent.”

“You English are such poor actors.”

What was that supposed to mean? Octavia wondered. “If I were a doctor, I might say he is suffering from extreme exhaustion.”

“He did many brave things,” Colette replied casually. “He is a remarkable and gifted individual. And he spoke highly of you.”

“Of me?”

“Yes, he said you two were married. A ruse, I know, but he often mentioned his wife. He worried about you. Did not want to be parted from you.”

“He said that?” Why did Octavia feel a blush coming on? Her eyes were drawn to her wedding ring.

“Yes, he did.”

Octavia looked up, steely. Whatever her thoughts toward Modo, this Frenchwoman wasn’t going to know them. “We were acting. I am certain an expert agent like you has been ‘married’ numerous times.”

Colette shook her head. “I’ve never gone that route, myself. I work better alone.”

“No one wants to work with you?” Octavia asked.

“Ah, such naked hostility. I understand it.”

Hostility? Octavia wanted to shout. I have spent every last waking moment searching the high seas, begging a one-legged drunken fisherman for passage, only to find Modo with
you
in a diving bell. Octavia cleared her throat. “I just don’t trust the French.”

“And I don’t trust the English. Modo, though …” Colette paused. “I do trust him.” She stood. “I do not think we can accomplish much more. This tête-à-tête has come to an end. Though I must ask a favor.”

“Which is?”

“Would you give this to Modo?” Colette produced a folded note from a pocket in her dress. Octavia did not reach for it, let her hold it out in the air.

“You don’t want to give it to him yourself?”

She was surprised that Colette seemed a little shaken. “Have you ever seen his face? His true face?”

“No. Have you?”

“Well, that is—how shall I put it?—a matter of confidentiality.”

Did he show it to you willingly? Octavia wanted to ask, but she bit her tongue instead.

“Please take the note,” Colette said. “I must go and find out when my ship leaves.”

Octavia closed her fingers around the paper. “Good day, then,” she said. “Good luck.”

“Yes,
bonne chance
to you and to Modo.” Colette gave her a slight smile. “
Adieu.
”

F
ROM HIS BED ON THE THIRD FLOOR
of the boardinghouse, Modo could watch the fishing and whaling ships and the occasional steamer come in, but mostly he spent his time reading, and recovering, wearing a mask he’d made from a pillowcase. The water brought back so many memories, and he couldn’t yet come to terms with what had happened to Captain Monturiol, Cerdà, or Icaria. It was just too painful to think of their sacrifices for a country that no longer existed.

No, that wasn’t quite true. There were the survivors on the
Filomena
. They would still have Icaria in their hearts. He hoped they had landed safely with their sympathizers. However, Garay had said they intended to resupply. Where would they go next?

There was a knock at the door. Before he could answer, it swung open. “I am eternally looking after you.” Octavia
entered the room, holding a lunch plate. She set it down next to him, and Modo sat up to see lamb, cabbage, and rye crèpes. “As per your request. Lamb is expensive here, but you deserve it.”

“Ah, you are a dear soul,” Modo said. He still felt as though he hadn’t eaten for weeks. He took a moment to straighten his lips and teeth, then lifted the bottom portion of his mask and forked half of a crèpe into his mouth.

Octavia had seated herself across from him and poured them tea. She seemed smartly pleased with herself. In fact, if he hadn’t known better, Modo would have said she was enjoying looking after him. She had explained that after the
Hugo
had been attacked, they had docked in Reykjavik, and she had been searching for him ever since.

“You’re looking stronger.”

“Only thanks to you,” he said. “Who would have known that you could be such a nurse?”

“Ah, I play so many parts. And I do have new information. Fishermen found a few of the Icarians in lifeboats.”

“How many?”

“Twelve.”

His heart sank. “There were more than twenty locked up on the
Wyvern
. The rest must have perished.”

Octavia nodded. “Apparently there weren’t enough lifeboats and they drew lots for their places. A very organized and brave group.” She sipped her tea. “But that’s not all, Modo. The survivors have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yes, they were locked in one of the government buildings. The Icelanders weren’t too happy about all the ships
they’d sunk. But they vanished overnight. They must have sympathizers here. A secret cell.”

“They were from every country,” Modo said.

“Are they a group we should be wary of?”

Modo shrugged. “I believe they just want to be left in peace.”

“Well, they’re gone now. Mr. Socrates will not be pleased. I’m certain he would have wanted to interview them.”

Modo was glad that the Icarians had escaped. From both the British and the French. “Any sign of the
Wyvern?
”

“Fishermen found only bodies of Guild soldiers. It’s as if they preferred death over being captured.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise Modo. “And Mr. Socrates? Any orders from him?”

“He’s coming to deliver his orders himself, though it’ll be tomorrow before he arrives and his inquisition begins. My brief explanations of what you saw and what happened are not enough! He’ll want his goods straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. He did ask about your health. Since when has he been concerned about an agent’s health?”

“Perhaps I am his favorite,” Modo said, then laughed. When he was done laughing, he asked, “And what of Colette?”

“Why are you asking about her?”

“I only wonder how she is. Is she up and around?”

“Actually, she left for France this morning. I had tea with her last night, though. She gave me a few details about your adventures together. And this.”

She handed a note to Modo, but he just held it.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked.

Modo shrugged, then unfolded the note carefully. It read:

He folded it up. She couldn’t look at me again, he thought. Not even to say goodbye.

Octavia studied him. “Did she curse you and England?”

“No.”

“Ah, we are better off without her,” Octavia said. “She seemed a bit of a harpy. And her accent was so provincial.”

“Provincial? It was Parisian.”

“I know. I just wanted to see if you would defend her.”

Modo chose that moment to eat a little more of the food she’d brought.

“And what now?” he asked finally.

“I’m hoping you’ll be well enough this evening to walk about the town with me. Once You-Know-Who gets here we’ll be drilled with questions, questions, questions. Perhaps we can go out to eat. They have scrumptious fish here.”

Modo closed his eyes. “Tavia, I don’t care if I ever, ever eat fish again.”