“Out,” he said.
“Good morning,” I said, as cordially as possible. “My name is Claire Fraser.”
“Out,” he repeated, in the same graveled tones.
“I am Mrs. Fraser, the wife of the supercargo, and ship’s surgeon for this voyage,” I said, giving him eyeball for eyeball. “I require six gallons of boiling water, when convenient, for cleaning of the head.”
His small, bright blue eyes grew somewhat smaller and brighter, the black pupils of them training on me like gunbarrels.
“I am Aloysius O’Shaughnessy Murphy,” he said. “Ship’s cook. And I require ye to take yer feet off my fresh-washed deck. I do not allow women in my galley.” He glowered at me under the edge of the black cotton kerchief that swathed his head. He was several inches shorter than I, but made up for it by measuring about three feet more in circumference, with a wrestler’s shoulders and a head like a cannonball, set upon them without apparent benefit of an intervening neck. A wooden leg completed the ensemble.
I took one step back, with dignity, and spoke to him from the relative safety of the passageway.
“In that case,” I said, “you may send up the hot water by the messboy.”
“I may,” he agreed. “And then again, I may not.” He turned his broad back on me in dismissal, busying himself with a chopping block, a cleaver, and a joint of mutton.
I stood in the passageway for a moment, thinking. The thud of the cleaver sounded regularly against the wood. Mr. Murphy reached up to his spice rack, grasped a bottle without looking, and sprinkled a good quantity of the contents over the diced meat. The dusty scent of sage filled the air, superseded at once by the pungency of an onion, whacked in two with a casual swipe of the cleaver and tossed into the mixture.
Evidently the crew of the Artemis did not subsist entirely upon salt pork and hardtack, then. I began to understand the reasons for Captain Raines’s rather pear-shaped physique. I poked my head back through the door, taking care to stand outside.
“Cardamom,” I said firmly. “Nutmeg, whole. Dried this year. Fresh extract of anise. Ginger root, two large ones, with no blemishes.” I paused. Mr. Murphy had stopped chopping, cleaver poised motionless above the block.
“And,” I added, “half a dozen whole vanilla beans. From Ceylon.”
He turned slowly, wiping his hands upon his leather apron. Unlike his surroundings, neither the apron nor his other apparel was spotless.
He had a broad, florid face, edged with stiff sandy whiskers like a scrubbing brush, which quivered slightly as he looked at me, like the antennae of some large insect. His tongue darted out to lick pursed lips.
“Saffron?” he asked hoarsely.
“Half an ounce,” I said promptly, taking care to conceal any trace of triumph in my manner.
He breathed in deeply, lust gleaming bright in his small blue eyes.
“Ye’ll find a mat just outside, ma’am, should ye care to wipe yer boots and come in.”
* * *
One head sterilized within the limits of boiling water and Fergus’s tolerance, I made my way back to my cabin to clean up for luncheon. Marsali was not there; she was undoubtedly attending to Fergus, whose labors at my insistence had been little short of heroic.
I rinsed my own hands with alcohol, brushed my hair, and then went across the passage to see whether—by some wild chance—Jamie wanted anything to eat or drink. One glance disabused me of this notion.
Marsali and I had been given the largest cabin, which meant that each of us had approximately six square feet of space, not including the beds. These were box-berths, a sort of enclosed bed built into the wall, about five and a half feet long. Marsali fitted neatly into hers, but I was forced to adopt a slightly curled position, like a caper on toast, which caused me to wake up with pins and needles in my feet.
Jamie and Fergus had similar berths. Jamie was lying on his side, wedged into one of these like a snail into its shell; one of which beasts he strongly resembled at the moment, being a pale and viscid gray in color, with streaks of green and yellow that contrasted nastily with his red hair. He opened one eye when he heard me come in, regarded me dimly for a moment, and closed it again.
“Not so good, hm?” I said sympathetically.
The eye opened again, and he seemed to be preparing to say something. He opened his mouth, changed his mind, and closed it again.
“No,” he said, and shut the eye once more.
I tentatively smoothed his hair, but he seemed too sunk in misery to notice.
“Captain Raines says it will likely be calmer by tomorrow,” I offered. The sea wasn’t terribly rough as it was, but there was a noticeable rise and fall.
“It doesna matter,” he said, not opening his eyes. “I shall be dead by then—or at least I hope so.”
“Afraid not,” I said, shaking my head. “Nobody dies of seasickness; though I must say it seems a wonder that they don’t, looking at you.”
“Not that.” He opened his eyes, and struggled up on one elbow, an effort that left him clammy with sweat and white to the lips.
“Claire. Be careful. I should have told ye before—but I didna want to worry ye, and I thought—” His face changed. Familiar as I was with expressions of bodily infirmity, I had the basin there just in time.
“Oh, God.” He lay limp and exhausted, pale as the sheet.
“What should you have told me?” I asked, wrinkling my nose as I put the basin on the floor near the door. “Whatever it was, you should have told me before we sailed, but it’s too late to think of that.”
“I didna think it would be so bad,” he murmured.
“You never do,” I said, rather tartly. “What did you want to tell me, though?”
“Ask Fergus,” he said. “Say I said he must tell ye. And tell him Innes is all right.”
“What are you talking about?” I was mildly alarmed; delirium wasn’t a common effect of seasickness.
His eyes opened, and fixed on mine with great effort. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow and upper lip.
“Innes,” he said. “He canna be the one. He doesna mean to kill me.”
A small shiver ran up my spine.
“Are you quite all right, Jamie?” I asked. I bent and wiped his face, and he gave me the ghost of an exhausted smile. He had no fever, and his eyes were clear.
“Who?” I said carefully, with a sudden feeling that there were eyes fixed on my back. “Who does mean to kill you?”
“I don’t know.” A passing spasm contorted his features, but he clamped his lips tight, and managed to subdue it.
“Ask Fergus,” he whispered, when he could talk again. “In private. He’ll tell ye.”
I felt exceedingly helpless. I had no notion what he was talking about, but if there was any danger, I wasn’t about to leave him alone.
“I’ll wait until he comes down,” I said.
One hand was curled near his nose. It straightened slowly and slid under the pillow, coming out with his dirk, which he clasped to his chest.
“I shall be all right,” he said. “Go on, then, Sassenach. I shouldna think they’d try anything in daylight. If at all.”
I didn’t find this reassuring in the slightest, but there seemed nothing else to do. He lay quite still, the dirk held to his chest like a stone tomb-figure.