Read Chapter 8: A Glimpse of the Past

The third-class corridor smelled of coal dust, stale sweat, and the faint salt of the sea. Evelyn pressed her back against the cool iron wall, watching Julian work his charm on the steward stationed at the junction. He was leaning in close, one hand on the man's shoulder, speaking in low conspiratorial tones about a misplaced trunk and a promised tip that would make the man's month.

The steward laughed, glancing down the corridor. Julian had him turned just enough that his back was to Evelyn. She slipped past, her heels clicking too loud on the metal grating. She froze. The steward didn't turn.

She moved deeper into the warren of third-class berths, her lungs tightening with each step. The air grew thicker, heavier with the press of bodies that had slept here only hours ago. Narrow doors lined the walls, each one numbered in faded paint. She counted. Twelve. Fourteen. Sixteen.

Berth sixteen. She stopped.

The door was ajar, just a finger's width. Lamplight bled through the crack, warm and unsteady. Evelyn hesitated, then pushed it open slowly, watching the hinge for a squeal that never came.

The room was small, barely large enough for a narrow bunk and a washbasin. A woolen shawl lay folded on the pillow. A small leather satchel sat at the foot of the bed, its clasp undone. And on the edge of the bunk, hunched over a letter she was reading by the dim light of a single oil lamp, sat Margaret O'Leary.

She looked older than she had at breakfast. The morning light had softened her features, made her seem fragile but determined. Now, in the gloom, Evelyn could see the deep lines carved into her face, the knuckles of her hands swollen with age and work. Her hair, pinned in a loose grey knot, had escaped in wisps around her temples.

She did not look up. She was crying. Silent tears tracked down her cheeks and fell onto the paper in her hands. She read the same line again and again, her lips moving without sound.

Evelyn stepped closer, her breath caught in her throat. She should leave. She knew she should leave. But something held her rooted to the floorboards.

Margaret shifted, tilting the letter toward the light, and the lamp caught her face at a new angle. Evelyn's heart stopped.

She knew that face.

Knew the sharp line of the jaw. Knew the small, almost imperceptible scar that cut through the left eyebrow—a childhood accident from a fall down a stairwell in a house that no longer existed. Knew the shape of the ear, the way the lobe curved just slightly. Knew the eyes. Grey-green, like the sea before a storm. Like her own.

Evelyn's hand flew to her mouth. The word came out as barely a whisper.

"Grandmother?"

Margaret's head snapped up. Her eyes, red-rimmed and wet, widened with momentary confusion. She studied Evelyn's face with a searching intensity that made Evelyn's skin prickle. And then, for just a second, something flickered across her features. Recognition. Not of a name or a title, but of a lineage. Of blood.

Margaret opened her mouth to speak.

Evelyn fled.

She didn't remember running. She only remembered the corridor blurring past, the iron walls closing in, the sound of her own breath ragged in her ears. She burst through a door and nearly collided with a young woman carrying a stack of linens. Apologies spilled from her lips. She didn't stop.

She found Julian exactly where she'd left him. He was still talking to the steward, but his eyes were scanning the corridor, searching for her. When he saw her face, he straightened immediately, his easy charm evaporating.

"Evelyn. What happened?"

"Come with me. Now."

She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him down the corridor, away from the steward's curious gaze. She didn't stop until they were in the narrow stairwell leading up to the second-class deck. She pressed her back against the riveted steel wall, her hands trembling at her sides.

"Evelyn." Julian's voice was low, serious. He stepped close, blocking the corridor from view. "Tell me what happened."

"Margaret O'Leary." Evelyn's voice came out thin, shaky. "I know her. I know her, Julian."

"You knew her name from the manifest."

"No. Not her name. Her face." She looked up at him, and she felt the horror of it settle into her bones. "She's my grandmother. My father's mother. She's supposed to have died in New York. Twenty years ago. A carriage accident. I attended her funeral when I was seven years old."

Julian went still. His jaw tightened.

"That's not possible."

"I know it's not possible. I was there. I saw her buried." Evelyn pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if she could block out the image of Margaret's face. "But I just saw her. Alive. Sitting in a third-class berth, reading a letter. It was her. The scar above her eye. The way she holds her head. It was her."

"Did she recognize you?"

Evelyn lowered her hands. "I don't know. Maybe. She looked at me like she recognized something." She swallowed hard. "She opened her mouth to speak, and I ran."

"Of course you ran. Anyone would have run." Julian's voice was gentler now. He reached out, hesitated, then took her by the shoulders with a firm, steadying grip. "But listen to me, Evelyn. You need to think. If this woman is your grandmother, and your grandmother died twenty years ago in New York, then either the funeral was a lie or this is not Margaret O'Leary. There may be an explanation."

"What explanation could there possibly be?"

"Perhaps she is your great-aunt. A sister. A cousin who resembles her."

"No." Evelyn shook her head, adamant. "My grandmother was an only child. My father spoke of it often. There was no one else."

"Then perhaps—"

"Julian." Evelyn looked up at him, and for the first time she felt a cold certainty settle in her stomach. "The envelope Fleet was carrying. The torn fragment with Ashworth on it. The anonymous benefactor who paid for Margaret's ticket. My father."

Julian's hands tightened on her shoulders.

"What if my father didn't book her passage to help her?" Evelyn whispered. "What if he booked it to control her? To hide her?"

"Hide her from what?"

"From me." The words tasted strange on her tongue. "The loop always resets with some connection to me. I wake on this ship every single time. And now the one person we've been trying to save is the grandmother I was told was dead. This isn't random, Julian. This is personal."

Julian was quiet for a long moment. The ship hummed around them, a distant rattle of engines and the far-off clash of dinner preparations. Somewhere above, the band was tuning up.

"We need to find out why she was declared dead," he said finally. "And we need to do it before sunset. Because once the ship goes down—"

"Once the ship goes down, she dies. Again." Evelyn pulled away from him, straightening her dress with trembling fingers. "And if she's my grandmother, then I've been watching my own blood die again and again without realizing it."

She felt the edges of the loop pressing in around her, the weight of every cycle she had lived through pressing down on her shoulders. How many times had she passed Margaret in the third-class dining hall without knowing? How many mornings had she watched her walk to the railing and never understood why her heart ached?

"You don't know she dies every time," Julian said quietly. "You've only been tracking her for two loops."

"Three. She wasn't on the boat today either." The words came out flat, hollow.

Julian winced. "That doesn't mean—"

"She was taken off the manifest before I even found her, Julian. Someone moved her. Someone who knew we'd be looking." Evelyn smoothed her hair back, forcing her voice to level. "We need to see my father. Now."

"You want to confront Lord Ashworth?"

"I want to ask him what he knows about his own mother's death."

She started up the stairs, her heels ringing against the steel treads. Julian followed without another word.

Behind them, in the shadow of the stairwell, a figure she hadn't heard approaching watched her climb. A white-gloved hand rested on the banister. The brass buttons on the uniform caught the lamplight.

James Fleet exhaled slowly, his face unreadable, and turned back the way he'd come.