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There was a startled cry. Constance whirled toward the sound, knife extended.
It was the cabin stewardess, the dark-haired woman who had introduced herself earlier. She had been standing by the bookcase, apparently engrossed in the book she had just dropped in surprise. Now she looked at Constance, her expression a mixture of shock, dismay, and fear. Her eyes fastened on the gleaming scalpel.
“What are you doing here?” Constance demanded.
The shock was slow to leave the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, miss. Please, I just came in to turn down the beds . . .” she began in her thick Eastern European accent. She continued to stare at the scalpel, terror distorting her face.
Constance slipped the scalpel back in the case and returned it to her bag. Then she reached for the bedside phone to call security.
“
No!
” the woman cried. “Please. They’ll abandon me at next port, leave me in New York with no way of getting home.”
Constance hesitated, hand on the phone. She eyed the woman warily.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman went on. “I come in to turn down bed, put chocolate on pillow. And then I saw . . . I saw . . .” She pointed at the book she had dropped.
Constance glanced at it. To her vast surprise, she saw it was the thin volume titled
Poems of Akhmatova
.
Constance was not quite sure why she had brought this book along. Its history—and its legacy—was painful to her. Just to look upon it now was difficult. Perhaps she’d carried it as a penitent carries a cilice, hoping to atone for her misjudgment through pain.
“You like Akhmatova?” she said.
The woman nodded. “When I came here, I could bring no books. I have missed them. And then, turning down your bed, I saw—I saw yours.” She swallowed.
Constance continued to gaze at her speculatively. “
I have lit my treasured candles
,” she quoted Akhmatova. “
One by one, to hallow this night
.”
Without taking her eyes from Constance, the woman replied, “
With you, who do not come, I wait the birth of the year.
”
Constance stepped back from the phone.
“Back home, in Belarus, I taught the poetry of Akhmatova,” the woman said.
“High school?”
The woman shook her head. “University. In Russian, of course.”
“You’re a professor?” Constance asked, surprised.
“I was. I lost my job—as did many others.”
“And now you work on board . . . as a maid ?” The woman smiled sadly. “It is the same for a lot of us here. We lose many jobs. Or our countries have few jobs. Everything is corrupt.”
“Your family?”
“My parents had a farm, but it was taken away by the government because of the fallout. From Chernobyl. The plume drifted west, you see. For ten years I taught Russian literature at university. But then I lost my position. Later I heard of work on the big boats. So I come here to work, send money home.” She shook her head bitterly.
Constance took a seat in a nearby chair. “What’s your name?”
“Marya Kazulin.”
“Marya, I am willing to forget this breach of privacy. But in return, I would like your help.”
The woman’s expression grew guarded. “How can I possibly help you?”
“I would like to be able to go belowdecks from time to time, chat with the workers, the stewards, the various members of the crew. Ask a few questions. You could introduce me, vouch for me.”
“Questions?” the woman became alarmed. “You work for the shipping line?”
Constance shook her head. “No. I have my reasons, personal reasons. Nothing involving the company or the ship. Forgive me if I’m not more specific at this point.”
Marya Kazulin seemed to relax slightly, but she said nothing. “This could get me into trouble.”
“I’ll be very discreet. I just want to mingle, ask a few questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About life on board the ship, any unusual goings-on, gossip about the passengers. And whether or not anyone has seen a specific item in one of the cabins.”
“Passengers? I do not think this is good idea.”
Constance hesitated. “Ms. Kazulin, I’ll tell you what it’s about, if you promise not to speak of this to anyone.”
After a hesitation, the maid nodded.
“I’m looking for something hidden on board the ship. An object, sacred and very rare. I was hoping to mingle with the housekeeping staff, to see if anyone has seen something like it in a stateroom.”
“And this item you mention? What is it?”
Constance paused. “It’s a long, narrow box, made of wood, very old, with odd writing on it.”
Marya considered this a moment. Then she straightened up. “Then I will help you.” She smiled, her face betraying a certain excitement. “It is
horrible
to work on cruise ship. This make it more interesting. And it for good cause.” Constance held out her hand and they shook.
Marya eyed her. “I will get you uniform like mine.” She waved a hand over her front. “You ca
“Thank you. How will I contact you?”
“I will contact you,” Marya said. She knelt, retrieved the book, and handed it to Constance. “Good night, miss.”
Constance held her hand for a moment, and pressed the book into it. “Take it. And please don’t call me ‘miss.’ My name is Constance.”
With a fleeting smile, Marya retreated toward the door and let herself out.
15
FIRST OFFICER GORDON LESEUR HAD SERVED ON DOZENS OF SHIP’S bridges in his career at sea, from admiralty cutters to destroyers to cruise ships. The bridge of theBrita