The cabin tilted.
Not the boat.
Me.
I waited.
Breathed.
Then noticed the glass on my bedside table.
Half empty.
Adrian had brought it before bed.
Water with an electrolyte packet.
“Drink this. You look pale.”
I had.
I reached for the glass.
There was a faint white residue near the bottom.
Electrolytes could do that.
So could a lot of other things.
I carried the glass into the bathroom.
Under bright light, I smelled it.
Nothing.
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.”
“She’s been resting for a day and a half.”
“She’s unwell.”
“What does she have?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re the purser.”
“Yes.”
“You know everything.”
His mouth tightened.
