Death's Compass 2: The Compass That Refused North
Medical Log. April 24, 1818. Barrett Manor, Portsmouth. Sailing the treacherous waters of nobility, wealth, and false promises. If only I had a working compass…
Author’s Note: Death’s Compass is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented Leanne Shawler! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.
New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!
Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.
Previously. In the wake of the Portlethen Bay incident, the HMS Dawn Javelin limped into Portsmouth Dockyard for repairs. Her battered crew spent well-earned time ashore recovering from pirates, water leapers, and worse best left behind. All the crew, save one. Doctor Rebekah Thorne remained aboard, tending the aftermath, which included a tavern brawl where the sailors of the Javelin defended the ship’s honor. Much to the Doctor’s horror, a new sort of battlefield lies in wait. An award’s ceremony and gala honoring the Javelin’s crew hosted by a one Lord Kingsley Barrett for the Royal Navy. One which requires the good doctor to suffer an uncomfortable formal uniform…
Medical Log. April 24, 1818. Barrett Manor, Portsmouth. Sailing the treacherous waters of nobility, wealth, and false promises. If only I had a working compass…
The world itched, and I just lived in it.
I stepped away from an exotic potted plant in a ceramic vase that looked far more comfortable than me. The award ceremony was done, and the gala in full swing inside the Barrett Manor ballroom. People were everywhere. They were waves of color like peacocks in a lake; admirals and their wives, nobles seeking favor, and servants hurrying between them.
It made me dizzy. I clasped my white-gloved hands behind me, then in front. Then I tried clenching them at my sides.
“Confound it. I never know what to do with my hands,” I muttered, putting them in front of me again. After a bitter groan, I smoothed my formal coat, then moved into the room, so long as ‘in’ was defined as ‘navigating the wall.’ A flutter of movement brushed the side of a cheek. I hurried to the nearest mirror, intent on killing whatever insect had landed on me.
It was my confounded hair. Again.
I glared at it. Twin waves of light brown hair fell down either side of my face. The rest was pulled back in a cascade of brown waves that looked as impractical as a frilly dress, all bound by blue ribbons.
“God’s teeth, it really is a lot of ribbon,” I sighed.
Then my eyes traveled to the new saber at my waist. It was a new commendation for those serving in the Aetheric Dirigible fleet. Light glinted off the brass trim along the scabbard, ivory hilt, and Maltese cross at the pommel.
“For bravery at Portlethen Bay… still frippery,” I mumbled, hand gripping the ivory. It felt out of place on my belt. Heavy, but strangely balanced. “Bravery. I was just doing my job. Not even sure I did it that well. How many didn’t come back? Even one was too many.”
A strand of my hair teased my cheek. I irritably blew it aside.
“Damn hair,” I muttered, reaching up to bat it aside. “Wholly inappropriate.”
Amina practically materialized beside me out of the crowd. I jumped, half-swallowing a tiny shriek.
“Doctor! Stop touching your hair!” she hissed. “Please wait until this is over?”
I dropped my hand with a sigh, my glare shifting from the ceiling to Amina. Then I blew that same bit of hair from my face.
“Fine. Hopefully, that’s soon.” I missed my tiny space aboard the Javelin. It was cramped, small, but mine.
Amina grinned, nudging me with her shoulder. “It will be. Now that we’ve got our commendations, go mingle. Remember, we represent the Javelin. We need to make a good impression.”
“Right…” A long breath later, I boldly headed along the wall toward the buffet table to stay out of sight. I nearly made it, but Amina’s hand on my arm stopped me short. “Confound it!” I sputtered softly.
“No, Doctor,” the gunner’s mate whispered. “Buffet table isn’t mingling.” With expert grace, she escorted me away from the safe harbor of the buffet to the choppy waters of the gala attendees. “Mingle means head for deeper water.”
I grumbled under my breath, giving the buffet table a sad look, then changed direction. Amina glided away, a shark through the gala surf. I followed like a barge navigating a regatta.
The ballroom was quite elegant, as such things went, like a giant work of art.
My boots marked time with the string quartet as I crossed the polished teak floor. Knots of people clustered around the main room, while dancers spun to the tune of a waltz under a gaslamp chandelier. The hum of conversations flowed in my wake; a mix of people trying to curry favor, gossip, or avoid either one. None of it felt safe.
On the far side, I spotted Blake and his crop of unruly, mutinous red hair among a sea of frills and Royal Navy blue. Close to him stood Captain Alistair Vane himself; a tall, dark-haired rock of safety in the social storm. Even some of the Royal Marines were nearby, like Seith Maddock, who looked as uncomfortable as I felt. A little of the tension bled from my shoulders.
Just as I headed that way, a figure slipped out of the crowd and up beside me. He was a tall, thin reed of a young man about my age and wiry, but with a fencer’s shoulders under his blue frock coat. Smiling, he inclined his head.
“Doctor Rebekah Verity Thorne?” he asked, pushing on before I could reply. “Lord Kingsley Barrett, at your service.”
I blinked.
“Oh. The gala’s Lord Barrett.” I stumbled over the words, my face burning. “You. Our host. That one.”
Tension gripped my shoulders again. I missed my medical station aboard the ship. Everything was in order and just made sense.
“The very same,” he said, a twinkle in his piercing blue eyes. “And you must be the Doctor Thorne. Brilliant surgeon of the Portlethen Bay incident. Tragic affair that it was. Pirates are a menace, and only worse now that they’ve learned to fly.”
I sniffed, clasping my hands behind me, then remembered to smile.
“How can I help you, Lord Barrett?”
His smile grew as he gripped the lapels of his frock coat. “Actually, I was wondering more how I can help you, Doctor. You see, I’ve long been a patron of the sciences. When I heard your story about, what are they called, the little things with the wings?”
A small sigh escaped me. “That would be Llamhigyn y Dŵr. Welsh faerie beasts. They’re also called ‘water leapers’.”
“Yes, those!” He gestured, expression as earnest as a boy excited over a new puppy. “I was simply captivated. Your work with them, as I was told, was inspiring. All of which brings me to my point. Have you considered a patronage? Either for you, or the HMS Dawn Javelin through you? I understand supplies for an Aetheric Dirigible are forever short, and the concept of a hospital dirigible is frightfully new.”
My mind sputtered to a halt. Patronage wasn’t something tossed around lightly. I knew about such things, but thought it was mostly for artists. Still, he wasn’t wrong about supplies.
“Lord Barrett…” I cleared my throat. “A patronage? I’m flattered, but wouldn’t I have to produce something for you in return?”
His smile softened, never wavering. “My good doctor, it would simply be a copy of your discoveries. Such as your notes on these water leapers. Curatives around their bite. Other curious restoratives you’ve dreamed up in your work. I’ll make sure that’s properly distributed. In return, I’d provide a stipend to you and smooth the way for better supplies to the HMS Javelin.”
“I… er…” My mind stuttered. Finally, I forced out the right words as I clasped my hands together in front of me from nerves. “Lord Barrett, I’m very flattered, but I’m really not sure about this. The Admiralty…”
Lord Barrett idly waved a hand at nothing. “Oh, they’ll be fine. They’re often looking for a good way to grease the gears, as they say. At least think it over, Doctor Thorne. Perhaps we can talk later, after the gala. Say over tea, or even a light supper?”
“Um. Of course, I…” My cheeks flushed as my eyes widened.
Fate fortunately stepped in to save me from myself.
“Ma’am?” Corporal Maddock said, the word packed tight and bound with concern. To me, it was a lifeline.
“Corporal!” I turned to face him, trying to hide the relief in my voice. “It’s so good to see you. This is Lord Kingsley Barrett, our host. Lord Kingsley? This is Corporal Seith Maddock, part of the Royal Marines assigned to the Javelin.”
The men shook hands, appraising each other with a hard look. Maddock’s square frame was a solid contrast to Lord Barrett’s wiry one. The air held a brittle edge I didn’t want to understand. A thin waltz played nearby. Before I said anything to rattle the moment, Lord Barrett beat me to it.
“Corporal, it’s a pleasure to meet another of the heroic crew of the HMS Javelin. I would love to stay and chat more, but as this is my gala, I must circulate.” Then he lightly took my gloved hand and kissed the knuckles. “I’ll send someone around to make arrangements for later.”
Lord Barrett melted off into the gala, leaving me rubbing my hand as if I’d been stung, standing next to Maddock.
“Thank you…” I whispered softly to Maddock.
“Of course, ma’am,” he replied, rock-steady but warm. “I’m not much for these events, either. Which is part of why I’m here. Mr. McLaren thought you could use an assist, and wagered I’d also stop fidgeting.”
I raised my eyebrows, then spied Blake past the gala attendees. He grinned, giving me a small toast with a flask he’d obviously smuggled in with him. I grinned back, shaking my head. Then I squinted into the middle distance before glancing at Maddock.
“Wait. You said ‘part’. What’s the other reason?”
He pursed his lips, wincing. “Ma’am…”
I fully faced him, hands on hips. “Oh no. You won’t ma’am your way out of this. Out with it.”
“Your father.” A deep flush crept up Maddock’s neck. “He said you needed to mingle, or at least needed an escort. There might have been an order to dance, too.”
Mingle. I had begun to dislike that word.
“Oh, God’s teeth. Father…,” I brutally sighed, looking around. He appeared a moment later out of the crowd, my mother right alongside him.
Admiral Conall Horatio “Hannibal” Thorne was anything but subtle. Steel-haired, stout, and broad-shouldered enough to make a wall jealous, he was an infamous trickster and strategist. Fortunately for the world and the sanity of the King, my father had retired. Mostly.
My mother, Caitlin O’Hara Thorne, walked alongside him. Much like me, she had a shorter, thinner frame, a quicker step, and a temper that should’ve made her hair red, not brown. To the astonishment of everyone, she kept my father somewhat in line.
“Daughter!” Father enveloped me in a hug like a bear; Mother hugged me right after. “We’re so proud we could burst. So, we saw you were talking with Lord Barrett. Perfect! That’s a good lad to be connected with. Supposedly, he’s got an interest in being a patron.”
“He is,” I said, suddenly feeling like I was twelve and scrawny. “Lord Barrett suggested something like it.”
My father grinned like sunshine. “Good! He’s got a fondness for medicine, I hear. Wise of you to talk him into that.”
I blinked. “Wait. That’s not…”
“No need to be modest.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You’re a Thorne! I’m certain you made a fine impression.” Then, to my mortification, and Maddock’s clear dismay, he added, “You’ve also got a strapping escort right here. Time for you both to celebrate the victories, right?”
I rubbed my eyes while avoiding my hair to spare myself Amina’s wrath. It never paid to irritate a gunner’s mate.
“Conall, leave her be.” My mother said tartly. “Becka’s been through a lot today already.”
My father, as always, was full sail ahead. “Ah, nerves. You’re right, Kate. I know just the thing for our girl.” He charged off for drinks at the buffet table.
“Mother…” I breathed limply.
She squeezed my arm and even gave Maddock a smile that seemed to drain the tension from him. “It’ll be fine. You know your father, Becka. He’s proud as anything. Still, he’s right.” She squinted, giving me an appraising look. “You look nervous. I know you don’t like formal events, but this is different. What is it?”
I drew a deep breath to steel my courage. This wasn’t the time or the place, but when would it ever be? I met Maddock’s steady gaze, then plunged into the reply quietly.
“Mother, what happened with Maeve? We saw her at Portlethen Bay.” I paused, lips in a tight line. “She helped Caleb Rourke escape.”
Another waltz started, and dancers moved to the floor. The music felt tuneless and muted to my ears as I watched the color drain from my mother’s face.
“Oh.” Her voice went as fragile as cracked crystal, nearly shattering under the weight of the word. My mother looked away toward the dancing, not watching anything. “I thought she’d come back so I wouldn’t have to tell you.” She pursed her lips. “Your father was over the moon when your Gift appeared. So very proud. Between that, and the mess when you were engaged to that monster Rourke, Maeve went distant; faded out.”
My blood chilled. “Mother. You said distant. Was it shyness, or would she simply vanish from a room when no one was looking?”
She nodded, wetness touching her eyes. “Maeve would withdraw until everyone forgot she was there. Caleb Rourke never forgot. He came back just after you left for your first posting.” Her lips trembled. “Our Maeve had a falling out with your father. She left. We’ve not heard of her since.”
Words failed me, dying in my throat, killed by shame. Instead, I just hugged my mother.
“I’m so sorry, I should’ve been there…”
“No,” she replied, cutting me off. “You’ve your own path to carve, no matter what your father says.”
Maddock cleared his throat next to us, fidgeting uneasily. “Beggin’ your pardon, but as my mum told me, you’re no one’s keeper. Not brother, sister, or uncle. You can only keep yourself.”
I blinked in surprise. My Gift. It whispered in my ear, playing a strained, raw melody of sadness—a blood song.
“Wait…” I spun toward the call as a shriek split the air, followed by the crash of wine glasses.
A scarred, ragged woman lurched out of the crowd. Stringy hair hung in oily ropes, dripping a fetid, brackish water that stained the floor, smelling of the grave. Her wide, wild blue eyes looked as if she’d seen hell twice and carried back a part of it with her.
Her eyes latched onto me, and the room narrowed. Dark circles framed a glare boring into my soul.
“You!” she shrieked, stabbing a trembling finger at me. “Maeve! You did this!”
The woman ran at me. I stepped back as if slapped.
“What?”
Then I saw the scars weren’t really scars—they were badly done stitches that crisscrossed her neck, arms, and what skin I could see. Maddock instantly stepped in front, using himself as a shield. I shoved him aside and ran for the woman.
The world bled into noise as I met her halfway. Frantically, she pounded weakly at my arms. Then she focused on my face, and despair replaced fury.
“You’re not…” The woman’s breath turned ragged.
Guards and able-bodied guests converged on us. I waved them off. Bless the man, Maddock enforced it.
“I’m her sister,” I whispered, listening to her blood. It was wild, crazed. A discordant mess, like a frantic song played off-key. As if the blood wasn’t even hers. “Please, be still.”
She touched a trembling hand to my cheek.
“Why did I have to die twice?”
Wide-eyed, desperate, I sang. Her blood tried to sing along, but it kept getting lost.
Then the tune faltered.
“No! No, no, no,” I gasped, then sang harder. Louder. I filled the air with it, even as I felt lightheaded. Wetness stung my eyes as I scrubbed away the blood trickling from my nose.
The world melted into a muffled roar, my vision graying at the edges. I heard Blake’s voice, then Amina’s, from a great distance. My father yelled for the surgeons. The air turned thick and hot, too close. My pulse hammered in my ears as I cradled the woman, both of us sliding to the floor.
“Remember those who should’ve stayed dead,” she pleaded soft as a prayer.
I nodded, still singing in a panic, trying to find the melody. The woman’s arm fell slowly, as if relaxing into sleep. A metal compass clattered to the polished floor next to us. I watched the needle slowly spin, then point at the woman… or possibly me.
It was the last thing I remembered before the darkness took me like a traitor.
This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.
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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.
In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.