The next morning
Shirley does not appear for breakfast next morning. When Margaret looks in, he is dead to the world, curled up in his bunk like a cat with his back against the wall of the cabin. He does not even stir at the creak of the sea-rusted doorhinges. His clothes from the day before lie next to his bed, haphazardly folded; he is wearing high-collared pyjamas of undyed linen. He has the sheet pulled over him, clasped tight in his hands under his chin, but they are far enough north now that the mornings are chilly, and his blanket is still folded at the foot of his bed.
She steps in, closing the door behind her as quietly as she can. Then she steps over, shakes out the blanket, and pulls it up over Shirley, smoothing it across his shoulders softly. He stretches out his legs and sighs without awakening. She watches him sleep with a tiny, tender smile, bends to place a feather-light kiss on his cheek, and turns away. She listens at the door; if she hears nothing, she will slip out again. She will check again in an hour or two, but will not be surprised if he sleeps the clock around.
When next she comes down the narrow corridor, she hears the thump-and-rustle of someone wrestling with the contents of a trunk in tight quarters. She nods to herself and goes on her way, retrieving her Russian grammar and some sewing from her own cabin and heading up on deck. Shirley will find her when he’s ready to face the day.
She hears him exchanging greetings with a ship’s officer not long after. “Yes, quite recovered, thank you,” he says in response to the inevitable polite inquiry. “It’s this Russian, I tell you—impossible language, I’ve no notion how the Russians themselves manage it. Good day, sir.”
Beside Margaret is one chair, across from her another. Shirley looks from one to the other with a droll, “Is this a test of some sort?” before taking the one at her side. She giggles. He drops his own Russian grammar and his notebook in his lap and leans toward her to lay his hand over hers, screened from view by the high chair-backs. “You are a healer, you blessed woman,” he says. “I am whole. Very likely the first time.”
Her answering smile lights up her whole face, but all she says is “Good. I’m very glad to hear it.” Then she holds up the Russian book and adds “or should I say ‘ochen harashoh?’”
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