Florence glances over her shoulder, her breath hitching as she weaves through the throng of passengers crowding the SS. Navis’ gleaming streamline deck. The vibrant chatter and carefree laughter of the travelers seem worlds away from her frantic pulse. She presses a trembling hand to her chest and leans against a polished railing, daring to snatch a moment of respite. Her voice emerges in a whisper, dry from the effort of running, "I think they’ve stopped looking for me."
The fleeting hope shatters as her eyes fixate on Edward—stern and imposing, the vessel’s First Mate. He stands with several officers just ahead, their navy-blue uniforms crisp and commanding. Florence bites her lip as he speaks to a maid clad in the same light blue attire she’s wearing. The maid gestures hesitantly, pointing toward the direction where Florence had only moments ago rushed past. Florence groans under her breath, her words barely audible, "Not again."
With her heart racing, she ducks behind a precarious stack of deck chairs, their varnished wood glinting under the midday sun. She crouches lower, running her fingers along the hem of her skirt as her gaze darts toward Edward. His voice is sharp yet composed, effortlessly cutting through the din of the ship’s busy deck. “Report back to your normal duties,” he commands, those piercing eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk searching for prey. “I’ll find her myself.”
Florence’s breath catches in her throat as she peers out from between the slats of the deck chairs. Her hands press firmly over her mouth to stifle even the faintest sound as she watches Edward speak to the other officers. His tone grows colder, a smoldering determination lacing his words. “She couldn't have gotten far.”
Her pulse thrums frantically in her ears, swallowing the noise of the bustling ship and wind-churned waves. She wills herself to shrink further into her hiding place, trembling as realization dawns—Edward is getting closer. The cool metal of the deck presses against her knees, grounding her in the moment, even as anxiety threatens to whisk her away entirely. Every creak of the chairs above her sends tremors down her spine.
Can she evade him this time? Or is it only a matter of time before those piercing blue eyes land on her? Florence doesn’t move; she doesn’t dare. But she knows his patience is not the sort that falters.
Florence’s breath catches in her throat as she darts past passengers lingering near the SS Navis’s ornate streamline desk. Her heart pounds like the rhythm of the ship’s engines rumbling beneath her feet. Beads of nervous sweat slide down her temples as her gaze flickers behind her. Edward, the first mate with a sharp jawline and an even sharper sense of authority, stands at a distance, barking orders to the ship’s officers. His commanding voice cuts through the sea air like a blade.
“I guess she left this area,” Edward says with a tone of reluctant certainty, motioning for his men to spread out further.
Florence’s heart pounds in her chest as she moves swiftly down the deck of the SS Navis, her eyes darting back over her shoulder every few seconds. The sunlight glints sharply off the brass railings, momentarily distracting her, but she doesn’t slow down. Passengers mill about, their laughter and casual chatter blending with the rhythmic churn of the ocean below, but she barely registers them. Her entire focus is fixed on Edward, the first mate. He stands a short distance away at the streamline desk, commanding the ship’s officers with an air of authority that makes her stomach tighten.
From behind her hiding spot, she watches Edward glance around the area. His brow furrows slightly as he says, “I guess she left this area.”
Florence exhales a shaky sigh of relief when the trio moves off in the opposite direction. “Finally,” she whispers to herself, a faint smirk brushing her lips. Straightening her posture, she steps out from the corner and surveys her surroundings carefully. The deck stretches before her, wide and polished to a pristine shine, but it feels dangerously exposed. She keeps her chin high; confidence, she tells herself, is key, even when you’re running.
Her soft voice carries over the low hum of the ship’s engines. “Those officers aren’t that bright.” She lets herself relax for a moment, but just as she takes another step forward, her breath catches in her throat. Her whole body goes rigid, freezing as a strong arm loops suddenly around her waist from behind.
She gasps, but there’s no time to process. The hand grips her firmly, pulling her flush against someone’s chest, and her pulse skips wildly. The scent of sea salt mingles faintly with cologne. Florence doesn’t need to turn around; the voice that strokes the back of her neck with its heat is unmistakable.
“I am very clever, stowaway,” Edward murmurs, his tone low and sharp.
Florence flinches, twisting in his hold, her voice breaking as she protests, “I’m not a stowaway!”
But Edward isn’t buying it; his hold tightens, his gaze trailing down to the name tag pinned awkwardly to her uniform. His lips curve into a slow, mocking smile. “Really, Florence? First-class maids don’t wear name tags.”
Her cheeks flame as panic prickles down her spine. She tries to shake him off, but his grip is unyielding. “I am not a maid!” she snaps, her voice trembling with frustration.
Edward lets out a rich, amused laugh that grates against her nerves. His blue eyes, sharp and assessing, narrow slightly as he tips his head closer to hers. “So,” he says, his tone dripping with intrigue, “you’re not a stowaway or a maid. Why are you on my ship?”
Florence’s shoulders stiffen, but before she can formulate a reply, the sheer force of her own panic takes over. She tugs harder, struggling against his grasp as a yell bursts from her throat. “Let me go!”
Edward’s arm wraps securely around Florence’s waist, steady yet deliberate, as if guiding her through a waltz. The salty breeze teases loose strands of her dark hair, twisting them into fluttering ribbons against her chin. Her gaze flits nervously to the approaching group of First-Class passengers, resplendent in tailored suits and exquisite dresses, their steps measured and whispering wealth.
Edward leans closer to her ear, his breath warm and laced with authority. “Just smile,” he murmurs, voice low enough to remain invisible but sharp enough to slice through her rising panic. She obeys, lips curving upwards into a restrained yet polite smile, her fear delicately veiled like lace on a mourning widow. The First-Class passengers return her secret signal with friendly nods, their own smiles practiced and hollow. Edward, still holding her steady, greets them smoothly: “Good day,” his tone a mirror-polished surface built for propriety.
Their polished shoes tap away, fading into the hum of the deck as Edward pulls Florence closer into his side. He pauses before speaking again, his voice soft, yet laced with suspicion. “We have some of your friends in the brig.”
Florence’s brow furrows, confusion eclipsing her face as she replies quickly, hands now twitching with latent desperation. “It’s just me. I was cleaning in the anchor room and... and I ended up here.”
Edward tilts his head, his eyes narrowing just enough to betray his doubt. He begins walking her down the length of the ship, his steps purposefully, his hand firm and guiding. “What? That makes no sense,” he retorts, his voice quiet but cutting.
And then it bursts—her panic like fireworks breaking the heavy horizon. “This ship will sink!” Florence cries out, her voice slicing through the genteel murmurs of opulent conversation and shattering the carefully curated illusion of calm. Gasps ripple through the air like drops of water on a still pond. A cluster of pearls glints in the sunlight as one passenger turns, alarm forming cracks in their serene facade.
Quick as lightning, Edward moves to silence her, his hand covering her mouth before the threat of hysteria contaminates the air. His grin, forced and apologetic, aims to deflect their curiosity. “The salt air is getting to her,” he says smoothly, making light of her outburst as though her words were no heavier than a missed etiquette cue. Passengers still staring, Edward’s faintly flushed face turns with a quiet urgency. His hand presses gently on the small of her back, urging her away from prying eyes as his stride quickens to match the mounting tension.
Their footsteps echo out near the farthest edge of the deck, where the breeze carries the distant sounds of waves slapping the ship’s hull. Florence trembles in his grip, her thoughts no longer buried beneath the mask Edward urges her to wear. Yet the mask itself begins to crack, danger now trailing them like an invisible specter. Edward tightens his hold, his chest rising and falling in short, calculated breaths. Only now, away from the blazing white smiles of the elite, does the intensity of Florence’s whispered truth threaten to drown them both.
***
The sun gleams off the polished railings of the SS Navis, the open sea stretching endlessly beyond as passengers mill about, basking in the luxury of their voyage. The air carries the tang of salt and the murmur of conversation, a pleasant veneer concealing the brewing tension on the deck. Edward, the ship’s first mate, strides purposefully, his hand firm around Florence’s arm. His stiff smile does not falter as curious eyes follow them; his expression remains practiced, almost infuriatingly calm, as if their encounter isn’t drawing attention.
“Don’t cause any more problems, stowaway,” he mutters from the corner of his mouth, his commanding tone softened just enough to avoid alarming the onlookers. Yet, there’s no mistaking the steel edge beneath those words.
Florence, for all her apparent delicacy wrapped in layers of cream-colored fabric, holds her ground. Even with his firm grip guiding her, her chin remains defiantly high, her voice cutting through the gentle breeze. “I told you many times—I am not a stowaway.”
Edward’s hand shifts now, his palm pressed lightly but securely against the small of her back, steering her past clusters of passengers sipping their midday champagne. His grip tightens fractionally, a warning masked by a courteous nod to a passing couple. “Right,” he says, his gaze flicking ahead and bypassing her. “You just conveniently turned up on my ship—papers missing, name nowhere on the manifest. That doesn’t scream ‘stowaway’ to you?”
Before she can retort, they pass the grand windows framing the first-class dining hall, where the sight of the captain holds Edward’s attention. Through the glass, the man is leaning languidly against a chair, tipping his hat to a lady with ringlets spilling over her shoulders. She giggles lightly, her tea untouched on the table before her, their flirtation unmistakable. Edward’s jaw tightens as he mutters under his breath, “That man is useless.”
Florence, quick to catch his shift in focus, lifts a brow and remarks with a softness laced with sarcasm, “The museum I work for said the same thing once, but funnily enough, I don’t recall any mention of first mate.”
Her words draw his eyes down to her, sharp and incredulous, as though she’s made an absurd claim about the world itself. “You are a madwoman,” he states plainly, his tone brushing close to disbelief.
“I am not mad,” she snaps, twisting slightly in his hold, though he keeps her neatly in step with him. “You are annoying.”
“I mean ill of the mind,” Edward clarifies, the corner of his mouth twitching, not quite a smirk yet not devoid of amusement.
She halts for a moment, tugging almost instinctively at his hand on her waist, barely causing him to budge. Her narrowed eyes shoot daggers upward. “I am tired of your insults.”
Before he can fire back, the heavy oak door of the dining hall swings open with a thud, revealing a wide-eyed staff member balancing a tray of empty glasses. The door arcs outward toward them with startling proximity. Without a second thought, Edward yanks Florence toward him, his arm looping instinctively around her waist. She stumbles against him, her hands planting firmly against his chest, her breaths coming out in quick, shallow bursts.
The scent of salt and linen fills her senses as she looks up, only to find Edward’s face mere inches from hers. His green eyes—ones she had previously only found irritating with their judgmental squints—are softer now, laced with concern and just the faintest flicker of something unspoken.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The hallway outside the first-class dining hall hums with muted conversations and the clink of fine china through the heavy double doors. Edward’s hand clasps Florence’s arm firmly, though his grip seems more stabilizing than forceful. Her chest rises and falls as if she’s struggling to maintain composure beneath his touch. A few paces away, Captain Hargrove sits at a delicate round table, tea cup poised in hand, whispering something undoubtedly flirtatious to a beaming lady in a pale lavender gown. The captain doesn’t notice them—no surprise there.
Edward’s jaw tightens. His sharp glare flicks toward the dining staff passing through the hall, carrying silver trays with the poise of swans. One of them, a young man with a sharp tongue despite his polished uniform, pauses mid-stride, tray balanced on one gloved hand. His gaze locks on Edward’s unyielding hand around Florence.
“Mind your business,” Edward growls, his voice low yet full of menace, his glare daring the staffer to push further.
The dining staff member quirks an eyebrow, unfazed. “You should take whatever’s going on here somewhere more private,” he says flatly, his clipped tone rippling through the tense silence.
Edward stiffens, his shoulders straightening like a man itching for a fight. “Excuse me?”
Florence, who until now has been almost silent, lets out a soft exhale and lowers her gaze. “This is so embarrassing,” she murmurs, barely audible.
The dining staffer exhales, unimpressed, and a sardonic smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “If you’re going to have your way with one of the maids,” he says casually, balancing his tray with infuriating ease, “then at least do it in private, somewhere you’re not in my way.”
The innuendo makes Florence’s cheeks flush a color that rivals the setting sun. She shrinks under the insinuation, tugging lightly at her arm as if to pull out of Edward’s hold. Edward’s teeth grind audibly, his knuckles going white, but instead of replying to the staffer’s venom-laced jab, he straightens his posture and slowly begins steering Florence down the hall, his long strides practically towing her with him.
“Can you believe that guy?” Edward mutters, his voice a deep rumble as they descend the dimly-lit passageway.
Florence walks beside him, her heel catching on the plush carpet once, her voice ripe with bewildered indignation. “I guess it’s true what they say about a man at sea.”
Edward stops dead mid-stride, spinning on his heel to face her, his hazel eyes narrowing. The warmth of his hand falls away from her arm. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She hesitates, her red cheeks betraying her discomfort, but her quick tongue doesn’t falter. “You know,” she says with a casual shrug that belies the storm beneath her expression, “sailors have their way with anything that moves. Like your captain back there.”
Edward’s face hardens, the line of his mouth setting into an immovable line of stubborn resolve. “I have never—” he starts sharply but then reins in his tone, his voice lowering. “I have never done anything like that screwup of a captain.” He spits the word “captain” like it’s a rotten taste in his mouth. He stares at her for a beat longer, as though daring her to question his integrity.
The air between them grows heavy, thick with unsaid words and fragile tension. Somewhere, just around the corner, a string quartet begins playing for the diners. But here, in the shadowed corridor, the melody seems miles away, lost in the electric charge of their gazes.
There is no mistaking Edward’s glare as he casts one last stern look over his shoulder toward the dining staff worker before stepping away. His jaw tenses, the muscles taut with an unspoken frustration as he steadies his grip on Florence’s arm, firm but not unkind.
Edward mumbles something under his breath, his tone clipped and laced with indignation. “I can’t believe you accused me of being anything like the captain.” His words are quiet but carry a sharp edge, his voice teetering between restraint and exasperation. “I’ve always done my job correctly, Florence. Not once have I indulged in... those kinds of affairs.”
Flower-scented perfume drifts faintly in the air as Florence walks beside him, her steps slightly hesitant. Her eyes flicker to Edward's face, softened by flickering corridor lanterns, as she realizes she has hit some tender chord within his tightly bound pride. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” she says quietly, her voice holding the barest tremor of regret. The ocean’s gentle sway beneath them hums its rhythm, adding weight to the conversation. Her breath hitches lightly before she adds, “I guess my boyfriend cheating on me still has me—well—still a little angry.”
For a moment, Edward’s pace falters, the firm slap of his boots against the polished floor pausing just enough to signify her words have landed. His lips press tightly together, navigating an unspoken empathy he isn’t certain how to give voice to. “Sorry,” he says finally, a trace of roughness hidden beneath his attempt at courteousness. He resumes walking, his posture straightening as though pushing aside his conflicted thoughts. His voice softens further, though there’s still a matter-of-fact brusqueness clinging to every syllable. “That you were dishonored by your... male partner, or whatever you call him.” He doesn’t look at her, but his tone grows pointed, a current of disdain bleeding into his final words. “He sounds like a scoundrel.”
The word hangs between them, cutting through the dimness of the corridor like the sharp keel of the ship slicing through dark waters. Florence doesn’t reply immediately, honing her gaze on the delicate patterns in the ship’s tiling as the clack of their shoes echoes down impossibly long passageways. Beneath the cloud of indignation and bitterness surrounding them, there is a quiet pull—an unspoken tension—that neither acknowledges directly. Yet, it builds in the space between them, unspooling like thread one step at a time.
***
The afternoon sun bathes the first-class deck of the SS Navis in a soft golden glow. Passengers lounge in wicker deck chairs, their laughter mingling with the faint music of a string quartet drifting from inside the grand salon. Glasses of wine and delicate cocktails catch the light, reflecting tiny rainbows across white tablecloths. The air smells of expensive cigars and sea spray, with a faint hint of perfume that seems to follow the wealthy no matter where they go.
Nelson, with his sharp jawline and brooding expression, flicks open his lighter. The brief flare of orange illuminates his face as he lights his cigarette with practiced ease. He exhales slowly, his eyes scanning the crowd in front of him. Men in tailored suits and women in flowing, silk dresses seem absorbed in their own little clouds of champagne and small talk. He steps closer to the railing, his polished shoes clicking softly against the wooden deck. With a casual glance at the endless expanse of ocean, he mutters, “Such a lovely day.” His voice carries just enough to suggest he doesn’t really care if anyone hears him.
Beside him, a woman dressed in a pale lavender dress that clings to her in all the right places turns slightly. With her is another woman—a charming brunette in emerald green—and a distinguished-looking man, presumably the brunette’s husband. The first woman steps closer to Nelson, her lips curling into the faintest suggestion of a smile.
“Hello,” she says, her voice rich but tinged with boredom. “I’m Dola. Do you have an extra one?”
Nelson raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say much. Instead, he pulls out a slim, gold cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket. It gleams in the sunlight, a testament to wealth and sophistication. He flicks it open, offering its contents to her. Dola plucks a cigarette from the case with fingers adorned by rings that look like they belong in a museum. He snaps the case shut and pulls out his lighter again, igniting the tip of her cigarette with one smooth motion.
They both inhale deeply, the brief silence between them punctuated only by the murmurs of the rest of the passengers and the rhythmic hum of the ship cutting through the sea. The brunette and her husband step aside, engaged in their own hushed conversation, leaving Nelson and Dola alone at the railing.
Nelson’s voice breaks the quiet. “Why are you traveling with a married couple?”
Dola exhales a thin stream of smoke that drifts lazily into the air. “My husband up and left me,” she says matter-of-factly, as though reciting an item from a shopping list. “This was my brother’s gift after I divorced that bastard.”
Nelson gives a low hum, neither surprised nor sympathetic. “How did he manage to get first-class tickets?” he asks, glancing over at the couple who seem oblivious to their conversation.
She smirks, her red lips curling mischievously. “Well,” she says, tilting her head slightly, “the Captain on the last cruise had a slight... fascination with my sister-in-law. Let’s just say he was generous after that.” Her words drip with a kind of casual disdain, but her eyes sparkle as if she takes some amusement in the absurdity of her own story.
Nelson chuckles faintly, though there’s nothing particularly funny about the situation. Perhaps it’s the irony, or perhaps it’s something else—something about Dola’s confidence and the way she carries her scars like they’re diamonds and pearls. He leans back against the railing, taking another slow drag from his cigarette, the two of them letting the silence settle for a moment. The wind ruffles Dola’s hair, and the horizon stretches out before them, an endless promise of whatever may come next.
The ship sails smoothly, cutting through the waves with effortless grace, as revelers embrace the luxury of leisure. Glasses clink faintly in the hands of suited men and elegant women, the air thick with laughter, faint jazz from the lounge, and the indulgent scent of burned tobacco mingling with hints of salt carried by the gentle breeze.
Nelson exhales slowly, the plume of smoke curling lazily upwards from his cigarette as his gaze flickers toward Dola, who leans against the railing beside him. Her auburn curls sway slightly as the ocean breeze caresses her face, and her dress dances around her legs in soft whispers of movement. He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve before asking with a casual drawl, “So, have you met the captain?”
Dola tilts her head, drawing her own cigarette to her lips before answering. Her voice is rich, effortless, tinged with sharp confidence. “Yeah, we dine at his table every night.”
Nelson’s lips twitch into what might be the shadow of a smirk. He flicks his cigarette lightly, a shower of ash scattering into the wind. “May we walk the deck for a bit?” he asks, his tone bordering on polite curiosity.
She straightens, turning back toward the small group seated around the circular table—her brother and sister-in-law. Without an ounce of hesitation, she announces, “I am gonna walk with this nice gentleman.” Her brother looks up, tilting his glass toward her with a nod of permission.
Dola loops her arm through Nelson’s without a word, her demeanor half playful, half self-assured, and they step away from the gathering, their footfalls light against the gleaming deck. Cigarettes glow faintly as they stroll, pairs of eyes following them momentarily before turning back to partake in the decadence of the day.
Nelson glances down at Dola as she inhales from her cigarette. “Now,” he asks, “what shall we talk about?”
A smile plays faintly across Dola’s lips, but her eyes remain steady—steady and inquisitive. “Why are you on this ship?” Her question carries an undertone of intrigue, rising above the creaking of wood and distant hum of the ocean waves.
Nelson’s jaw tightens for a moment, his gaze drawn instinctively to the horizon—where the sky sinks into the sea in a simple, infinite line. His voice is quieter now, colored by something distant and unreachable. “My father used to own this ship.” He pauses, holding the silence as if choosing his next words carefully, then adds, “He died.”
Dola doesn’t break her stride but turns to him fully, cigarette poised neatly between two fingers. Her brows lift slightly, her tone softened without losing its edge. “So… like one last ride with your father?” A gentle irony laces her words. “She shouldn’t own the ship now.”
The ocean breeze stirs the collar of Nelson’s shirt as his posture stiffens ever so slightly. His cigarette still smolders, forgotten between his fingers as he fixes his gaze ahead, his eyes distant, unreadable. “No,” he says finally, his voice low yet unwavering. “My stepmother owns this ship.”
Dola glances at him thoughtfully, her features shifting toward something softer—an acknowledgment, maybe, of the weight behind his simple confession. The ocean roars quietly on all sides, and for a moment, their footsteps are the only sound, grounding them against the vastness of the open sea.
Amid this elegance, Nelson strides with practiced ease, his cigarette nestled between his fingers as a faint ribbon of smoke curls into the air.
Beside him is Dola, her dark curls catching the faint glow of the deck lights. She walks with an effortless grace, one hand holding her cigarette, the other loosely brushing the folds of her satin evening gown. Her laugh escapes in light, musical bursts as Nelson turns to her with a crooked smile.
"Let’s talk more about you, lovely lady," he says, his voice low, intimate, yet teasing.
She side-eyes him, the corners of her lips twitching in amusement. “Are you a smooth one?” she asks, exhaling her cigarette smoke in a slow, spiraling plume.
Nelson chuckles, his laughter softer and rougher than hers. “I’m trying to be,” he says, tilting his head. “Is it working?”
“It’ll take more cigarettes,” she counters, her tone light but challenging, lifting her chin ever so slightly.
Nelson stops mid-step, planting himself firmly near the rail, his gaze drifting to the enveloping night. The ocean stretches endlessly before them, rippling like black satin under the moon’s ethereal touch. He exhales a long, slow breath of smoke before turning back toward her. “Good thing I’ve got a month’s supply.” There’s a glimmer in his eyes, a mixture of mischief and something deeper, but fleeting—like the brief sparkle of a wave beneath the starlight.
Dola smirks, her lips parting just enough to draw a drag off her cigarette. “I think you’ve earned yourself a friend,” she says, smoke slipping out the side of her mouth as her eyes narrow, studying him.
“Nélson Schneider.” He leans closer slightly, as if testing the waters, his voice softer now, more deliberate. The way her name lingers in his mouth feels purposeful, like he’s making promises without speaking them aloud.
A silent pause stretches between them, tethered by the scent of tobacco and the crash of waves below. Tentatively, he reaches out, sliding his hand near hers to gently guide her closer to the rail. Their shoulders brush—nothing dramatic, nothing overt—but enough to make his heartbeat quicken.
For several long moments, they stand there, side by side, their cigarettes burning down as the world around them feels infinite. Their conversation fades, replaced by quiet gazes and the shared appreciation of the vast, rolling sea. A bond forms, thin but noticeable, like the first strands of thread weaving a tapestry neither expected to start.
But then, as swiftly as the connection is made, Dola steps back, her movements fluid but distant. “I should find my brother,” she says, her voice light yet final, like the murmur of a tide receding. She stubs out her cigarette with a precise flick over the rail and watches as the glowing ember disappears downward.
Nelson nods, his easy charm no longer masking the faintest trace of disappointment. “Until next time, lovely lady,” he says, his tone hinting at an unspoken hope.
Dola doesn’t respond immediately; she only glances over her shoulder, her lips drawing into a faint, enigmatic smile before slipping into the crowd, her figure blending with the opulence of the ship’s other passengers. Nelson stays where she left him, his hands resting on the rail, watching the waves churn and wondering, perhaps, how easily the sea carries some things away.
