Every Whispered Word by Karyn Monk

Author:Karyn Monk [Monk, Karyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-01-16T01:49:28+00:00

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Part II

The Dark Wind

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Chapter Eight

Camelia gripped the heavy iron railing and inhaled deeply, letting the cold, black spray of the ocean rinse away the filth and turmoil of London.

They were only a few days into their three-week voyage, but already she felt better than she had in months. The ocean air was fresh and pure, instead of being heavy with the stench of London’s smoky fires, cloying perfume, stagnant manure, and sewage. She could not understand how she had managed to endure it for as long as she had without falling ill from some dreadful lung disease. Although they had not yet reached the coast of Morocco, she could feel Africa calling to her across the inky miles of star-flecked waves.

Come home, Camelia, it whispered with every crash of the ship’s hull through the powerful, churning water. Come home. She closed her eyes and leaned out a little further, feeling free and reckless and guardedly hopeful.

Finally, she was going home.

When they had left Cape Town for England some three months earlier, Zareb had worried they might never return. He had cautioned Camelia that London was a wild and dangerous place, where one’s spirit could be lost and never found. Camelia had dismissed his fears as those of an elderly African man who was afraid of a world he did not know—a world in which Camelia had forewarned him he might face even greater prejudice than that which he was forced to endure in his homeland. How could a gentle, honorable, intelligent man like Zareb, born to one of the most powerful tribes of the Cape, not fear their going to such a place?

But Zareb had been wrong. Camelia had not lost her spirit to London—had not even come close to it. The glittering balls and parties she had attended had paled beyond her painful longing for the quiet beauty of an African night sky. The ornate, towering buildings and narrow, crowded streets had made her feel breathless and trapped. And the endless days of writing letters pleading for an audience with some potential investor, or attending some dull lecture or party in the hopes of securing a promise of either money or a pump, had left her feeling hollow and frustrated, as if she weren’t really accomplishing anything at all. Her father had been right about her, she mused as she leaned out even further.

She was happiest when she was playing in the dirt.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t lean out quite that far,” said a low voice. “I don’t particularly relish the idea of a late-night swim.”

She turned to see Simon’s brother Jack watching her from the shadows. He was leaning casually against a mast, his arms folded across his chest, his relaxed stance very much reminiscent of the way Simon often stood. From there the resemblance ended abruptly.

Jack Kent was about an inch taller than Simon, and his handsome face was lined and bronzed from years of standing on a deck facing the wind and the sun as he steered his ships across the ocean.

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