Margaret was in her late forties; a pregnancy would indeed have been a surprise. But while her husband completely refuted the rumors, Margaret had smugly admitted to an "unfortunate miscarriage." It confirmed Elena’s suspicion: the pregnancy had nothing to do with the husband. The abortion was likely the worst choice Margaret had ever made, at least in terms of the consequences affecting her.
Her life, which had been hanging by a thread that could have stretched for two or three more years, was about to be severed by the sharp blade of that single decision.
Leaving a dumbfounded Margaret standing by the railing, staring at the water as if her necklace might suddenly float and jump back into her hand, Elena moved to the telephone in the corner of the salon. She made a short call to one of the cabins.
"I am bringing something to you shortly," she said, hanging up the receiver before the other person could respond.
She headed toward the bridge deck. Entering through the ajar door of the wheelhouse, she leaned against the wall and rolled her eyes at the sound of scrambling behind the interior door—the one connecting the captain’s cabin directly to the bridge. A few seconds later, a man emerged, still fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. He noticed Elena and gave a slight bow.
"How can I help the lady?" he asked with a light accent.
His rugged features and unrestrained demeanor gave off the illusion of someone far different than a standard captain of a luxury vessel. The way he spoke to Elena, his supposed employer, hinted at a much darker connection between the two. She took in his untidy clothes, his grinning face, and his "bird's nest" hair, then sighed.
"Try to do your job properly, will you? Is this how you present yourself on such an occasion?"
He yawned, unbothered by her gaze, and sat in his chair. "I should rest more for everything to go as planned," he remarked. "I have to keep my eyes on the crew to avoid any variables." He gestured with his eyes toward the Manila folder in her hand, then toward the door, silently asking her to hand it over and leave.
Elena hesitated, contemplating if he was truly reliable or if she should simply cancel everything and run. It irritated her that he used such a tone with her, especially when the money she was paying him for this "mission" was more than he could earn in a year with his life on the line.
She shook her head to banish the thought of retreating and threw the folder onto his lap. "Read it carefully," she warned. "You can guess what changed from the previous will—the one I’ve made sure someone else has copies of. If you fail to do what you promised, or if I don’t leave this yacht safely and on time, you will all be investigated."
The captain started to coolly retort, "How can I be scared of the police—"
"Plus," she cut him off, "I spent a fortune making sure every single one of you is hunted down, whether across the earth or deep in the ocean, if anything goes wrong."
The captain stopped reading. He looked at her with newfound seriousness. "Define 'safe.'"
Elena gave a fake, chilling smile. "Well, that depends on how 'safe' you want to be later."
The guests who had departed that morning returned in batches, whispering among themselves about what the evening's theme might be. As was tradition, every guest—including the "Prominent Seven"—wrote a theme on a slip of paper, folded it, and placed it into a bowl. After the papers were shuffled, the group formed a circle and spun a bottle in the center. Whoever the bottle pointed to would blindly select a theme from the bowl.
This practice was designed to challenge the artists to produce high-quality work in under an hour. However, if the chosen theme happened to be an artist's own suggestion, it was their moment to shine; they had undoubtedly spent every moment since receiving their invitation perfecting that specific concept, praying it would be the one drawn.
Alistair tried to slip back to his cabin, hoping to avoid John, who was flitting between guests like a social butterfly. His escape was interrupted when he ran into a somewhat familiar face.
It was well-known that Elena only invited people once to the annual gathering, preferring to offer opportunities to new aspiring artists rather than repeating the same guest list, a policy that kept the gathering from straying from its stated public purpose.
Two people were whispering nearby; the woman had her arm interlocked with the man's, their comfort with one another obvious. Alistair recognized the man immediately—he was the painter from the night Alistair had been mocked at the gathering two years ago. From Alistair’s perspective, it was entirely out of the ordinary for Elena to tolerate the man’s presence a second time.
The painter gave him a slight smile and a nod of recognition but didn't stop to talk. The woman beside him stole a glance at Alistair, her eyes swimming with a deep, unreadable emotion as they passed.
Alistair quickened his pace. Near the stairs, he ran into Elena. She was heading to her cabin—opposite his—to change before checking on the lounge, where guests had crowded for a late tea after the long day. He walked beside her down the long corridor, hesitating for a few seconds before asking, "Did you go see the captain to change the schedule? I thought we were having a short coastal sail before the others arrived."
"The remaining guests are quite demanding," she answered, opening her door. "They can’t agree on a time to arrive, so we have to stay here and wait for 'Their Majesties' to board one by one. We’ll be sailing directly to the next city after that. If you want, you can disembark and walk around for a bit. Don’t worry, I won't leave you behind—just don't stay out past eight."
Once inside his cabin, Alistair poured water from the glass carafe on the built-in vanity. He sat on the edge of the bed and retrieved a partitioned brass tin from the drawer, the medication doses divided into meticulous daily sections. He swallowed today’s dose with a few sips of water and set the glass on the nightstand. Lying flat on the bed, he took deep breaths and closed his eyes. But the image of the painting, caught peeking from behind his sister’s cabin door, remained burned into his retinas, forcing his brain to scrutinize her every move since his arrival.
The painting was composed of soft, muted colors, capturing an old man from behind as he sat watching a girl walk past with a radiant smile. Beneath her feet, the shadows told a different story; rather than a single silhouette, a trail of figures followed her, ghostly echoes of herself from infancy to her current age. The cane in the old man’s hand was positioned so that it overlapped these shadows, appearing as a guardian’s barrier, protecting the child throughout every stage of her life.
It depicted a love so suffocating that Elena had been forced to retreat that night just to keep herself from tearing it down or burning it to ash.
Now, that same painting hung pridefully on the wall of her own cabin.