Charon's Crossing

ly some kind of physical anomaly. She swung the beam of the flashlight up, towards the rafters. Yes. That was probably it. Olive had suggested the roof might need fixing. Well, if there was a hole in the roof wouldn't the air get sucked down through it and get funneled through here? Something like that, anyway.

There was plenty of light up here now, too, with the shutters open. Kathryn switched off the flashlight and took a longer look around her.

Not bad. Not bad, at all. She ran a finger across the dust-coated surface of what looked like a walnut secretary.

"Nice," she said.

The piece alongside it was nice, too. It was a rocker, almost definitely hand-crafted.

And a trunk. The trunk was really beautiful.

Kathryn knelt beside it. "Wow," she breathed.

You could put what she knew about antiques into a thimble and have room left to spare but even she could tell that this was one very handsome piece of work. It was very old, she was certain, and made of wood and brass. Both had stood the test of time surprisingly well. The wood—cherry, maybe?—glowed. The brass bands around it were as bright as if they'd been polished yesterday. The lock was open, and hung lightly from the hasp.

Kathryn ran her hand over the rounded lid. It felt smooth and warm beneath her fingers. She hesitated, then reached for the lock, slipped it through the hasp and lifted the lid.

Well, that was disappointing. There was nothing inside. Nothing important, anyway. A fringed silk square, very old and very delicate. A froth of ivory muslin...

She set both aside when she saw the book.

It lay centered on a swath of black fabric, its leather binding seeming to glow in the ray of afternoon sunlight slanting through the window. There were words embossed across the leather face in time-dulled gold, but it was impossible to read them.

Kathryn felt an odd catch in her throat. Carefully she lifted the book from where it lay. She rose to her feet, carried it closer to the window, and angled it into the sun.

In the blaze of sunlight, the embossed words seemed to leap with flame.

The Journal of Matthew McDowell.

She felt her knees turn to jelly. She reached back, grasped the rocker, and eased down into it.

"The Journal of Matthew McDowell"? She stared at the slim volume. What was it doing here, in the attic at Charon's Crossing? After a moment's hesitation, she opened the book and turned to the first page.

Time had tinted it a soft shade of ivory but the entry penned upon it was as dark and legible as if it had been freshly made.

"October the third, 1811," she read softly. "At last, we have arrived at our destination..."

* * *

"At last, we have arrived at our destination."

Matthew McDowell, Captain of the sloop o'war Atropos, paused with his quill in his hand. Then he dipped it into the ink and bent over his leather-bound journal again.

On this day, we lay to anchor in the harbor of Elizabeth Island. The men raised a cheer in which I could not help but join, for the sea has been untimely rough these past days. All that is behind us now, and Atropos is none the worse for wear, as I had anticipated, for she is the finest and fastest ship it has ever been my pleasure to sail.

Matthew paused again and reread his words. It was nothing less than the truth, he thought, smiling as he closed the journal and put aside his quill. Atropos was a ship to make any man proud. The finest shipyard in Baltimore had built her, and her wealthy Virginia backers had not stinted on her cost. She was a beauty, a clipper-rigged, two-masted sloop, and she would surely outrun the wind, if he asked it of her.

And he would, for he had every intention of succeeding beyond his backers' wildest dreams. He would seize more French ships and contraband cargo than any other captain in these waters. How could he not? He had the best ship and crew, men who had sailed under him before, on the Corinthian.

His backers would recover their investment many times over.

And Matthew, at thirty-three, would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.

He put the stopper in the inkwell, then laid away his quill and his journal in the drawer of his writing desk. You didn't spend more than twenty years of your life at sea without learning the value of neatness. You learned to duck your head when you stood up, too; he did it now automatically, for at six feet, two inches he was too tall for the cabin.

Still, his quarters were damned near luxurious compared to any he'd known before. In his cabin on the Corinthian, flexing his broad shoulders and stretching as he was now, meant he'd probably have ended up putting his fists through the bulkheads.

Matthew crossed the cabin to the washstand, unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. He would always have fond memories of the Corinthian. A man didn't forget his first command any more than he forgot his first woman, but there was no comparison between the creaking old merchant ship and this one.