Page 30 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

The markings on the wood are so faint that at first glance they look like mere nicks. Some of the soil is still deeply embedded, making them even harder to notice. But now that I know they’re there, the pattern is obvious.

Suddenly, my vision blurs, and I have to blink several times until it returns to normal.

“I agree with you, but I’m afraid you meddled with something you shouldn’t have,” Moreau says, leaning against the wall.

“You really think so?”

“I think you’re cursed, Orlando.”

I look at him to discern if he’s being serious. Moreau’s face shows no signs of joking. No smile. Not even a glimmer in his eyes.

I let those words sink in. Cursed? Are such things even real? But here I am, completely invisible, in the company of someone who is obviously not human himself.

“I’m sorry,” Moreau says, putting a hand on my shoulder. He looks genuinely upset. Why does he care so much? He barely even knows me.

“That’s it, then? I’m doomed.” I slump further.

“You’re not gone yet, Orlando. We can try reversing it.”

I look up, surprised to see him appearing confident.

“How?”

“I can only assume you angered something or someone when you removed the artifact. We could try returning it.” He shrugs.

“Just like that?” It was too simple.

“I mean, if you have a better id—”

“I want to try,” I interrupt him, then stand up determined. My knees tremble slightly, but I dismiss it, holding onto the desk to steady myself.

“I have a motorcar. We would be there before dawn,” Moreau says.

“You would do such a thing?”

“How could I not, Orlando?” He smiles, lifts his hand, but drops it immediately.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s nothing. Would you prefer to clothe yourself first, or…?” He gestures non-committally.

I look down at myself. Of course, I’m still translucent.

Moreau steps onto the windowsill. “I’ll pick you up around the corner in 15 minutes.” Before I can agree, he disappears with a wink.

I dress quickly, but take the time to wash my face and comb my hair. If this is to be my last day on earth, I want to feel at least somewhat decent. Once finished, I wrap my head in the bandages, adding the hat and glasses. I step back, looking at myself in the mirror. Everything seems a bit hazy, but otherwise, I look as I always do. Besides the bandages, of course. Still, Moreau’s words come back to me. Had he really said “exquisite”? No. I must be misremembering things.

I fetch the artifact, then sneak from my own home. When I reach the foyer, I stagger precariously. Even though I manage to close the door quietly, I have to sit on the stoop to catch my breath. After a few minutes, my strength still doesn’t seem to fully recover.

In this near-syncopal state, the short path to the agreed-upon location is slow and arduous. I have to hold myself against the brick wall, trying not to fall.

When I finally reach the corner, I’m embarrassingly feeble. I drop to one knee in an attempt to calm my pulse.

An arm reaches around me. I look up, startled. It’s Moreau.

Am I so weakened that I hadn’t even heard the approaching motorcar?

I accept his help gratefully, and once I’m seated, he drapes a blanket over my legs.