Page 6 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

Godfrey’s voice quiets. “Shall I bring your supper?”

“If you like.”

The moment I answer, he turns on his heels and leaves without a word. Just by the manner of his gait, I realise my tone was out of line. I must remember to apologise for my behaviour once he returns.

I head to the lavatory, and when I look in the mirror, I understand Godfrey’s concerns.

I do not look well. Not exactly unwell, either. I simply do not look entirely myself. Like one of those wax figures in the museum. Almost like me, but not quite.

I don’t think I’ve ever looked this dishevelled in my life. My hair is rumpled and curling, my jaw dark with shadow. I lean closer, trying to comb my hair with my fingers. There is something new in my eyes. An almost violent glimmer. A twinkle, not of mirth but, rather, something feral. Something old. I blink.

Startled, I nearly stumble back over my own feet.

My chest is heaving when I turn the tap to drown my face in icy water.

It was just a vision, I tell myself. A sleep-induced dream. Hunger pangs. That’s it. Just hungry. All very ordinary things.

Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes once more. A relieved gasp escapes me when all I see is my very ordinary and plain face.

Nothing new.

Nothing odd.

Just in complete disarray. And disarray can be dealt with.

With my fingers doing little to tame my hair, I wet my comb, but my pomade is too stiff, and softening it again would take more effort than I would like. The blood-hued Macassar whispers promises I know it can’t keep, and I wonder if it would be easier to just shower. But Godfrey’s nearly imperceptible return stops the thought. I’ll have to make do with a quick shave instead.

Gathering my soap, I watch Godfrey through the mirror. He’s picking up loose garments strewn about the room. Embarrassment fills me as I realise it was I who tossed those clothes all about.

What overcame me to do such a thing? Not even as a child…

I shake my head, focusing on shaving instead of being driven further into shame. Finally, he picks up my shoes and leaves the room.

When I sit down to eat my afternoon tea, I remember the restlessness that took hold of me only last night. I try to think of any ailments that could be causing this sort of behaviour.

Perhaps it’s an odd degeneration of the mind. Am I going mad? Or maybe it’s a kind of fever. I touch a hand to my brow, but my temperature seems perfectly fine. I do not feel ill. Nonetheless, I’m certain something is occurring, yet I have no notion of what it could possibly be.

There must be a perfectly simple explanation. There always is.

“You are in perfect health!” Dr. Faust exclaims.

“Are you certain?” I ask, running a hand through my hair.

“You’re still young. Perfect health is not out of the ordinary at your age.”

“Forty-six isn’t precisely young, Dr. Faust. But there must be something else. Please…” I trail off.

“Pish-posh, Mr. Balfour! Youth is in the mind.” He smiles brightly. When I don’t return the expression, he continues, “Even if I were to inspect your samples, I’m certain there will be no abnormalities.”

“I simply do not understand.”

“Might it be psychological?” He pats me on the shoulder.

Could it be?

“Are you still drinking your morning onion juice?” he continues.

I stare at him with furrowed brows, then open my mouth and close it again without uttering a word. This is entirely absurd.