CHAPTER EIGHT
In Which Love Blooms
Passepartout was awakened the following morning by movement in the cabin. He groaned at the most inconsiderate interruption and started to pull the sheet over his head. It was much too early in the morning to be up and about. It had been a hard day and a late night. Mister Fogg would understand his tardiness surely….
Mister Fogg!
Passepartout sat bolt straight in the bed as memories of the day before came flooding to mind. He barely missed clocking himself on the bunk above, having the presence of mind to duck at the last possible moment. The other occupants of the room turned at the commotion.
"You will be late if you do not get up soon," one commented. "The captain does not take kindly to tardiness."
Passepartout waved a hand of understanding. "Yes, I getting up now."
"I do hope you plan on donning a new uniform," another replied. "You appear to have been through a war in that one."
The other two snickered their agreement and followed the third out the door of the cabin.
Passepartout glanced down at the apron he still wore from the day before and immediately understood the remark. The once white apron was now a dingy gray, stained by the dust and dirt he had kicked up in his investigation of the cargo hold. Splotches of food from his preparations yesterday added a splash of color across the gray. But most of all he was horrified to find dried blood smeared at the bottom where he had wiped his hands after helping the doctor. His master's blood.
Memories of his master laying on sheets drenched with blood, his skin pale, his body lifeless, brought a shiver to Passepartout's own worn body and he found himself shaking uncontrollably. Had his master made it through the long evening?
The valet quickly scrambled out of the bed and walked over to the single closet in the room. Opening it he found another white shirt and a pair of trousers. Hopefully there would be an extra apron in the galley for he most certainly could not wear this one again. He discarded the clothes he had been wearing in the trunk at the foot of the bed. With luck he would not be returning to this room for a second night, for he highly doubted he could keep Miss Rebecca from storming the ship for another day.
Now, he must help serve breakfast and then find an opportune moment to sneak away to visit his master.
The corridors were rather quite as Passepartout made his made to the galley. Most of the doors to the cabins were still closed and very little sound could be heard coming from within them. As the valet consulted his watch he found the hour to be just after seven, perhaps a little too early for the men to be up and moving.
The galley, however, was a flurry of activity as the cooks began to prepare the breakfast meal and the servers prepared the tables in the dining room. Passepartout made himself busy in the kitchen helping prepare the food while searching through the supplies for the ingredients he would need later.
Thankfully breakfast consisted of little more than eggs, bacon, and bread. A meal easily prepared, served, and cleaned up. By nine o'clock Passepartout was alone in the galley, free to prepare another meal for his master – one he hoped to be able to get him to eat – and a special elixir which he hoped would ease the pain somewhat.
* * * * * * * *
The dawn of morning found Rebecca standing alone at the observation window, her face pressed against the glass as she peered forlornly down at the ship below. She had long since finished crying for there was not a tear left in her body to shed. Jules, God bless his soul, had tried to comfort her last night. And for a few precious moments she had believed him. But her soul could not, would not be comforted. The ache in her heart had been unbearable and with every second that passed by she had felt it grow colder and colder.
This morning, there was nothing there but an emptiness she could not describe.
She put a hand up to the glass, feeling the coolness of it against her warm skin, and closed her eyes. In her mind's eye she saw darkness all around her. Through the blood pumping loudly in her ears she could barely make out the sound of voices. They seemed to be all around her yet the darkness made it difficult to discern exactly where they were coming from. In her blindness she stuck out an arm, searching for the touch of anything that would give credence to her existence. There was only blackness.
Then pain. So much pain she could not move. Dare not move for fear of causing more. Every part of her body ached beyond endurance. She wanted to curl up into a ball, hide, and wait for the pain to subside. But it wouldn't.
And with the pain, there was fear. Fear of abandonment. Fear of death. Fear of disappointing those she loved. But most of all fear of things yet unsaid.
Her heart pounded heavy against her chest and she found her breath catching in her throat. She suddenly felt very cold, and her body started to shiver uncontrollably. She wanted to scream, "What's happening to me?!" but not a word issued from her lips.
And then she realized it was not herself she was feeling, but Phileas. So strongly and so real. As if the two had suddenly become one. She also realized that she was drowning in his pain and in his fear. She was letting his weakness take control of her, instead of using her strength to take control of him.
With every once of resolve she could muster, she forced her heart to slow, her breath to come easy. And as she relaxed the pain began to ease and fear to dissolve. Then she concentrated on the darkness, bringing happier, more contented thoughts to mind. Playful times at Shillingworth Magna. Like the time Phileas tried to teach her how to duel properly and she almost skewered him to the stable wall. The fond memory brought a smile to her face. And the darkness around her began to recede.
Sunlight reflected off the glass window and bathed her in warmth and light and she opened her eyes.
* * * * * * * *
Sunlight shone in a dust-filled band from the round portal set high in the wall, forcing reluctant consciousness on Phileas Fogg. It illuminated his face, filling his closed eyes with a fierce red that seemed to burn away into the nethermost regions of his skull. He groaned, reaching for the bell on the nightstand that would bring Passepartout with cool water to slake the thirst drying his mouth, or some restorative potion for the pounding that assailed his head. His hand struck a metal wall and the shock opened his eyes, wincing as the light struck louder gongs of pain from the templates of his confused mind. Squinting he saw that there was no nightstand, only a black painted metal wall, a small round portaled window admitting the offensive brilliance. He groaned again, tried to sit up, instantly regretting the movement as something ripped in his side with renewed pain that threatened to black him out again. He fell back, struggling to pin down memories that danced like fireflies through the tortured convolutions of his whirling head. He had been following Roland Jackelton, there had been a tavern, a fight….and he had been caught in the side with a sword.
The League of Darkness.
"Oh, gaw…." He mumbled, licking dry lips that refused to work properly. Where the hell was he? Not dead, of that he was certain. He hurt too much to be dead. So he lay there for the longest of moments, trying to decide whether he should just let himself slide back into blessed oblivion or strive past the pain and sit up. But then he heard a voice in his head - which sounded an awful lot like Rebecca - challenge, It's just a scratch, Phil . Get off your bloody arse and walk it off.
And somehow he found the strength to try again.
This time he took a deep breath, somehow managed to get his elbows underneath him, and struggled to sit up…And just as quickly gave up on that idea as the stitch in his side tore a cry from his throat and he fell back into the softness of the bed's mattress. Darkness ebbed at the corners of his conscious then, beckoning him to embrace her. She offered him sweet relief from the pain and confusion, a permanent abode from the discomforts of the world. He stretched out his arms towards her, ready to seek that solace, when another familiar voice brought him abruptly back to reality.
"Master?" It whispered.
Light appeared behind his eyelids as he floated back to full consciousness. Struggling to open them, he saw nothing at first but a formless paleness that hovered above him, only slowly taking on the recognizable form of a man.
Passepartout.
He tried to say the man's name. Longed to hear him say that he was really and truly there, for he recalled vaguely hearing familiar voices in the nethermost regions of his mind, could have sworn that Rebecca was right there beside him, whispering his name, calling him back, but could not tell if they had been real or simply the desires of a delirious mind. With what little strength he could muster, he reached out with his hand, and the apparition took it.
"I am here, master." he whispered.
Fogg blinked tears from his eyes, droplets of water running down the side of his face to wet the pillow under his head. "Passepartout…" was all he could get past his parched throat.
Passepartout dropped to his knees beside the bed, placing the tray containing the bowl of broth and pitcher on the floor beside him. He released his grip on his master's hand, though neither was wont to break the contact, and quickly poured a glass of the elixir. Then he slid one arm under Fogg's shoulders, cradling the back of his master's head in the crook of his arm, and lifted him up slowly.
"Drink, master." he said, setting the rim of the mug against Fogg's lips.
Fogg drank eagerly until the liquid settled in his stomach where it immediately heaved at the abrupt intrusion. His body jerked spasmodically, sending ripples of renewed pain through every nerve and fiber of his being, and he coughed up a mouthful as a groan of pain escaped. Instinctively he curled into the fetal position, clutching at his wounded side. Darkness was there again, dancing on the edge of his vision, coaxing him to join her with promises of warmth and safety. He longed to follow her, to leave this pain and misery, but something was holding him back, keeping him from slipping back into oblivion.
And in his mind's eye he saw Rebecca. Standing on the observation deck of the Aurora, bathed in golden sunlight, looking like an angel of mercy with her hair draped in waves around her face. She smiled at him and stretched out her own arms, whispering his name, beckoning him to hold on….
"Master…master…"
Passepartout had his hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently but with an urgency that bespoke his fear and worry. With great effort Fogg forced his eyes open again.
"Master…I am sorry…"
Fogg was wont to tell the man it was in no way his fault, but he couldn't get his mouth to work. His teeth were still clenched tight against the pain that would not subside, refusing to cooperate. He could only glance up at his valet…no, his friend…, a fuzzy façade floating across his water-filled eyes. A single tear ran down the side of his face.
"You taking it easy, master." Passepartout whispered. "Hurt very bad."
He sat for a moment longer until he noticed the pain on his master's face start to ease up a bit. His jaw slowly unclenched and the lines of his forehead began to unfurrow. Soon the tension in his body went flaccid and unfurled from the protective fetal position. The valet reached out and gently rolled Fogg over onto his back and off his wounded side. His master did not protest.
"You are feeling much better?" he inquired. He had hoped to make the elixir strong enough to ease the pain, but not so strong as to render him unconscious again.
Fogg opened his eyes, staring at the man before him. A man he had once been arrogant enough to consider only a valet, practically a piece of property to be done with as he pleased. But over the years that man had gone above and beyond the call of his duty as a manservant. He had become not only a trusted confidante but also a faithful friend.
And now a savior.
"Yes, much better." he said slowly. "Thank you, Passepartout."
With his vision not so clouded with pain, Fogg was able to glance around the room again. There was not much more to be seen the second time around, except perhaps he noticed the two men standing in the corridor just outside the doorway. From what he could see of them, they both appeared to be wearing the uniforms of the League of Darkness. This did not surprise him in the least. What did surprise him, though, was the fact that he was still alive. And that for some very odd reason, Passepartout was here beside him.
"What happened?" he asked, finally returning his glance to Passepartout.
"I knowing not how you got here, master." the valet replied, "But I telling you how I did."
* * * * * * * *
Jules Verne was not sure what he expected to find when he came down the stairs to the parlor that morning. All he knew was that he had definitely not expected to find what he did. The table was set for three and the aroma of frying eggs and bacon could be smelled throughout the airship. He stopped on the last step and peered around, half expecting to see Fogg sitting in the chair at his desk, newspaper in hand, and Passepartout coming out of the kitchen with a steaming plate of food. Instead it was Rebecca that came out of the kitchen, balancing a bowl overflowing with fluffy eggs and a plate filled to capacity with strips of bacon. She smiled when she saw him. An expression that simply lit up her beautiful face.
"Why good morning, Jules!" she greeted him cheerfully as she moved passed him into the parlor. "I do so hope you're hungry. I seem to have made an over abundance of eggs. I was just simply famished and I believe got carried away."
She sat both plate and bowl on the table then settled herself onto the settee bench opposite the stairwell. He watched in surprise as she picked up the bowl and shoveled a goodly amount onto one of the three plates and then selected a fair amount of bacon strips. He was simply amazed at the transition from the night before. He smiled, thinking, I guess my little talk worked.
"Do have a seat, Jules," she said, glancing up to find him still on the step. "I really don't want to eat alone."
He was wont to ask her what had caused the sudden change in demeanor, until he suddenly realized it had been awhile since his last meal and those eggs did look rather tempting.
Then he noticed that someone was missing.
Marion.
He had looked for her upstairs where she had been sleeping in Rebecca's room, but the bed had already been made and she was not there. He did not see her in the parlor or the observation deck either.
"Where's Miss Baeuvin?" he inquired, trying to sound nonchalant, as he moved to take the chair opposite her.
Rebecca smiled. It had not taken him long to notice the younger woman was amiss. "She has decided to take her watch on the upper deck. Seems she fell in love with the view last night."
Verne nodded as he spooned out a large amount of eggs on to his own plate and took most of the remaining pieces of bacon. "I didn't know you could cook." he remarked, shoveling the first forkload of food into his mouth.
She glanced up with a wicked grin. "I never said I could."
* * * * * * * *
"What of the stones, Passepartout," Fogg asked when he was quite certain that Passepartout had relayed all he knew of their current situation. "Have you any idea where they might be?"
"They not be secreted in the hold. I searched the whole place."
Fogg nodded, he had thought as much. No, the stones would be somewhere a little more secure than the cargo hold. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think, feeling that at any moment he might drift off again and fighting the impulse, as attractive as it might be. He was tired, gaw was he tired, but he could ill afford to be resting given their current circumstances. He forced his eyes opened again.
"We need to find them, Passepartout. I cannot leave this place without them."
The valet studied his master's face for a long moment before responding. Although the lines of pain that had furrowed his brow earlier had all but faded, the dark rings under his usually vibrant green eyes were still shadowed in fatigue and worry. It would be a long road to recovery, but Passepartout was certain he was on the way. If only he could get him safely off this ship and onto the Aurora. And if the only way to do that was to find those stones, then by God, he was going to find them!
"Passepartout will find…"
A scuffle at the doorway caused Fogg to glance up and Passepartout stopped himself mid-sentence. He half turned to find a man in an officer's uniform standing just inside the doorway. In one hand he held the doctor's black medical bag. He motioned into the hallway with his free hand. "They tell me that you helped the doctor with this man yesterday. Is that correct?"
Passepartout slowly nodded his head. "Oui, monsieur."
"Good." He tossed the bag at the valet's feet. "You will find everything you need in there. Tend to the patient again and then you will be escorted to the Captain's office. He wishes to speak with you."
Passepartout swallowed a reflexive gulp. "Pardoning me?" he said. "Where being the doctor?"
The officer gave a malicious little chuckle. "He was given the offer to join us and refused so we let him off the ship last night."
Passepartout visibly blanched. He suddenly felt very sick to his stomach. Was there something he could have done to prevent the doctor's death? Something he should have said? Should he have taken him into his confidence about who he really was? or who their patient was? He should have said something. But he hadn't. Because he had been afraid that the man would turn him in. That he would have been the one they threw overboard. So he had kept quiet. Now the doctor was dead. And it was his fault.
Fogg could sense the sudden change in his friend's demeanor as Passepartout instinctively tensed his muscles. Fearing that the valet might give away his cover without thinking, he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for the officer to hear, "Bloody b-stards."
The officer glanced away from Passepartout as Fogg had hoped and glared at him instead. "You would be wise to keep your mouth shut. The Count's orders were that you be kept alive. He did not specify how alive."
Fogg returned the glare, not the least bit intimidated. "Well, you can tell the Count that was the worst mistake he's ever made." He let the word "count" drip off his tongue with distaste and abhorrence.
The officer laughed, but not entirely in amusement. His gaze shifted as Fogg continued to stare at him, unwilling to meet those piercing eyes that strived past the pain to convey venom and enmity. Finally he returned his attention to Passepartout. "When you are finished here one of the men outside will escort you to the captain." His boldness began to resurface as he concentrated on the submissive valet. "Make it quick or you will meet the same fate as your predecessor. The captain detests to be kept waiting."
With that said, the man turned smartly on his heels and walked out of the room.
Passepartout's head sagged after the man had gone. Fogg reached out and laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Passepartout…."
The valet refused to meet his gaze, instead staring down at the bag sitting beside his feet. "It's my faulting that the doctor is dead." He mumbled.
"No it is not, my friend."
Passepartout stiffened at the familiarity and turned his head to glance sidelong at his master. Fogg offered a tired smile and squeezed his arm.
"You cannot blame yourself for the actions of evil men, Passepartout. If you had told the doctor who you really were, he might have told the captain, and you would be dead. And the doctor would be resigned to living the remainder of his life as a slave to Count Gregory. I would prefer death to such a life."
Passepartout turned away then, staring once more at the bag. "And what do you think the Count has in mind for you?" he asked.
Fogg gave a little chuckle and settled back into the bed. "Since I am a betting man, Passepartout, I would bet my life that he plans on re-assembling the Crown of Souls and I shall be his first victim."
Passepartout tensed and glanced back at him. "That not happening, master. We swooping the coup before that happening."
Fogg cocked an eyebrow. "You have a plan?"
The valet tapped the side of his head. "One is formulacating as we speak."
* * * * * * * *
Verne found Marion Baeuvin on the upper deck as Rebecca had mentioned earlier, leaning over the balcony and taking in the view all around her. She half turned as the door shut behind him and smiled.
"Have you every seen anything more beautiful in your entire life?!" she exclaimed, spreading her arms to encompass everything around her.
Verne smiled at her enthusiasm. "No I have not." he answered honestly, although he wasn't talking about the scenery. She had borrowed one of Rebecca's dresses. The purple one that Passepartout had once commented didn't look quite right on her. The young writer had thought Passepartout a bit crude for making such a remark in front of mixed company, but Rebecca had never worn the outfit again. On Marion the color did justice to her fair complexion, highlighting the color of her golden tresses and the sparkle in her eye. This morning she looked absolutely ravishing.
She turned again as he walked over to join her at the rail, a slight pout on her face. "You jest with me, sir." she replied.
"I would never, Miss Baeuvin. I have honestly never seen anything more beautiful."
She raised an eyebrow as she studied his face. It was a nice honest face to be sure, she thought. She doubted the young man had ever told a single lie in his entire life. "Call me Marion. I do so hate all this formality."
"Marion," he repeated, liking the way it rolled over his tongue. "You can call me Jules."
She giggled and he felt his heart skip a beat. "All right, Jules." she replied.
He leaned against the rail, forcing his gaze downward, towards the ship they were chasing, because he knew if he continued to look at her he wouldn't be able to speak. "Well, you know all about me," he said. "But I know nothing of you. Except that you're the daughter of Marcus Baeuvin."
She sighed, and turned to mimic his stance. "There's nothing much to tell really. I've lived a rather sheltered and very boring life, I'm afraid. My mother died when I was very young so my father has been overly protective of me. This is actually the first time I've ever been out of London."
Verne couldn't help but smile. "My first time out of Paris was actually on this ship as well."
She giggled again, like a soft spring rain. "Then we have much more in common than I had originally thought." She turned her head to look at him. "We are both romantics at heart, I think, Jules. Living our lives through the pages of books. Only you've had a taste of the real thing. Tell me, could you go back now to the life you had lived before?"
"No," he said without having to think. "No, I don't think so. I've seen too much, been through too much, to ever go back to being what I had been before."
"So what will you do with the rest of your life? Spend it here, with the Foggs, traveling the world and ridding it of evil?"
He shook his head. "No. I've been writing it all down in my journal and I hope some day to be able to write a book."
"A book?" she repeated. And then she smiled. "With a dashing hero perhaps? That travels the world in a luxury dirigible?"
He felt his heart falter as she spoke of a dashing hero. Dashing was not a word one would use to describe Jules Verne, but it was a word that perfectly described Phileas Fogg.
He swallowed hard, concentrating on the ship instead. "Or perhaps a dashing heroine." he replied, trying to cover up the awkwardness he felt.
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout tried to contain the fear in his heart as he followed the League of Darkness guard through the winding corridors of the ship and across the poop deck to the officer's quarters under the pilot house. He had no idea why the captain should want to see him. He hadn't even made contact with the man yet. At least not as far as he could remember.
Had someone seen him snooping through the bowels of the ship, peeking into open doorways and opening ones that were closed? Had he been discovered in the cargo hold going through box after box of guns and explosives? Had someone discovered his message to the occupants of the Aurora?
All these thoughts raced through his head as he walked, keeping his eyes straight ahead, not daring to look at the faces of the sailors as he passed.
Mister Fogg had even been at a loss for an explanation. But he wasn't quite himself yet and still not thinking quite clearly. Of course the elixir he had prepared had not helped much in clearing a foggy brain. All of this, one could imagine, would explain his horror at hearing the valet's plan of escape. Passepartout had thought it quite brilliant. His master had not used quite that word.
"Passepartout, that is suicidal." Fogg had exclaimed, almost loud enough for the guards outside the door to hear.
"Only if I not doing it right." he had explained as he pushed his master back down onto the bed. "You think Passepartout is really an idiot, master?"
Fogg actually gurgled at the question, looking up at him with an almost comical look on his face. "Of course I don't…"
"Then you must trust Passepartout to know what he is doing."
Really, the plan wasn't all that….suicidal….Of course, if things did go wrong, they would be dead. But that made him more of a murderer than suicidal…which, when you thought of it, really didn't make much of a difference. He thought it best not to go there. It hurt his head too much.
He had changed the bandage by then and had applied another healthy dose of the doctor's salve before redressing it with clean bandages. The wounds hadn't look any better this morning than they had the day before. In fact the one on the front looked to be taking on a slight blackish tinge which highly upset the valet. His master had laid still the entire time he worked, only once trying to lift his head to get a look at the wound.
"Gaw, it looks as painful as it's beginning to feel…" he had mumbled as he dropped his head back down on to the pillow.
To which Passepartout quickly poured another glass of the elixir and helped Fogg to drink it. This time it went down much easier and soon his master had lolled off to sleep. He thought it best to refrain from mentioning the discoloration, it would have only worried his master.
So after he had set the new bandage in place he cleaned up and informed the guards that he was now ready to see the captain. Not that he really wanted to, but he could tell by their impatient glares into the room that he was taking much too long with a man he supposedly didn't know.
Now, here he was, walking down the corridor to face the captain.
The guard took him through a series of doors into what appeared to be a waiting room of some kind. A door that had not quite been closed all the way off to his right lead into another room from where he could hear voices talking. He was told to wait here until the meeting was over. Then the guard left, presumably, to return to his post in front of Fogg's door.
Passepartout thought to sit down in one of the numerous chairs situated around the room, but he was too nervous to sit. Instead he took to wandering around the room in hopes of finding something interesting to occupy his mind. In time he found himself standing outside the partially closed. And that's where he found "something interesting" to occupy his mind.
He actually had to flatted himself against the wall in order to peer through the slit of an opening. From what he could see it appeared to be a meeting room of some sort, where a man in a captain's uniform was speaking to several officers seated at a large round table.
The captain was standing before a large board where a map of the world was fastened. And stuck in the map were tiny little colored flags. Egypt and the whole continent of Africa was colored red. Asia: blue, Antarctica: green, Europe: yellow, Australia: black, North America: purple, and South America: white. Affixed to the upper right hand corner of the map was a corresponding legend. The red flags were considered first, the blue second, yellow third, white fourth, purple fifth, and green sixth. The black flags weren't even listed.
The captain pointed to a spot on the map towards the southernmost region of Egypt. "This is the region of Egypt known as Nubia. This is our ultimate destination and where we will continue our training in earnest. The rest of our army is already there. Count Gregory has seen to their initiation as true League of Darkness soldiers by implanting the cortical globe studs, which our men will receive upon theirs.
"Before we arrive in Cairo and are then taken onto Nubia, the Count wanted me to brief you all on what is to be expected. As you know, most of the men on this ship have only just recently signed on. Most of them did so because they were promised large sums of money. Others did so for the chance to get even with the governments they believed wronged them in some way. Their reasons are not really important. Once we arrive in Nubia, that will be of little consequence once the cortical globe studs are implanted."
One of the officers cleared his throat and spoke up. "Does the Count actually believe he can control that large of an army at once?"
"Yes, he does. With the recent modifications to the crown that was stolen from the Cairo Museum, he has been able to control the entire army already stationed in Nubia with just a mere thought or emotion. It's connection to the cortical studs has enabled improved amplification for large amounts of people as well as at a greater distance. From Nubia he was able to control our men dispatched to England, France and the Americas."
There were a great many murmurs throughout the room and Passepartout found himself among them. This was not good news. Not good at all. Mister Fogg had made mention of a crown in association with the bloodstones. A very bad and powerful relic should it ever be put back together.
The captain smiled. "Once the crown is completely re-assembled with the three bloodstones, our army of
Darkness will be truly invincible." He walked over to the map and placed his pointer in the red area marking Egypt and the rest of the continent of Africa. "The Count has decided that this area will be the first we concur and inhabit. Provided the army is physically ready, the invasion should begin in six months time."
"Surely the rest of the civilized world will not sit idly by and let us commence such utter destruction." a third officer replied.
Passepartout nodded his head in agreement. That was a very good observation.
"The Count has made provisions for those countries who would wish to intercede with his plans. Suffice it
to say that we have contacts in each of those governments who will be keeping their respective countries busy with more pressing issues."
Passepartout's heart sank a little deeper. This mission was certainly much more than his master and Miss Rebecca could handle on their own. He only hoped they would come to the same conclusion.
"As you can see by the colored flags, the Count has already mapped out the systematic domination of the major countries of the world. He has predicted that once the souls of the people of Africa have been assimilated by the crown and control of their bodies taken over by the cortical globe studs, he will have an army no other country in the world will be able to defeat."
Passepartout suddenly felt very sick to his stomach. This crown was bad, very bad indeed. He truly felt the need to sit down so he moved over to one of the chairs and plopped down. Which turned out to be a very good move as the partially closed door to the meeting room was shoved all the way open and the officers and captain walked out. For a brief moment Passepartout almost panicked as the captain glanced at him, but then he remembered that the man had asked to see him and he forced himself to calm down.
"Who are you?" the captain inquired. He was a very tall man, but then to Passepartout most men were tall, maybe slightly taller than his master, but much bigger in the middle. His uniform fit him a little too snuggly in the mid-section, suggesting a love for fine foods. He did not have an entirely mean looking face, but one that looked to brook no disputes of his authority. His greying hair suggested he was perhaps in his late forties, early fifties, and his tanned skinned made Passepartout think he had spent quite a few of those years on the open seas.
"My name is Jean, Captain-sir. The guard said you wanting to see me."
The captain raised a brow, "I did?"
"I was assisticating the doctor with your prisoner." he offered by way of explanation.
Realization dawned on the other man's face and he nodded. "Please come into my office." he motioned with a hand at the few officers who were still discussing things in the room. "It will be less noisy there."
The captain led the way through another door, opposite the meeting room, with a placard attached reading "Captain Ballentine". Passepartout followed, stepping into a rather small, but tastefully done office. To his left was another door that led into what appeared to be the captain's sleeping quarters. Ballentine motioned for the valet to take a seat, which Passepartout graciously did. It was while he was settling into it that he noticed a large ornate box sitting on the credenza behind the desk. He would have paid it little mind had it not been for the large lock placed upon its delicate clasps. It was quite obvious that whatever was inside was meant to stay inside.
"You are one of the cooks, non?" the captain inquired as he settled into the plush chair behind the desk.
"Oui, captain-sir."
The man nodded. "I was informed that you have been keeping decent care of our prisoner."
Passepartout swallowed. "Oui, captain-sir. The doctor ask-ed me to."
Ballentine leaned forward, placing his arms on the desk. "Has he said anything to you, Jean?"
"Nothing comprehending, sir. He's delirious, I think. Talking about magical crowns and mystical legends. Shouting names…thrashing about sometimes. I have humored him,." Passepartout leaned a little closer and whispered, "but I think he is crazy, sir."
A small smile crossed the Captain's face. "Yes, he is, Jean. Mentally unstable. He is a mortal enemy and not to be trusted. Is that understood?"
"Oui, captain-sir."
"Good." Ballentine leaned back in his chair. "You are to continue to tend to his wounds. He must live to see Egypt for our leader has great plans for him." He waved a hand towards the door then, "You are dismissed."
Passepartout jumped to his feet and gave a slight bow. Then he turned and hurried out of the office and back to his little safe corner of the world. Lunch would be served soon and he wanted to think about nothing more serious than which side of the plate the forks went on.
* * * * * * * *
Verne wasn't exactly sure why he decided to spend the rest of the afternoon up on the balcony with someone who obviously wasn't interested in him the same way he was interested in her. He thought perhaps it was the way she would continue to look at him sidelong, through the tendrils of hair that always seemed to make there way in front of her beautiful face. Or the smile that just captured his heart with its innocence and playful fun. Or the bright blue eyes that could not possibly get any bigger as he would tell her of the stories he was writing, had written, or would someday write. She would giggle, or gasp, or blush at all the right places and say all the right things that made him feel as if he could actually make a living as a writer.
After an hour in her presence he decided he could live with the fact that she found Phileas Fogg attractive and exciting, if only she would consent to be with him for the rest of eternity. Yes, he could live with a heart divided as long as her body and mind belonged to him alone.
But after an entire afternoon with the young woman he though he might actually have to get rid of Fogg. Not permanently of course. In any contest other than intellectual, Fogg could best him blind-folded. But if he could somehow get the older man out of the picture for a while he just might stand a chance…
"Jules?"
The sound of her lilting voice brought him out of his revelries and he turned to look at her. "Huh?"
"What do you think they'll do with the crown?"
Jules placed his elbows on the rail of the balcony and looked down at the ship. "The same thing the Pharaoh did when he had it, I suppose. It was made as a weapon of war. And Count Gregory seeks world domination which could only come about through some kind of world war."
She imitated his posture, standing so close he could feel the warmth of her body, feel the touch of her hair as it blew softly about her face. "Yes, but that's assuming it really does do what it was reported to have done. I didn't give it credence when my father believed it and I certainly don't now." She looked at him sidelong again and he felt his heart stop for one terrifying moment. "You're a man of intellect, Jules, how can you believe such a thing?"
He had to look away, or forever be lost to that glance. He swallowed hard, finding his voice. "I'm not sure I do. I'm not even sure Rebecca or Phileas does. But the Count does. And right now he has Fogg and Passepartout, the crown and bloodstones. Rebecca said that the Queen herself requested that Fogg retrieve the crown and stones. Knowing Fogg, he'll do just that or die trying. Regardless of whether or not he believes the relic actually works."
"Then he will die for nothing."
"No, he'll die for something. His duty and loyalty to England and the Queen."
She looked away, up at the clouds floating by the Aurora, so close she could almost reach out and touch one. "I don't understand that, Jules. It makes no sense to me. Your being here trying to rescue a friend. Miss Fogg and Mr. Passepartout risking their lives to save a loved one. I understand that. But his willingness to die for an ideal such as duty or honor. That I don't understand. It's such a waste of human life. A hundred years from now no one in the country will even know he existed, yet he would die for it."
"Fogg isn't interested in immortality. He could care less if he was remembered by anyone. But he will die willingly for country, Queen, friends, family, and honor." Verne thought perhaps he had just mucked up royally his plan for getting rid of Fogg.
She smiled. "You admire him, don't you, Jules?"
The question took him aback. "Wha…?…Yeah, in some ways I guess I do. But in others, no I don't. There's a lot about him I don't like. There's a lot I don't understand. He's a very complex man."
She turned to look at him and he was trapped by her smile. "Unlike you, hmmm?" she said, sounding too much like Rebecca for his liking. "You're an open book, Jules. A person can see exactly what's on your mind and what's on your heart at all times."
He just stared at her for the longest of moments and then he did something totally out of character. He bent over and kissed her. Not long and not hard, put enough to let her know he wasn't totally predictable. She didn't pull away as he had thought she might. Instead she reached up and cupped his face between her hands and leaned further into the embrace.
And he was very glad he had decided to spend the entire afternoon up on the balcony.
* * * * * * * *
The afternoon did go quite as "interestingly" for Passepartout that day. While preparations for lunch offered a brief respite from the cares of the real world, he was still left with a feeling of hopelessness that would not diminish.
There were two things he knew for certain though. First, was that he had to get his master off this ship. Second, was that this ship was never going to arrive in Cairo. Not if he had anything to do about it.
So there in lay his problem. He had to find a way to get Mister Fogg off the ship and on to the Aurora without attracting any unwanted attention. It was a certain fact that his master was in no condition to walk without assistance. And a man, especially one dressed in civilian clothes, being propped up by another was surely to be noticed by everyone. So….he would need a diversion. A diversion big enough to draw away the majority of the League of Darkness men so that the Aurora could lower her wench and the two of them could be brought aboard.
But Mister Fogg would not leave without the bloodstones. He had already made that perfectly clear. So, short of dragging a completely unconscious man off the ship, he would have to procure them before hand. And they were presumably locked up in that box in the captain's office. Which just happened to be connected to his sleeping quarters and the officer's conference room.
Passepartout frowned and sat back on the bunk he currently occupied, leaning against the wall, and dropped his head into his hands.
"How Passepartout getting himself in such things…" he mumbled dejectedly.
His thoughts wandered back to the half thought-out plan he had discussed with Mister Fogg. The one his master had called suicidal. He could conceivably change a few things around to include nabbing the box. He would have to make a few revisions in his plan. But it was not impossible. Most of what he needed was down in the cargo hold and he could get the rest in the galley. He would also need to acquire a uniform. He would look less inconspicuous wearing a League uniform than he would a cook's. And then he needed the uninterrupted time to make everything…
He smiled as an idea dawned. Of course. The galley. As he recalled the night before he remembered vividly that after dinner the cooks pretty much cleared out of the galley and retired to their rooms. No one else would have reason to be in the galley save for a cook so he wouldn't have to worry about being discovered by a League man. And if he was questioned for some reason, he could just say he was preparing something special for the next day. He made a mental note to whip up something just in case….
Then there was the matter of timing. Late evening would be the best time to slip Mister Fogg out, most of the crew would be sleeping and there would little chance of being spotted, but it would be the worst time for the Aurora as she would have to use her running lights to see them. Early morning might be a bit better if they struck before most of the crew awoke, but there was a better chance they might run into some early risers. Was that a risk worth taking?
Passepartout rose quickly from the bunk and moved to the doorway, glancing out into the corridor. One of his roommates cocked a brow as he stood there, but said nothing. They had all discovered in one way or another that it was best not to ask questions.
The corridor was empty; most of the League men were either on duty up on the poop deck or in the training room. He stood a very good chance of making it to the cargo hold if he left now and made it back within a reasonable amount of time. Dinner was not to be served for a few more hours. After that he would be very busy.
* * * * * * * *
As Marion finally pulled away from the embrace and glanced into Jules Verne's soft, warm eyes, she began to wonder what she had gotten herself into. Here was an absolutely adorable young man, intelligent and very caring, who seemed completely captivated by her, yet her mind could not help but wonder what it would be like to kiss Phileas Fogg. The two men were so opposite each other yet she found both so extremely attractive.
Jules in all his innocence would be very faithful she knew. He would always be there for her. She would never have to worry where she stood with him. In his eyes she would be number one. Stability was something most women longed for. And in Jules Verne she would have that. Physically he was a handsome young man, with his curly chocolate brown hair and wide brown eyes. He was not very tall, barely an inch or two above her as they stood facing each other on the balcony, but he was nicely built. And he was young, perhaps a year or two older than herself, which meant a long life together.
But her mind could not completely dismiss Phileas Fogg. She could still remember how he had made her heart stop the moment their eyes had met. How she could barely hear through the blood pounding in her ears. He was absolutely captivating in his beauty. Tall, roguish, with a disarming smile that could melt the coldest of hearts. Yet, she knew there would be no stability in her life with him. She would not be number one for Queen and country would always be a border between them. And he was older then she. Would he still want children should he decide to settle down in the future?
As she considered all this, her mind told her she had only one choice – Jules Verne. Her body told her – Phileas Fogg. Yet her heart could not decide between them.
Still there was something she had never taken into consideration.
"Jules?" she asked.
"Hmmm?" he replied, still looking deeply into her eyes with a dreamy look on his boyish face.
"Why did you kiss me?"
He blinked at her. "Pardon me?"
"Why did you kiss me?" she asked again.
His face flushed slightly, and he stuttered slightly as he spoke. "Well, I thought…maybe…well, I thought… perhaps…" He took a deep breath, "Because I like you and…"
She reached out and placed her hands on the lapel of his jacket and he stopped. "I didn't mean to embarrass you, Jules. It's just that I saw you and Rebecca Fogg kissing last night and I don't want to be a third party."
His eyes widened, he'd had no idea she had even been in the room last night. Although it did explain the mysterious appearance of the tray full of sandwiches. "Me and Rebecca? No no no. There's nothing between us. That was just a friendly kiss. Rebecca can be very affectionate that way."
She raised her eyebrows, looking into his eyes. "Are you so certain?"
He nodded, never so sure of anything in his entire life. "She's a friend. Just a friend."
She smiled again, relieved. If there was one woman on earth she did not want to compete with, it was Rebecca Fogg. "Good. I'm glad." She moved in closer so that there was barely a hair's breadth between them. "Do you want to kiss me again?" She asked, because she so much wanted him to.
He nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do…."
She didn't wait for him to finish. She slid her hands from his lapels up to his neck and pulled him into another embrace. As their lips met she felt his hands slide around her waist and hold her tight.
And then suddenly something crashed behind them and they both jumped with fright. Half turning around they found Rebecca Fogg standing in the open doorway, a very happy smile on her beautiful face. The smile did not falter as she glanced at them and the clutch she had found them in.
"So sorry for the interruption, Jules," she said, trying her best not to laugh. "But there's something I think you should see."
Verne quickly released his hold on Marion and pulled back as Rebecca strode forward. He was not sure if he was embarrassed about being caught with Marion or because they had been caught by Rebecca. Despite what he had said about Rebecca just being a friend, he did find her incredibly attractive and very desirable.
"What is it?" he asked, finally finding his voice.
She handed him one of the spyglasses and pointed over the side of the rail. "Passepartout has sent another message."
He took the glass and turned to follow her pointed finger. Sure enough there was another message written on the back of the building. The words dawn and here were written in what appeared to be the same substance as the earlier message.
Verne grinned and turned to look at Rebecca, her face almost radiant with excitement.
"Come, Jules," she said, her smile widening, " We've got some work to do before dawn."
* * * * * * * *
That evening went incredibly quickly for both the occupants of the Aurora as well as for Passepartout.
While Marion kept a constant vigil on the balcony above, Rebecca and Verne readied the wench and everything else they thought might be necessary for the dawn rescue.
Passepartout was busy himself in the galley of the ship preparing the things he would need for the dawn escape. As he had hoped, very few people noticed his absence nor questioned his presence in the galley at such a late hour. Upon closer examination, he appeared to be actively engaged in the preparation of some exquisite meal, which the crew in no way wanted to interrupt.
Later that night he slipped out of the galley, donned a League uniform he had pilfered from the laundry area, and set about carefully placing his volatile preparations in anticipation of an explosively interesting morning.
An hour before dawn he was back in the galley, mixing another glass of his special elixir for Mister Fogg, and drinking an entire pot of coffee in order to boost his confidence as well as his wakefulness.
Then ever so slowly the sun's rays began to rise over the horizon
In Which Love Blooms
Passepartout was awakened the following morning by movement in the cabin. He groaned at the most inconsiderate interruption and started to pull the sheet over his head. It was much too early in the morning to be up and about. It had been a hard day and a late night. Mister Fogg would understand his tardiness surely….
Mister Fogg!
Passepartout sat bolt straight in the bed as memories of the day before came flooding to mind. He barely missed clocking himself on the bunk above, having the presence of mind to duck at the last possible moment. The other occupants of the room turned at the commotion.
"You will be late if you do not get up soon," one commented. "The captain does not take kindly to tardiness."
Passepartout waved a hand of understanding. "Yes, I getting up now."
"I do hope you plan on donning a new uniform," another replied. "You appear to have been through a war in that one."
The other two snickered their agreement and followed the third out the door of the cabin.
Passepartout glanced down at the apron he still wore from the day before and immediately understood the remark. The once white apron was now a dingy gray, stained by the dust and dirt he had kicked up in his investigation of the cargo hold. Splotches of food from his preparations yesterday added a splash of color across the gray. But most of all he was horrified to find dried blood smeared at the bottom where he had wiped his hands after helping the doctor. His master's blood.
Memories of his master laying on sheets drenched with blood, his skin pale, his body lifeless, brought a shiver to Passepartout's own worn body and he found himself shaking uncontrollably. Had his master made it through the long evening?
The valet quickly scrambled out of the bed and walked over to the single closet in the room. Opening it he found another white shirt and a pair of trousers. Hopefully there would be an extra apron in the galley for he most certainly could not wear this one again. He discarded the clothes he had been wearing in the trunk at the foot of the bed. With luck he would not be returning to this room for a second night, for he highly doubted he could keep Miss Rebecca from storming the ship for another day.
Now, he must help serve breakfast and then find an opportune moment to sneak away to visit his master.
The corridors were rather quite as Passepartout made his made to the galley. Most of the doors to the cabins were still closed and very little sound could be heard coming from within them. As the valet consulted his watch he found the hour to be just after seven, perhaps a little too early for the men to be up and moving.
The galley, however, was a flurry of activity as the cooks began to prepare the breakfast meal and the servers prepared the tables in the dining room. Passepartout made himself busy in the kitchen helping prepare the food while searching through the supplies for the ingredients he would need later.
Thankfully breakfast consisted of little more than eggs, bacon, and bread. A meal easily prepared, served, and cleaned up. By nine o'clock Passepartout was alone in the galley, free to prepare another meal for his master – one he hoped to be able to get him to eat – and a special elixir which he hoped would ease the pain somewhat.
* * * * * * * *
The dawn of morning found Rebecca standing alone at the observation window, her face pressed against the glass as she peered forlornly down at the ship below. She had long since finished crying for there was not a tear left in her body to shed. Jules, God bless his soul, had tried to comfort her last night. And for a few precious moments she had believed him. But her soul could not, would not be comforted. The ache in her heart had been unbearable and with every second that passed by she had felt it grow colder and colder.
This morning, there was nothing there but an emptiness she could not describe.
She put a hand up to the glass, feeling the coolness of it against her warm skin, and closed her eyes. In her mind's eye she saw darkness all around her. Through the blood pumping loudly in her ears she could barely make out the sound of voices. They seemed to be all around her yet the darkness made it difficult to discern exactly where they were coming from. In her blindness she stuck out an arm, searching for the touch of anything that would give credence to her existence. There was only blackness.
Then pain. So much pain she could not move. Dare not move for fear of causing more. Every part of her body ached beyond endurance. She wanted to curl up into a ball, hide, and wait for the pain to subside. But it wouldn't.
And with the pain, there was fear. Fear of abandonment. Fear of death. Fear of disappointing those she loved. But most of all fear of things yet unsaid.
Her heart pounded heavy against her chest and she found her breath catching in her throat. She suddenly felt very cold, and her body started to shiver uncontrollably. She wanted to scream, "What's happening to me?!" but not a word issued from her lips.
And then she realized it was not herself she was feeling, but Phileas. So strongly and so real. As if the two had suddenly become one. She also realized that she was drowning in his pain and in his fear. She was letting his weakness take control of her, instead of using her strength to take control of him.
With every once of resolve she could muster, she forced her heart to slow, her breath to come easy. And as she relaxed the pain began to ease and fear to dissolve. Then she concentrated on the darkness, bringing happier, more contented thoughts to mind. Playful times at Shillingworth Magna. Like the time Phileas tried to teach her how to duel properly and she almost skewered him to the stable wall. The fond memory brought a smile to her face. And the darkness around her began to recede.
Sunlight reflected off the glass window and bathed her in warmth and light and she opened her eyes.
* * * * * * * *
Sunlight shone in a dust-filled band from the round portal set high in the wall, forcing reluctant consciousness on Phileas Fogg. It illuminated his face, filling his closed eyes with a fierce red that seemed to burn away into the nethermost regions of his skull. He groaned, reaching for the bell on the nightstand that would bring Passepartout with cool water to slake the thirst drying his mouth, or some restorative potion for the pounding that assailed his head. His hand struck a metal wall and the shock opened his eyes, wincing as the light struck louder gongs of pain from the templates of his confused mind. Squinting he saw that there was no nightstand, only a black painted metal wall, a small round portaled window admitting the offensive brilliance. He groaned again, tried to sit up, instantly regretting the movement as something ripped in his side with renewed pain that threatened to black him out again. He fell back, struggling to pin down memories that danced like fireflies through the tortured convolutions of his whirling head. He had been following Roland Jackelton, there had been a tavern, a fight….and he had been caught in the side with a sword.
The League of Darkness.
"Oh, gaw…." He mumbled, licking dry lips that refused to work properly. Where the hell was he? Not dead, of that he was certain. He hurt too much to be dead. So he lay there for the longest of moments, trying to decide whether he should just let himself slide back into blessed oblivion or strive past the pain and sit up. But then he heard a voice in his head - which sounded an awful lot like Rebecca - challenge, It's just a scratch, Phil . Get off your bloody arse and walk it off.
And somehow he found the strength to try again.
This time he took a deep breath, somehow managed to get his elbows underneath him, and struggled to sit up…And just as quickly gave up on that idea as the stitch in his side tore a cry from his throat and he fell back into the softness of the bed's mattress. Darkness ebbed at the corners of his conscious then, beckoning him to embrace her. She offered him sweet relief from the pain and confusion, a permanent abode from the discomforts of the world. He stretched out his arms towards her, ready to seek that solace, when another familiar voice brought him abruptly back to reality.
"Master?" It whispered.
Light appeared behind his eyelids as he floated back to full consciousness. Struggling to open them, he saw nothing at first but a formless paleness that hovered above him, only slowly taking on the recognizable form of a man.
Passepartout.
He tried to say the man's name. Longed to hear him say that he was really and truly there, for he recalled vaguely hearing familiar voices in the nethermost regions of his mind, could have sworn that Rebecca was right there beside him, whispering his name, calling him back, but could not tell if they had been real or simply the desires of a delirious mind. With what little strength he could muster, he reached out with his hand, and the apparition took it.
"I am here, master." he whispered.
Fogg blinked tears from his eyes, droplets of water running down the side of his face to wet the pillow under his head. "Passepartout…" was all he could get past his parched throat.
Passepartout dropped to his knees beside the bed, placing the tray containing the bowl of broth and pitcher on the floor beside him. He released his grip on his master's hand, though neither was wont to break the contact, and quickly poured a glass of the elixir. Then he slid one arm under Fogg's shoulders, cradling the back of his master's head in the crook of his arm, and lifted him up slowly.
"Drink, master." he said, setting the rim of the mug against Fogg's lips.
Fogg drank eagerly until the liquid settled in his stomach where it immediately heaved at the abrupt intrusion. His body jerked spasmodically, sending ripples of renewed pain through every nerve and fiber of his being, and he coughed up a mouthful as a groan of pain escaped. Instinctively he curled into the fetal position, clutching at his wounded side. Darkness was there again, dancing on the edge of his vision, coaxing him to join her with promises of warmth and safety. He longed to follow her, to leave this pain and misery, but something was holding him back, keeping him from slipping back into oblivion.
And in his mind's eye he saw Rebecca. Standing on the observation deck of the Aurora, bathed in golden sunlight, looking like an angel of mercy with her hair draped in waves around her face. She smiled at him and stretched out her own arms, whispering his name, beckoning him to hold on….
"Master…master…"
Passepartout had his hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently but with an urgency that bespoke his fear and worry. With great effort Fogg forced his eyes open again.
"Master…I am sorry…"
Fogg was wont to tell the man it was in no way his fault, but he couldn't get his mouth to work. His teeth were still clenched tight against the pain that would not subside, refusing to cooperate. He could only glance up at his valet…no, his friend…, a fuzzy façade floating across his water-filled eyes. A single tear ran down the side of his face.
"You taking it easy, master." Passepartout whispered. "Hurt very bad."
He sat for a moment longer until he noticed the pain on his master's face start to ease up a bit. His jaw slowly unclenched and the lines of his forehead began to unfurrow. Soon the tension in his body went flaccid and unfurled from the protective fetal position. The valet reached out and gently rolled Fogg over onto his back and off his wounded side. His master did not protest.
"You are feeling much better?" he inquired. He had hoped to make the elixir strong enough to ease the pain, but not so strong as to render him unconscious again.
Fogg opened his eyes, staring at the man before him. A man he had once been arrogant enough to consider only a valet, practically a piece of property to be done with as he pleased. But over the years that man had gone above and beyond the call of his duty as a manservant. He had become not only a trusted confidante but also a faithful friend.
And now a savior.
"Yes, much better." he said slowly. "Thank you, Passepartout."
With his vision not so clouded with pain, Fogg was able to glance around the room again. There was not much more to be seen the second time around, except perhaps he noticed the two men standing in the corridor just outside the doorway. From what he could see of them, they both appeared to be wearing the uniforms of the League of Darkness. This did not surprise him in the least. What did surprise him, though, was the fact that he was still alive. And that for some very odd reason, Passepartout was here beside him.
"What happened?" he asked, finally returning his glance to Passepartout.
"I knowing not how you got here, master." the valet replied, "But I telling you how I did."
* * * * * * * *
Jules Verne was not sure what he expected to find when he came down the stairs to the parlor that morning. All he knew was that he had definitely not expected to find what he did. The table was set for three and the aroma of frying eggs and bacon could be smelled throughout the airship. He stopped on the last step and peered around, half expecting to see Fogg sitting in the chair at his desk, newspaper in hand, and Passepartout coming out of the kitchen with a steaming plate of food. Instead it was Rebecca that came out of the kitchen, balancing a bowl overflowing with fluffy eggs and a plate filled to capacity with strips of bacon. She smiled when she saw him. An expression that simply lit up her beautiful face.
"Why good morning, Jules!" she greeted him cheerfully as she moved passed him into the parlor. "I do so hope you're hungry. I seem to have made an over abundance of eggs. I was just simply famished and I believe got carried away."
She sat both plate and bowl on the table then settled herself onto the settee bench opposite the stairwell. He watched in surprise as she picked up the bowl and shoveled a goodly amount onto one of the three plates and then selected a fair amount of bacon strips. He was simply amazed at the transition from the night before. He smiled, thinking, I guess my little talk worked.
"Do have a seat, Jules," she said, glancing up to find him still on the step. "I really don't want to eat alone."
He was wont to ask her what had caused the sudden change in demeanor, until he suddenly realized it had been awhile since his last meal and those eggs did look rather tempting.
Then he noticed that someone was missing.
Marion.
He had looked for her upstairs where she had been sleeping in Rebecca's room, but the bed had already been made and she was not there. He did not see her in the parlor or the observation deck either.
"Where's Miss Baeuvin?" he inquired, trying to sound nonchalant, as he moved to take the chair opposite her.
Rebecca smiled. It had not taken him long to notice the younger woman was amiss. "She has decided to take her watch on the upper deck. Seems she fell in love with the view last night."
Verne nodded as he spooned out a large amount of eggs on to his own plate and took most of the remaining pieces of bacon. "I didn't know you could cook." he remarked, shoveling the first forkload of food into his mouth.
She glanced up with a wicked grin. "I never said I could."
* * * * * * * *
"What of the stones, Passepartout," Fogg asked when he was quite certain that Passepartout had relayed all he knew of their current situation. "Have you any idea where they might be?"
"They not be secreted in the hold. I searched the whole place."
Fogg nodded, he had thought as much. No, the stones would be somewhere a little more secure than the cargo hold. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think, feeling that at any moment he might drift off again and fighting the impulse, as attractive as it might be. He was tired, gaw was he tired, but he could ill afford to be resting given their current circumstances. He forced his eyes opened again.
"We need to find them, Passepartout. I cannot leave this place without them."
The valet studied his master's face for a long moment before responding. Although the lines of pain that had furrowed his brow earlier had all but faded, the dark rings under his usually vibrant green eyes were still shadowed in fatigue and worry. It would be a long road to recovery, but Passepartout was certain he was on the way. If only he could get him safely off this ship and onto the Aurora. And if the only way to do that was to find those stones, then by God, he was going to find them!
"Passepartout will find…"
A scuffle at the doorway caused Fogg to glance up and Passepartout stopped himself mid-sentence. He half turned to find a man in an officer's uniform standing just inside the doorway. In one hand he held the doctor's black medical bag. He motioned into the hallway with his free hand. "They tell me that you helped the doctor with this man yesterday. Is that correct?"
Passepartout slowly nodded his head. "Oui, monsieur."
"Good." He tossed the bag at the valet's feet. "You will find everything you need in there. Tend to the patient again and then you will be escorted to the Captain's office. He wishes to speak with you."
Passepartout swallowed a reflexive gulp. "Pardoning me?" he said. "Where being the doctor?"
The officer gave a malicious little chuckle. "He was given the offer to join us and refused so we let him off the ship last night."
Passepartout visibly blanched. He suddenly felt very sick to his stomach. Was there something he could have done to prevent the doctor's death? Something he should have said? Should he have taken him into his confidence about who he really was? or who their patient was? He should have said something. But he hadn't. Because he had been afraid that the man would turn him in. That he would have been the one they threw overboard. So he had kept quiet. Now the doctor was dead. And it was his fault.
Fogg could sense the sudden change in his friend's demeanor as Passepartout instinctively tensed his muscles. Fearing that the valet might give away his cover without thinking, he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for the officer to hear, "Bloody b-stards."
The officer glanced away from Passepartout as Fogg had hoped and glared at him instead. "You would be wise to keep your mouth shut. The Count's orders were that you be kept alive. He did not specify how alive."
Fogg returned the glare, not the least bit intimidated. "Well, you can tell the Count that was the worst mistake he's ever made." He let the word "count" drip off his tongue with distaste and abhorrence.
The officer laughed, but not entirely in amusement. His gaze shifted as Fogg continued to stare at him, unwilling to meet those piercing eyes that strived past the pain to convey venom and enmity. Finally he returned his attention to Passepartout. "When you are finished here one of the men outside will escort you to the captain." His boldness began to resurface as he concentrated on the submissive valet. "Make it quick or you will meet the same fate as your predecessor. The captain detests to be kept waiting."
With that said, the man turned smartly on his heels and walked out of the room.
Passepartout's head sagged after the man had gone. Fogg reached out and laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Passepartout…."
The valet refused to meet his gaze, instead staring down at the bag sitting beside his feet. "It's my faulting that the doctor is dead." He mumbled.
"No it is not, my friend."
Passepartout stiffened at the familiarity and turned his head to glance sidelong at his master. Fogg offered a tired smile and squeezed his arm.
"You cannot blame yourself for the actions of evil men, Passepartout. If you had told the doctor who you really were, he might have told the captain, and you would be dead. And the doctor would be resigned to living the remainder of his life as a slave to Count Gregory. I would prefer death to such a life."
Passepartout turned away then, staring once more at the bag. "And what do you think the Count has in mind for you?" he asked.
Fogg gave a little chuckle and settled back into the bed. "Since I am a betting man, Passepartout, I would bet my life that he plans on re-assembling the Crown of Souls and I shall be his first victim."
Passepartout tensed and glanced back at him. "That not happening, master. We swooping the coup before that happening."
Fogg cocked an eyebrow. "You have a plan?"
The valet tapped the side of his head. "One is formulacating as we speak."
* * * * * * * *
Verne found Marion Baeuvin on the upper deck as Rebecca had mentioned earlier, leaning over the balcony and taking in the view all around her. She half turned as the door shut behind him and smiled.
"Have you every seen anything more beautiful in your entire life?!" she exclaimed, spreading her arms to encompass everything around her.
Verne smiled at her enthusiasm. "No I have not." he answered honestly, although he wasn't talking about the scenery. She had borrowed one of Rebecca's dresses. The purple one that Passepartout had once commented didn't look quite right on her. The young writer had thought Passepartout a bit crude for making such a remark in front of mixed company, but Rebecca had never worn the outfit again. On Marion the color did justice to her fair complexion, highlighting the color of her golden tresses and the sparkle in her eye. This morning she looked absolutely ravishing.
She turned again as he walked over to join her at the rail, a slight pout on her face. "You jest with me, sir." she replied.
"I would never, Miss Baeuvin. I have honestly never seen anything more beautiful."
She raised an eyebrow as she studied his face. It was a nice honest face to be sure, she thought. She doubted the young man had ever told a single lie in his entire life. "Call me Marion. I do so hate all this formality."
"Marion," he repeated, liking the way it rolled over his tongue. "You can call me Jules."
She giggled and he felt his heart skip a beat. "All right, Jules." she replied.
He leaned against the rail, forcing his gaze downward, towards the ship they were chasing, because he knew if he continued to look at her he wouldn't be able to speak. "Well, you know all about me," he said. "But I know nothing of you. Except that you're the daughter of Marcus Baeuvin."
She sighed, and turned to mimic his stance. "There's nothing much to tell really. I've lived a rather sheltered and very boring life, I'm afraid. My mother died when I was very young so my father has been overly protective of me. This is actually the first time I've ever been out of London."
Verne couldn't help but smile. "My first time out of Paris was actually on this ship as well."
She giggled again, like a soft spring rain. "Then we have much more in common than I had originally thought." She turned her head to look at him. "We are both romantics at heart, I think, Jules. Living our lives through the pages of books. Only you've had a taste of the real thing. Tell me, could you go back now to the life you had lived before?"
"No," he said without having to think. "No, I don't think so. I've seen too much, been through too much, to ever go back to being what I had been before."
"So what will you do with the rest of your life? Spend it here, with the Foggs, traveling the world and ridding it of evil?"
He shook his head. "No. I've been writing it all down in my journal and I hope some day to be able to write a book."
"A book?" she repeated. And then she smiled. "With a dashing hero perhaps? That travels the world in a luxury dirigible?"
He felt his heart falter as she spoke of a dashing hero. Dashing was not a word one would use to describe Jules Verne, but it was a word that perfectly described Phileas Fogg.
He swallowed hard, concentrating on the ship instead. "Or perhaps a dashing heroine." he replied, trying to cover up the awkwardness he felt.
* * * * * * * *
Passepartout tried to contain the fear in his heart as he followed the League of Darkness guard through the winding corridors of the ship and across the poop deck to the officer's quarters under the pilot house. He had no idea why the captain should want to see him. He hadn't even made contact with the man yet. At least not as far as he could remember.
Had someone seen him snooping through the bowels of the ship, peeking into open doorways and opening ones that were closed? Had he been discovered in the cargo hold going through box after box of guns and explosives? Had someone discovered his message to the occupants of the Aurora?
All these thoughts raced through his head as he walked, keeping his eyes straight ahead, not daring to look at the faces of the sailors as he passed.
Mister Fogg had even been at a loss for an explanation. But he wasn't quite himself yet and still not thinking quite clearly. Of course the elixir he had prepared had not helped much in clearing a foggy brain. All of this, one could imagine, would explain his horror at hearing the valet's plan of escape. Passepartout had thought it quite brilliant. His master had not used quite that word.
"Passepartout, that is suicidal." Fogg had exclaimed, almost loud enough for the guards outside the door to hear.
"Only if I not doing it right." he had explained as he pushed his master back down onto the bed. "You think Passepartout is really an idiot, master?"
Fogg actually gurgled at the question, looking up at him with an almost comical look on his face. "Of course I don't…"
"Then you must trust Passepartout to know what he is doing."
Really, the plan wasn't all that….suicidal….Of course, if things did go wrong, they would be dead. But that made him more of a murderer than suicidal…which, when you thought of it, really didn't make much of a difference. He thought it best not to go there. It hurt his head too much.
He had changed the bandage by then and had applied another healthy dose of the doctor's salve before redressing it with clean bandages. The wounds hadn't look any better this morning than they had the day before. In fact the one on the front looked to be taking on a slight blackish tinge which highly upset the valet. His master had laid still the entire time he worked, only once trying to lift his head to get a look at the wound.
"Gaw, it looks as painful as it's beginning to feel…" he had mumbled as he dropped his head back down on to the pillow.
To which Passepartout quickly poured another glass of the elixir and helped Fogg to drink it. This time it went down much easier and soon his master had lolled off to sleep. He thought it best to refrain from mentioning the discoloration, it would have only worried his master.
So after he had set the new bandage in place he cleaned up and informed the guards that he was now ready to see the captain. Not that he really wanted to, but he could tell by their impatient glares into the room that he was taking much too long with a man he supposedly didn't know.
Now, here he was, walking down the corridor to face the captain.
The guard took him through a series of doors into what appeared to be a waiting room of some kind. A door that had not quite been closed all the way off to his right lead into another room from where he could hear voices talking. He was told to wait here until the meeting was over. Then the guard left, presumably, to return to his post in front of Fogg's door.
Passepartout thought to sit down in one of the numerous chairs situated around the room, but he was too nervous to sit. Instead he took to wandering around the room in hopes of finding something interesting to occupy his mind. In time he found himself standing outside the partially closed. And that's where he found "something interesting" to occupy his mind.
He actually had to flatted himself against the wall in order to peer through the slit of an opening. From what he could see it appeared to be a meeting room of some sort, where a man in a captain's uniform was speaking to several officers seated at a large round table.
The captain was standing before a large board where a map of the world was fastened. And stuck in the map were tiny little colored flags. Egypt and the whole continent of Africa was colored red. Asia: blue, Antarctica: green, Europe: yellow, Australia: black, North America: purple, and South America: white. Affixed to the upper right hand corner of the map was a corresponding legend. The red flags were considered first, the blue second, yellow third, white fourth, purple fifth, and green sixth. The black flags weren't even listed.
The captain pointed to a spot on the map towards the southernmost region of Egypt. "This is the region of Egypt known as Nubia. This is our ultimate destination and where we will continue our training in earnest. The rest of our army is already there. Count Gregory has seen to their initiation as true League of Darkness soldiers by implanting the cortical globe studs, which our men will receive upon theirs.
"Before we arrive in Cairo and are then taken onto Nubia, the Count wanted me to brief you all on what is to be expected. As you know, most of the men on this ship have only just recently signed on. Most of them did so because they were promised large sums of money. Others did so for the chance to get even with the governments they believed wronged them in some way. Their reasons are not really important. Once we arrive in Nubia, that will be of little consequence once the cortical globe studs are implanted."
One of the officers cleared his throat and spoke up. "Does the Count actually believe he can control that large of an army at once?"
"Yes, he does. With the recent modifications to the crown that was stolen from the Cairo Museum, he has been able to control the entire army already stationed in Nubia with just a mere thought or emotion. It's connection to the cortical studs has enabled improved amplification for large amounts of people as well as at a greater distance. From Nubia he was able to control our men dispatched to England, France and the Americas."
There were a great many murmurs throughout the room and Passepartout found himself among them. This was not good news. Not good at all. Mister Fogg had made mention of a crown in association with the bloodstones. A very bad and powerful relic should it ever be put back together.
The captain smiled. "Once the crown is completely re-assembled with the three bloodstones, our army of
Darkness will be truly invincible." He walked over to the map and placed his pointer in the red area marking Egypt and the rest of the continent of Africa. "The Count has decided that this area will be the first we concur and inhabit. Provided the army is physically ready, the invasion should begin in six months time."
"Surely the rest of the civilized world will not sit idly by and let us commence such utter destruction." a third officer replied.
Passepartout nodded his head in agreement. That was a very good observation.
"The Count has made provisions for those countries who would wish to intercede with his plans. Suffice it
to say that we have contacts in each of those governments who will be keeping their respective countries busy with more pressing issues."
Passepartout's heart sank a little deeper. This mission was certainly much more than his master and Miss Rebecca could handle on their own. He only hoped they would come to the same conclusion.
"As you can see by the colored flags, the Count has already mapped out the systematic domination of the major countries of the world. He has predicted that once the souls of the people of Africa have been assimilated by the crown and control of their bodies taken over by the cortical globe studs, he will have an army no other country in the world will be able to defeat."
Passepartout suddenly felt very sick to his stomach. This crown was bad, very bad indeed. He truly felt the need to sit down so he moved over to one of the chairs and plopped down. Which turned out to be a very good move as the partially closed door to the meeting room was shoved all the way open and the officers and captain walked out. For a brief moment Passepartout almost panicked as the captain glanced at him, but then he remembered that the man had asked to see him and he forced himself to calm down.
"Who are you?" the captain inquired. He was a very tall man, but then to Passepartout most men were tall, maybe slightly taller than his master, but much bigger in the middle. His uniform fit him a little too snuggly in the mid-section, suggesting a love for fine foods. He did not have an entirely mean looking face, but one that looked to brook no disputes of his authority. His greying hair suggested he was perhaps in his late forties, early fifties, and his tanned skinned made Passepartout think he had spent quite a few of those years on the open seas.
"My name is Jean, Captain-sir. The guard said you wanting to see me."
The captain raised a brow, "I did?"
"I was assisticating the doctor with your prisoner." he offered by way of explanation.
Realization dawned on the other man's face and he nodded. "Please come into my office." he motioned with a hand at the few officers who were still discussing things in the room. "It will be less noisy there."
The captain led the way through another door, opposite the meeting room, with a placard attached reading "Captain Ballentine". Passepartout followed, stepping into a rather small, but tastefully done office. To his left was another door that led into what appeared to be the captain's sleeping quarters. Ballentine motioned for the valet to take a seat, which Passepartout graciously did. It was while he was settling into it that he noticed a large ornate box sitting on the credenza behind the desk. He would have paid it little mind had it not been for the large lock placed upon its delicate clasps. It was quite obvious that whatever was inside was meant to stay inside.
"You are one of the cooks, non?" the captain inquired as he settled into the plush chair behind the desk.
"Oui, captain-sir."
The man nodded. "I was informed that you have been keeping decent care of our prisoner."
Passepartout swallowed. "Oui, captain-sir. The doctor ask-ed me to."
Ballentine leaned forward, placing his arms on the desk. "Has he said anything to you, Jean?"
"Nothing comprehending, sir. He's delirious, I think. Talking about magical crowns and mystical legends. Shouting names…thrashing about sometimes. I have humored him,." Passepartout leaned a little closer and whispered, "but I think he is crazy, sir."
A small smile crossed the Captain's face. "Yes, he is, Jean. Mentally unstable. He is a mortal enemy and not to be trusted. Is that understood?"
"Oui, captain-sir."
"Good." Ballentine leaned back in his chair. "You are to continue to tend to his wounds. He must live to see Egypt for our leader has great plans for him." He waved a hand towards the door then, "You are dismissed."
Passepartout jumped to his feet and gave a slight bow. Then he turned and hurried out of the office and back to his little safe corner of the world. Lunch would be served soon and he wanted to think about nothing more serious than which side of the plate the forks went on.
* * * * * * * *
Verne wasn't exactly sure why he decided to spend the rest of the afternoon up on the balcony with someone who obviously wasn't interested in him the same way he was interested in her. He thought perhaps it was the way she would continue to look at him sidelong, through the tendrils of hair that always seemed to make there way in front of her beautiful face. Or the smile that just captured his heart with its innocence and playful fun. Or the bright blue eyes that could not possibly get any bigger as he would tell her of the stories he was writing, had written, or would someday write. She would giggle, or gasp, or blush at all the right places and say all the right things that made him feel as if he could actually make a living as a writer.
After an hour in her presence he decided he could live with the fact that she found Phileas Fogg attractive and exciting, if only she would consent to be with him for the rest of eternity. Yes, he could live with a heart divided as long as her body and mind belonged to him alone.
But after an entire afternoon with the young woman he though he might actually have to get rid of Fogg. Not permanently of course. In any contest other than intellectual, Fogg could best him blind-folded. But if he could somehow get the older man out of the picture for a while he just might stand a chance…
"Jules?"
The sound of her lilting voice brought him out of his revelries and he turned to look at her. "Huh?"
"What do you think they'll do with the crown?"
Jules placed his elbows on the rail of the balcony and looked down at the ship. "The same thing the Pharaoh did when he had it, I suppose. It was made as a weapon of war. And Count Gregory seeks world domination which could only come about through some kind of world war."
She imitated his posture, standing so close he could feel the warmth of her body, feel the touch of her hair as it blew softly about her face. "Yes, but that's assuming it really does do what it was reported to have done. I didn't give it credence when my father believed it and I certainly don't now." She looked at him sidelong again and he felt his heart stop for one terrifying moment. "You're a man of intellect, Jules, how can you believe such a thing?"
He had to look away, or forever be lost to that glance. He swallowed hard, finding his voice. "I'm not sure I do. I'm not even sure Rebecca or Phileas does. But the Count does. And right now he has Fogg and Passepartout, the crown and bloodstones. Rebecca said that the Queen herself requested that Fogg retrieve the crown and stones. Knowing Fogg, he'll do just that or die trying. Regardless of whether or not he believes the relic actually works."
"Then he will die for nothing."
"No, he'll die for something. His duty and loyalty to England and the Queen."
She looked away, up at the clouds floating by the Aurora, so close she could almost reach out and touch one. "I don't understand that, Jules. It makes no sense to me. Your being here trying to rescue a friend. Miss Fogg and Mr. Passepartout risking their lives to save a loved one. I understand that. But his willingness to die for an ideal such as duty or honor. That I don't understand. It's such a waste of human life. A hundred years from now no one in the country will even know he existed, yet he would die for it."
"Fogg isn't interested in immortality. He could care less if he was remembered by anyone. But he will die willingly for country, Queen, friends, family, and honor." Verne thought perhaps he had just mucked up royally his plan for getting rid of Fogg.
She smiled. "You admire him, don't you, Jules?"
The question took him aback. "Wha…?…Yeah, in some ways I guess I do. But in others, no I don't. There's a lot about him I don't like. There's a lot I don't understand. He's a very complex man."
She turned to look at him and he was trapped by her smile. "Unlike you, hmmm?" she said, sounding too much like Rebecca for his liking. "You're an open book, Jules. A person can see exactly what's on your mind and what's on your heart at all times."
He just stared at her for the longest of moments and then he did something totally out of character. He bent over and kissed her. Not long and not hard, put enough to let her know he wasn't totally predictable. She didn't pull away as he had thought she might. Instead she reached up and cupped his face between her hands and leaned further into the embrace.
And he was very glad he had decided to spend the entire afternoon up on the balcony.
* * * * * * * *
The afternoon did go quite as "interestingly" for Passepartout that day. While preparations for lunch offered a brief respite from the cares of the real world, he was still left with a feeling of hopelessness that would not diminish.
There were two things he knew for certain though. First, was that he had to get his master off this ship. Second, was that this ship was never going to arrive in Cairo. Not if he had anything to do about it.
So there in lay his problem. He had to find a way to get Mister Fogg off the ship and on to the Aurora without attracting any unwanted attention. It was a certain fact that his master was in no condition to walk without assistance. And a man, especially one dressed in civilian clothes, being propped up by another was surely to be noticed by everyone. So….he would need a diversion. A diversion big enough to draw away the majority of the League of Darkness men so that the Aurora could lower her wench and the two of them could be brought aboard.
But Mister Fogg would not leave without the bloodstones. He had already made that perfectly clear. So, short of dragging a completely unconscious man off the ship, he would have to procure them before hand. And they were presumably locked up in that box in the captain's office. Which just happened to be connected to his sleeping quarters and the officer's conference room.
Passepartout frowned and sat back on the bunk he currently occupied, leaning against the wall, and dropped his head into his hands.
"How Passepartout getting himself in such things…" he mumbled dejectedly.
His thoughts wandered back to the half thought-out plan he had discussed with Mister Fogg. The one his master had called suicidal. He could conceivably change a few things around to include nabbing the box. He would have to make a few revisions in his plan. But it was not impossible. Most of what he needed was down in the cargo hold and he could get the rest in the galley. He would also need to acquire a uniform. He would look less inconspicuous wearing a League uniform than he would a cook's. And then he needed the uninterrupted time to make everything…
He smiled as an idea dawned. Of course. The galley. As he recalled the night before he remembered vividly that after dinner the cooks pretty much cleared out of the galley and retired to their rooms. No one else would have reason to be in the galley save for a cook so he wouldn't have to worry about being discovered by a League man. And if he was questioned for some reason, he could just say he was preparing something special for the next day. He made a mental note to whip up something just in case….
Then there was the matter of timing. Late evening would be the best time to slip Mister Fogg out, most of the crew would be sleeping and there would little chance of being spotted, but it would be the worst time for the Aurora as she would have to use her running lights to see them. Early morning might be a bit better if they struck before most of the crew awoke, but there was a better chance they might run into some early risers. Was that a risk worth taking?
Passepartout rose quickly from the bunk and moved to the doorway, glancing out into the corridor. One of his roommates cocked a brow as he stood there, but said nothing. They had all discovered in one way or another that it was best not to ask questions.
The corridor was empty; most of the League men were either on duty up on the poop deck or in the training room. He stood a very good chance of making it to the cargo hold if he left now and made it back within a reasonable amount of time. Dinner was not to be served for a few more hours. After that he would be very busy.
* * * * * * * *
As Marion finally pulled away from the embrace and glanced into Jules Verne's soft, warm eyes, she began to wonder what she had gotten herself into. Here was an absolutely adorable young man, intelligent and very caring, who seemed completely captivated by her, yet her mind could not help but wonder what it would be like to kiss Phileas Fogg. The two men were so opposite each other yet she found both so extremely attractive.
Jules in all his innocence would be very faithful she knew. He would always be there for her. She would never have to worry where she stood with him. In his eyes she would be number one. Stability was something most women longed for. And in Jules Verne she would have that. Physically he was a handsome young man, with his curly chocolate brown hair and wide brown eyes. He was not very tall, barely an inch or two above her as they stood facing each other on the balcony, but he was nicely built. And he was young, perhaps a year or two older than herself, which meant a long life together.
But her mind could not completely dismiss Phileas Fogg. She could still remember how he had made her heart stop the moment their eyes had met. How she could barely hear through the blood pounding in her ears. He was absolutely captivating in his beauty. Tall, roguish, with a disarming smile that could melt the coldest of hearts. Yet, she knew there would be no stability in her life with him. She would not be number one for Queen and country would always be a border between them. And he was older then she. Would he still want children should he decide to settle down in the future?
As she considered all this, her mind told her she had only one choice – Jules Verne. Her body told her – Phileas Fogg. Yet her heart could not decide between them.
Still there was something she had never taken into consideration.
"Jules?" she asked.
"Hmmm?" he replied, still looking deeply into her eyes with a dreamy look on his boyish face.
"Why did you kiss me?"
He blinked at her. "Pardon me?"
"Why did you kiss me?" she asked again.
His face flushed slightly, and he stuttered slightly as he spoke. "Well, I thought…maybe…well, I thought… perhaps…" He took a deep breath, "Because I like you and…"
She reached out and placed her hands on the lapel of his jacket and he stopped. "I didn't mean to embarrass you, Jules. It's just that I saw you and Rebecca Fogg kissing last night and I don't want to be a third party."
His eyes widened, he'd had no idea she had even been in the room last night. Although it did explain the mysterious appearance of the tray full of sandwiches. "Me and Rebecca? No no no. There's nothing between us. That was just a friendly kiss. Rebecca can be very affectionate that way."
She raised her eyebrows, looking into his eyes. "Are you so certain?"
He nodded, never so sure of anything in his entire life. "She's a friend. Just a friend."
She smiled again, relieved. If there was one woman on earth she did not want to compete with, it was Rebecca Fogg. "Good. I'm glad." She moved in closer so that there was barely a hair's breadth between them. "Do you want to kiss me again?" She asked, because she so much wanted him to.
He nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do…."
She didn't wait for him to finish. She slid her hands from his lapels up to his neck and pulled him into another embrace. As their lips met she felt his hands slide around her waist and hold her tight.
And then suddenly something crashed behind them and they both jumped with fright. Half turning around they found Rebecca Fogg standing in the open doorway, a very happy smile on her beautiful face. The smile did not falter as she glanced at them and the clutch she had found them in.
"So sorry for the interruption, Jules," she said, trying her best not to laugh. "But there's something I think you should see."
Verne quickly released his hold on Marion and pulled back as Rebecca strode forward. He was not sure if he was embarrassed about being caught with Marion or because they had been caught by Rebecca. Despite what he had said about Rebecca just being a friend, he did find her incredibly attractive and very desirable.
"What is it?" he asked, finally finding his voice.
She handed him one of the spyglasses and pointed over the side of the rail. "Passepartout has sent another message."
He took the glass and turned to follow her pointed finger. Sure enough there was another message written on the back of the building. The words dawn and here were written in what appeared to be the same substance as the earlier message.
Verne grinned and turned to look at Rebecca, her face almost radiant with excitement.
"Come, Jules," she said, her smile widening, " We've got some work to do before dawn."
* * * * * * * *
That evening went incredibly quickly for both the occupants of the Aurora as well as for Passepartout.
While Marion kept a constant vigil on the balcony above, Rebecca and Verne readied the wench and everything else they thought might be necessary for the dawn rescue.
Passepartout was busy himself in the galley of the ship preparing the things he would need for the dawn escape. As he had hoped, very few people noticed his absence nor questioned his presence in the galley at such a late hour. Upon closer examination, he appeared to be actively engaged in the preparation of some exquisite meal, which the crew in no way wanted to interrupt.
Later that night he slipped out of the galley, donned a League uniform he had pilfered from the laundry area, and set about carefully placing his volatile preparations in anticipation of an explosively interesting morning.
An hour before dawn he was back in the galley, mixing another glass of his special elixir for Mister Fogg, and drinking an entire pot of coffee in order to boost his confidence as well as his wakefulness.
Then ever so slowly the sun's rays began to rise over the horizon