The Scar - China Mieville [5]
A nun stood in the threshold, her arms braced at either side of the doorway.
“Miss Coldwine,” she said uncertainly. “May I come in?”
“It’s your cabin too, Sister,” said Bellis quietly. Her pen spun over and around her thumb. It was a neurotic little trick she had perfected at university.
Sister Meriope shuffled forward a little and sat on the solitary chair. She smoothed her dark russet habit around her, fiddled with her wimple.
“It has been some days now since we became cabin-mates, Miss Coldwine,” Sister Meriope began, “and I do not feel . . . as if I yet know you at all. And this is not a situation I would wish to continue. As we are to be traveling and living together for many weeks . . . some companionship, some closeness, could only make those days easier . . .” Her voice failed, and she knotted her hands.
Bellis watched her, unmoving. Despite herself, she felt a trickle of contemptuous pity. She could imagine herself as Sister Meriope must see her: Angular, harsh, and bone-thin. Pale. Lips and hair stained the cold purple of bruises. Tall and unforgiving.
You don’t feel as if you know me, Sister, she thought, because I haven’t spoken twenty words to you in a week, and I don’t look at you unless you speak to me, and then I stare you down. She sighed. Meriope was crippled by her calling. Bellis could imagine her writing in her journal “Miss Coldwine is quiet, yet I know that I shall come to love her like a sister.” I am not, thought Bellis, getting involved with you. I will not become your sounding board. I will not redeem you of whatever tawdry tragedy brings you here.
Bellis eyed Sister Meriope and did not speak.
When she had first introduced herself, Meriope had claimed that she was traveling to the colonies to establish a church, to proselytize, for the glory of Darioch and Jabber. She had said it with a small sniff and a furtive look, idiotically unconvincing. Bellis did not know why Meriope was being sent to Nova Esperium, but it must have to do with some misfortune or disgrace, the transgression of some idiotic nunnish vow.
She glanced at Meriope’s midriff, looking for swelling under those forgiving robes. That would be the most likely explanation. The Daughters of Darioch were supposed to forego sensual pleasures.
I will not serve as replacement confessor for you, thought Bellis. I have my own bloody exile to work out.
“Sister,” she said, “I’m afraid you catch me at work. I have no time for pleasantries, I regret to say. Perhaps another time.” She was irritated with herself for that last tiny concession, but it had no effect, anyway. Meriope was broken.
“The captain wishes to see you,” the nun said, muffled and forlorn. “His cabin, at six o’clock.” She shuffled out of the door like a bullied dog.
Bellis sighed and swore quietly. She lit another cigarillo and smoked it right through, pinching the skin above her nose hard, before pulling out her letter again.
“I will go bloody mad,” she scribbled quickly, “if this damned nun does not stop fawning and leave me alone. Gods preserve me. Gods rot this damned boat.”
It was dark when Bellis obeyed the captain’s summons.
His cabin was his office. It was small, and pleasantly outfitted in dark wood and brass. There were a few pictures and prints on the walls, and Bellis glanced at them and knew that they were not the captain’s, that they came with the ship.
Captain Myzovic gestured her to sit.
“Miss Coldwine,” he said as she settled herself. “I hope your quarters are satisfactory. Your food? The crew? Good good.” He looked down briefly at the papers on his desk. “I wanted to raise a couple of issues with you, Miss Coldwine,” he said, and sat back.
She waited, staring at him. He was a hard-faced, handsome man in his fifties. His uniform was clean and pressed, which not all captains’ were. Bellis did not know whether it would be to her advantage to meet