Chapter Forty

It had to be near midnight, but William Stead resisted the urge to dig out his watch. It was buried in his vest pocket, hidden beneath several layers of wool. He was buttoned up tight against the cold winter night. He had to have been out here close to an hour—in near-arctic conditions. The ship had to be at one of its northernmost points on the journey and the spring weather had taken a turn for the frigid tonight. His nose and cheeks were stiff, his lips tight and uncomfortable. He stamped his feet to ward off the cold, wishing he’d brought a flask of hot tea with him.

What they—Guggenheim, the Duff-Gordons, the captain—must think of me out here by myself in this weather. Crazy old man, they’re probably saying right now. The captain had already sent a crewman to check on him. “Might you be more comfortable indoors, sir?” he’d asked politely, nudging Stead toward the door like a border collie. He finally gave up when Stead made it clear he’d go inside when he was good and ready. Maybe this was how his public career would end, he thought stoically. As a joke. The speaking events were already starting to dwindle; invitations to holidays in the country, even dinner parties, drying up. It was bad enough being infamous; he couldn’t afford to be known as a crackpot, too.

“Who are you? What do you want from us?” He spoke softly, saying the same words over and over and as he made slow circuits of the promenade. Normally the deck saw its share of passengers, even at this hour, but the freezing temperatures had driven everyone else indoors. As cold and tired as he was, he continued because he was sure there was something lurking aboard this ship, and what’s more, that something was going to happen soon, perhaps tonight. There was an electric charge crackling through the air, a special charge that only certain people could feel. People who were attuned to the other plane. People like himself.

If the spirit was malevolent . . . if something terrible were to happen, Stead would not be able to live with himself. He felt sickened over the death of the servant boy (though of course the blame lay with the Astors, treating the child as though he were a pet). Just as he felt gutted about what had happened to Eliza Armstrong.

He would not let another innocent suffer.

He made another slow lap of the promenade, his legs stiffening up as the temperature continued to drop. He called to the spirit under his breath and with his heart and mind. He could feel something in the air just beyond his reach. Something tantalizingly real, absolute.

It wasn’t until he’d returned to his starting point near the smoking room that he noticed a thickening of the mist over the water. It hung like a figure in the air, suspended over the black lapping waves. It wasn’t fog, Stead was sure of it. He knew what it was. He’d seen it before. The spirit was trying to answer him. It was attempting to materialize, to become the corporeal body it once was. Stead’s heart swelled with hope and amazement—and fear, too, for how could he not be afraid? As much as he wanted to witness a materialization, it was as frightening as seeing a corpse claw its way out of the grave.

As he waited, he became aware of the tremendous cold pressing down on him as though it had weight. As though the cold were a presence. He felt like nothing, a mere insect, confronted by this huge, annihilating manifestation. He felt the weight of the other world, the gravity greatest because the two worlds were so close. It was a feeling he’d never known before.

But as the mist took shape, it was no figure, no person coming closer, but something vaster, amorphous. These were not limbs being made from crystalized breath. The presence grew larger and larger, and whiter. Until there was no mistaking what was coming at him, what had emerged from the clouds hovering just over the surface of the ocean.

As tall as any building in London. And as massive.

An iceberg.