The Painted Room Read online

Chapter 13

  Lost at Sea

  May's fingers brushed against something hard and rough. She tried to figure out what it was. There was something coarse and solid under her hands.

  Everything around her was inky blackness. Then gradually, out of the murk, there appeared two familiar, worried faces framed by a backdrop of gray sky.

  All at once, her lungs exploded water, and she felt strong hands turn her over as she expelled the last of it from her mouth and nose, burning her throat and nasal passages on its way back up. She drew in a large breath, and to the amazement of both herself and her companions, burst into tears.

  Carlisle threw his head back and laughed.

  May was mortified. She stifled herself.

  He stopped laughing, rubbed her back and smiled. "Well, at least we know you're not dead."

  She sat up, exhausted and nauseous. "I feel terrible."

  "You took in a lot of seawater," he informed her.

  "Thanks," she said to him meaningfully.

  He started setting up the oars again. "Don't thank me. Sheila was in the water before I could stop her." He cast a look of disapproval at Sheila but added with a wink, "She's apparently half mermaid."

  So she thanked Sheila instead who was dripping wet with red-rimmed eyes. Sheila hugged her and sobbed, "You really are a terrible swimmer, May."

  "I know," she agreed.

  As quickly as the storm had started, it was now over. Carlisle started rowing again.

  "Where are we going?" asked Sheila, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  "I think we could use some dry land," he said. "I know I could."

  The clouds soon dispersed and the sun appeared. It became hot, drying their clothes, leaving the fabric sticky and stiff with crusted sea salt. After the freezing temperatures of the storm, May soaked in the warmth as she sat in the bottom of the boat, bailing out water with her hands.

  After a short while, she leaned out over the side of the boat and vomited. May had eaten very little for breakfast and had swallowed more than her fair share of the ocean. Hopefully they would find food and water soon. She had almost no energy left. Shaking, she leaned against the uncomfortable wooden boat and dozed off in the heat haze.

  When she awoke Carlisle wasn't rowing anymore. Sheila was curled up at the front of the rowboat, sleeping. The sun was almost gone in the sky. It sent out its last rays over the horizon in pink and orange.

  Seeing her stir, Carlisle sat down next to her and propped his back against the bench.

  "I can't row anymore," he said flatly.

  "That's okay."

  "I can't find the edge. I've been rowing for hours, but I just can't find it."

  "It's alright. Maybe the current will take us to it." May was too tired to worry about anything.

  "Maybe your right," he agreed, too tired himself to argue the point.

  Lazily, water lapped the outside of the boat.

  He screwed up his face. "May, how'd you know about the battle? That the pirates would lose? That the captain would die?"

  "I saw the picture when I was at Sheila's once and I went to the library and read about it. Captain Bartholomew Roberts—kind of weird they called him Black Bart when he liked to dress in red so much."

  "I'm glad we didn't find out why."

  "Me too," she said, because she already knew why. "Mr. Carlisle?"

  "What?" He yawned.

  "I think I ought to tell you something."

  He crossed his arms across his chest. "Hmm?"

  "I said I should probably tell you something. It's just that Sheila's mother bought more than one of your paintings. She bought a picture of your—Mr. Carlisle? Are you listening?"

  But he wasn't listening. Francis Carlisle had fallen asleep. He snored softly through his crooked nose.

  May actually felt relieved. Maybe it was better not to tell him about his wife. Even if they managed to make it out of the painting they were in, there was no guarantee they would ever make it to his wife's painting. And if, by some miracle, they did, there was no way to know what it would be like—what she would be like—when they got there. After all, she didn't arrive there the same way they did. She was, well—dead.

  But even more importantly, she and Sheila needed to find their way home. They didn't need to be wandering around searching for Carlisle's wife who might not even remember him when he got to her.

  Anyhow, it was too much to think about and May was too exhausted to think. She put her head down on the bench and watched a glowing crescent moon rise up out of the ocean and advance across the purple sky.