Read Online The Oracle of Stamboul by Michael David Lukas - Free Book Online Page B

carriage, and the trunk was passed from hand to hand like a sandbag. Her father’s luggage must have been among the last on board, because, soon after she was loaded, the hull closed with a creak of iron chains, the engine sprang to life, and the ship puffed away from the harbor. It was only at this point that Eleonora allowed herself to exhale and take stock of her circumstances. The first part of her plan had been an unmitigated success, but now here she was, trapped, a cramp blooming across her back, and hunger bubbling into her mouth like lava.
    “Hello?” she called out, her voice scratching against the top of her throat. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
    It was no use. There was no one there and, even if there had been, they wouldn’t be able to hear her over the growl of the engine. She kicked hard once against the base of the trunk, partly in frustration and partly in the wild hope that she might kick her way out. Although the wood held true, something fell out of Eleonora’s front pocket in the jerk and thrust of her kick. She wriggled her arm out from under herself and ran her thumb along the edge of the object. It was the bookmark, one of the few personal effects her mother had taken with her from Bucharest to Constanta, or at least one of the few that remained. A thin piece of oak carved with overlapping hexagons, it seemed to possess an inner light, to pierce almost through the darkness. Eleonora imagined her mother absently twirling her hair around the bookmark as she reread a favorite passage in The Hourglass . Twirling it herself between thumb and forefinger, Eleonora remembered the scene in which the elder Mrs. Holvert escaped from her great-uncle’s prison by picking her handcuffs with a hairpin clenched between her teeth.
    It was worth a try, if only because there was nothing else left. Bending her wrist in on itself like a chicken, Eleonora pressed her chin to her chest and bit down. With the clench of her teeth and the guiding tip of her tongue, she was able to maneuver the bookmark with surprising dexterity. After a few minutes, she succeeded in slipping it through the crack between the lid and the body of the trunk. Eyes tight in concentration, she ran it back and forth along the length of the groove until it caught purchase on the locking mechanism and, with the release of a spring, the lid gave way.
    With the bookmark still between her teeth, Eleonora sat upblinking in the dim coal-dusted luggage room. By the distant flicker of the furnace, she could see the outline of her own trunk and a handful of others around her fading into a grainy black. She could make out shapes but not colors, smells but not their source. With some effort, she stepped out onto the warm metal floor, stretched her arms over her head, and bent forward to touch her toes. She worried the epicenter of her cramp with the knuckle of her thumb and, quivering, rolled out her neck. When she was fully stretched, Eleonora sat down on a nearby trunk. Fishing out her sack of provisions, she began to eat, handing bread ends and cheese rinds into her mouth like a hungry raccoon.
    As her eyes began to adjust to the sooty darkness of the hull, she saw that she was surrounded by a metropolis of luggage, row upon row of trunks, crates, and baggage lit only by the glow of the furnace. Surveying the ruined landscape, she searched for indications of which trunks might be hiding sardines and crackers, dried cherries, walnuts, or minced meat. In one sitting, she had eaten more than half of her provisions, and still her stomach persisted. Surely none of these people whose names were written on the luggage would object to giving a starving child a small portion of their food. Using the bookmark as a pick, Eleonora went trunk to trunk, jimmying those locks she could and moving on from those she could not, rummaging through clothes, books, jewelry, and perfume in search of sustenance. She found a set of fancy engraved stationery, crystal glassware, the