CHAPTER FIFTEEN Now

I step into the phone booth outside the general store. The glass walls are salt-fogged, like the windows of the buildings in the compound, and I feel as though I’m in the chamber of a grimy, echoing seashell.

The bored-looking girl in the store who sold Camille our tea and pastries earlier only offered a bemused expression when we asked if she knew where the Salt Priests had gone. Laying down the paperback book she was reading, she told us the cult members rarely came into the town. Whatever they were doing out at their compound, she preferred not to know.

Now, inside the telephone booth, my hands shake as I drop coins into the slot and lift the receiver. Unfolding my brothers’ telegram, I dial the typeset number. The phone rings several times before the hotel receptionist answers. “Good afternoon, this is the Evelyn Hotel.”

I’ve left the accordion-style door folded open, and a gust of scouring, brine-scented wind blows around me, pulling at my hair. “I’d like to speak with Henry Arriscane, please.”

There’s a click, static, and the call is transferred. From the other end of the line comes Henry’s voice.

“Lark!” It’s the same bright way he answered in the rare times we spoke on the telephone while I was at Marchmain. My chest aches, my ribs pressed tight against my heart. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. When I don’t respond, Henry’s voice sobers. “Is everything all right? We’ve been expecting to hear from you.”

And then, like I am a lock and a key has been turned, I begin to speak, words spilling out so fast it’s almost like someone else has made the sounds. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“What truth?” he asks, tone edged with wariness.

“Henry, I know what you did, you and Oberon. I know what happened the night I was born.”

Silence echoes between us, then Henry swallows audibly. Born is such a strange term for it—a child made of blood and magic, washed from the sea. When Oberon burned all the photographs of Ariel and Oliver Arriscane, was it from grief, or because he and Henry—my creators—didn’t want me to realize there was no record of me in the family before that night when I arrived on the shore?

Tautly, Henry says, “You’ve been snooping in the attic.”

His voice is harsh with anger. This is how he responds when he’s cornered—with outrage before anything else. The ache in my chest intensifies. “You’re not denying it.”

My brother sighs heavily, and there’s a sound of matches being shook from a box, the flick of a flame being struck. I imagine him standing in the hotel room, lighting a cigarette, scowling as he exhales a plume of smoke. “We always intended to tell you. But then … as time passed, we realized it would be easier if you didn’t know.”

“Easier for who?” I snap. “You and Oberon, so you could send me away to my betrothal without ever having to explain?”

He muffles the receiver with his hand, and I hear his voice, indistinct, speaking to someone in the room. Then Oberon comes on the line. “Lark,” he begins, but I cut him off.

“You lied to me. Both of you.” My face is burning; I’m trembling and furious, on the verge of tears. A sob aches in my throat but I force it back, swallow it down.

Oberon tries again. “Lark, please, just let me explain. When our parents died, we were only a little older than you are now. We were orphans, we were in debt—we had no idea what to do. Then we found the mirror hidden in the attic. Dad used to tell us a story of an ancient hero who used a mirror to speak to the gods. It was a folktale, nothing more.”

“Like Naiius,” I murmur, feeling very far away. “The hero in The Neriad, the Tharnish poem about the gods.”

“Yes. Something like that, I suppose.”

I lean my cheek against the side of the telephone booth, feeling the press of the grimy, salt-stippled glass. “So, you found the mirror, and decided to what, play out an ancient folktale?”

“I guess that’s one way to describe it. We got hopelessly drunk and took the mirror into the tidal caves. And when Therion answered our call, it felt like a miracle.”

I close my eyes, remembering Camille, Alastair, and me calling to Therion in the woods. The bitter scent of smoke and the taste of stolen wine. How it felt to lose control, to be swept away. I can imagine how my brothers felt on that first night. The terror and wonder of falling into the dark, landing in the presence of a god.

“We didn’t understand what it would truly mean, even when we agreed to perform the ritual he gave us. Therion wanted someone to be his for the rest of their life; it was all so abstract, until we saw you rise from the sea. We didn’t know how much we would love you, Lark.”

Oberon breaks off, his voice choked. I realize that he’s crying. I feel sick, awful, as Henry takes the receiver from him and continues the story. “In the boat, you cried so loudly that it echoed from the cliffs. But when I lifted you out, you curled against me with so much trust. Like you already knew we were your family.”

I struggle for a way to respond to this, but I have no words; I’m fighting back tears.

“We went to Marcus Felimath and told him our parents had died,” Henry goes on. “And he offered us another loan in addition to their debt. We decided to take it, to see if we could make things work without … without giving you up.”

“Then the next salt season came,” Oberon continues, his voice rasped by tears. “You were just starting to walk, to say our names. And I—we couldn’t do it. We couldn’t send you to such a fate, commit you to Therion forever, when your life had barely begun. We agreed to wait until you could decide for yourself. And we couldn’t tell you the truth—our agreement, the debt, your birth—because we wanted you to have a normal life.”

I laugh, incredulous. “A normal life—after you wished me up from the sea, and were counting down the days until you told me I was betrothed to our god? I suppose it was a relief when I went to Marchmain, because then you didn’t have to lie to my face every day.”

“We were trying our best,” Henry says sharply. He takes a drag from his cigarette; I hear the crackle of the coal through the line. “We wrote to you, and we waited for you to come home in the term break. We missed you.”

I close my eyes, trying to shut out the rise of memories—how I’d slept with their letters beneath my pillow, how I fought off my homesickness while I spent my days with Damson before everything soured between us.

I know how the story goes from here. “You sold everything you could. You managed to cover the debt. Until Alastair took over from his father.”

I look to where Alastair is waiting for me with Camille, near the general store. Camille is sitting in the car with the window opened, Alastair leaning down to speak with her. At the sight of them both, fresh tears fill my eyes. I turn away, staring at the blurred glass wall of the phone booth, forcing myself to stay held together.

“When you found us that night in the tidal caves, we were asking Therion to change his mind,” Oberon says. “But then you went back to him and agreed to be his bride.”

“I suppose in the end you got what you wanted, then,” I tell my brothers. I feel as hollowed out as one of the shells laid on Therion’s altar. “It was my choice to go to him after all.”

“Lark,” Henry says, and he’s crying, too. “Lark, we’re so sorry.”

I can’t remember the last time Henry ever cried. He’s always been so stoic and calm, the opposite of how my emotions rise and fall like the tides. He and Oberon were just boys when they went to Therion and made their promise, boys who were orphaned and afraid. I feel so betrayed by the secrets they’ve kept, so lost for how to parse out the fact of my birth alongside the way they’ve raised me and loved me.

“I need to know how to undo it,” I say. “The promise I made to him. If there’s a way to unbind myself from Therion.”

I hear one of my brothers trying to gather his breath, steady it beneath the sobs. The other, blowing his nose. There’s a long, troubled silence and finally Henry speaks.

“Lark, sweetheart, I don’t think you can.” His voice is foggy with tears. It’s so strange to hear him like this, so undone. He sounds like a different person. “You were born from his magic, and you’ll always be connected to him. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a life of your own.”

My fingers tighten around the receiver, gripping it so hard that my knuckles crack. I’m numbed, like I have plunged beneath the coldest waves of the North Sea. I’m too distant to even be furious, like I know I should. I feel as though I’ve witnessed my own death.

That’s exactly what it means, I want to tell Henry. Yet somehow I can’t form any words.

Oberon comes onto the line. “We only have a few more days to finish organizing the crew,” he says, “and then we’ll be home.”

Behind me there is the sound of footsteps as someone approaches the telephone booth. I turn, expecting Alastair or Camille. Instead, there’s a boy—dressed in patched trousers and a fisherman’s sweater, the strap of his canvas satchel slung across his chest. At first I think he’s a stranger. Then my whirring mind sets the pieces of him together—the angle of his shoulders, his height, the glint of his blond hair.

I clamp my hand around the mouthpiece of the phone as I gape at him. “Hugo?”

Hugo Valentine pushes his blond curls out of his eyes. He dips his chin in acknowledgment.

“Lark,” Henry says questioningly from the other end of the line. “Is everything all right?”

I take a deep breath, trying to gather myself. Unable to look away from Hugo—the Salt Priest who sealed my ruin. His pointed chin, the serious lines of his mouth. Finally, I manage to respond to my brother. “I’m all right, Henry. It’s just been a confusing time, that’s all. But I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you, Lark,” he says quietly. “We both do.”

“I love you, too.”

The line disconnects. Hugo takes the telephone from me and hangs it up. “Lacrimosa Arriscane,” he says, and his voice has the same lilt as when he spoke Tharnish. “You have been looking for me, I think?”

There’s a rush of movement from outside the booth as Camille and Alastair hurry over toward us. Alastair grabs hold of Hugo by the collar of his sweater and hauls him away from me. They stare at each other, and I see a cascade of emotions flash through Alastair’s mismatched gaze. Fear and anger, pain and raw betrayal.

Then he draws back and punches Hugo right in his face. I cry out, startled. Camille catches Alastair’s arm, hauling him back. “We didn’t come all the way here to fight him!”

Alastair hisses, shaking out his hand; his knuckles are already beginning to swell. Hugo, hunched over in pain, still makes a muffled sound of amusement. “Who knew you could throw a punch?”

Camille glares meaningfully at Alastair’s swollen hand. “He can’t.”

Hugo straightens up. His nose is bleeding thickly, dripping down over his mouth and onto his chin. He looks at Alastair intently for a long moment, but Alastair turns away, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Hugo,” I say, and everything feels blurred, shaken. “Where were you just now?”

“The Salt Priests left when they saw you approaching. They dislike unannounced visitors. They never let themselves be seen. But I—I recognized Alastair, and you. I knew you wanted me.”

I swallow, my throat gone dry. I’m afraid of the question I’m about to ask, what answer he will give. “I need you…,” I begin, then hesitate as I search for the right words. “I need you to explain what you did to Therion.”

Hugo pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his nose. But when he grins, there is blood in his teeth. It makes him look feral, vicious.

“Year after year, the Salt Priests make sacrifices and receive no answer. But finally, just before this spring, our priests saw a vision of Therion wed to a girl in the depths of a mine. I remembered the stories Alastair had told me, about the girl who lived near his house whose family owned a salt mine. So I came to find you.” He pauses, then spreads his hands in supplication. “And that is all I can say right now. If you want to hear the rest, you’ll have to take me with you. Back to Saltswan.”

Camille laughs, incredulously. “Why should we do that?”

“Because,” Hugo says, and his grin fades, his bloodstained mouth turned serious. “I’ve run away from the Salt Priests.”

---

We return to Saltswan at eventide, after a tense, silent drive that felt like it would never end. Hugo slept the entire way, in the back seat with his fisherman’s sweater folded up like a pillow under his head. I sat beside him. Asleep, he seemed much younger, the lines of him smoothed into false innocence.

I looked at his hands and remembered the way he had caught my hair up around his fists like a rope. His nose was still clotted with dried blood that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away, and I felt meanly glad that Alastair had hit him.

As we pull up in front of the house, the sides of the cliff are bathed red by a furious, brilliant sunset. The ocean lies flat and still, and the sky is clear. The air smells of pollen and petals, all the grayness of the compound left behind. It’s an impossible springtime beauty, soft in a way I don’t think I’ll ever feel again.

“Wake up,” I tell Hugo, shoving his arm. “We’re here.”

He sits up with a yawn, and we all clamber out of the car. As we go toward the house, Alastair takes out the iron key to unlock the front door. But before he can touch the handle, the door opens. Alastair stumbles back, shocked, and Camille clutches my hand. Her fingers are cold, trembling.

In the doorway stands Marcus Felimath. A brightly lit lamp blazes on a table in the hall behind him. He is wreathed as though in fire, and the light casts his shadow out over us like a funeral shroud. “Get inside,” he says, teeth clenched. “Now.”

The four of us go wordlessly into the house. Camille is still clutching my hand. Alastair clears his throat, straightens his shoulders. “Father. We didn’t expect you.”

“And that is your excuse? You are supposed to be here, amending your mistakes. Not driving off to gods-know-where.” Marcus fixes his son with an icy scowl, eyes narrowing as he notices Alastair’s swollen hand, his bruised knuckles. He flicks the briefest glance at Hugo, and his expression sours with realization. “And not brawling with some stranger. Who is this?”

“Hugo Valentine,” Alastair says. His expression is cool, the aloof mask I’ve seen him wear so many times. “An old acquaintance. We met unexpectedly.”

Marcus makes a dissatisfied noise, then turns to Camille and gestures impatiently at the stairs. “Take him to the bathroom and do something about his face.”

Camille hesitates, giving Alastair an agonized look. Marcus folds his arms. Ducking her head, Camille indicates for Hugo to follow her up to the second floor. Once they’re gone, Marcus returns his attention to us. His frown deepens when he notices me.

“Lacrimosa,” he says coldly. “I thought your brothers had shipped you off to that school in the city.”

Years have passed since I’ve seen Marcus Felimath. Time has honed the edges of him like a whetstone sharpens steel, silvering the hair at his temples, scoring lines between his brows. He looks fearsome and unrelenting, like a bad memory turned real.

“Yes, they did.” I hesitate, knowing I can’t tell him the truth. But Marcus watches me keenly. I’m certain if I lie to him, he’ll know instantly. I scrunch my hands into my skirts, try to fit together an explanation.

“It’s term break,” Alastair says, coming to my rescue. He takes a half step forward, angling himself between his father and me.

“That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” Marcus arches a brow, glowering at me in disgust for a moment longer before his attention returns to Alastair. “I was called back unexpectedly on business and thought I should check on you, especially after our discussion on the telephone. It seems my instinct was correct. Still, I’m surprised to find you have company. We’ve offered the Arriscane family enough charity without taking in their strays.”

A flush of shame burns over my cheeks, and I bite the inside of my mouth until I taste blood. I feel as though he’s taken me between his finger and thumb, crushed me like an insect. Rage curdles in my stomach, but I cannot speak—I’m so aware of all the secrets that lie, barely hidden, beneath the surface of this moment. The truth about my brothers, about Therion, about me.

Alastair’s fists clench at his sides. “Lacrimosa is my guest.”

His father regards him coolly. “Well then. Since you’ve opened the house to so many of your friends, why don’t you invite them to dinner?”

I can feel the veiled threat couched in his every word, every gesture. Marcus watches Alastair the way a hawk scans the fields in search of a mouse: claws curled, ready to swoop at the smallest flicker of movement. It’s clear this offer is both challenge and punishment; all I want right now is to take Alastair’s hand and drag him far away from here.

“There’s no need to—to go to any trouble,” I stammer, forcing my voice to stay even.

Marcus folds his arms. His eyes rake over me, assessing every flaw. My tangled hair, my crumpled clothes.

“Perhaps you’d like to freshen up before we eat.” He tips his chin in the direction of the stairs, an echo of the gesture he used to dismiss Camille and Hugo. “Alastair, wait here. I’m not finished with you.”

I look at Alastair; I don’t want to leave him. He shakes his head, a minute movement, and offers me a reassuring smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

An ache spikes through my chest as I move slowly away, the widening distance between myself and Alastair feeling wrong—feeling dangerous. As I reach the stairs, Marcus calls after me.

“Oh, and Lacrimosa? We dress for dinner in this house. I know that’s probably an unfamiliar concept to you.”