CHAPTER EIGHT
Shadow
WHAT FELT SO RIGHT IN the moment feels more and more foolish as the days go on. I took a big risk approaching Caledon during the prisoner transport like that, and to what end? I’m stuck here, while he’s all the way at Deersia. Even if I could get there, it still wouldn’t do him any good—women are absolutely prohibited from setting foot on the grounds.
From the moment I returned home to the cottage, the plan to ship me off to Violla Ruza continued to move forward. Less than a week. That’s all I have. In six days, my life, as I know it, will be over. All my sensory training will be useless. Nothing will be expected of me once I officially arrive, other than looking pretty and following orders. I know this because I have occasionally accompanied my mother to court, and there is so little to do there I almost die of boredom.
I’m putting breakfast dishes away when I hear a heavy knock at the door. My stomach lurches—was I reported for the handkerchief? Did someone see me slip it to Caledon?
Another knock, more insistent. I wonder if I can get away out the back door.
Aunt Moriah shouts, “On my way!” to whoever’s knocking as she rushes to the door.
“Wait!” I yell, but before I can stop her, she’s already opening it. I take a few steps toward the back door and peek through the window over the kitchen sink. I don’t see anyone out there.
“It’s Missus Kingstone, dears.” I look toward the front door and see her drop into a quick curtsy.
“Good morning,” Aunt Moriah says, bobbing down as well. “Please, come right in.” She calls into the kitchen. “Shadow, time for your fitting.”
Missus Kingstone has been coming to the cottage for four years, to give me lessons in court life and outfit me for the times when I am called to join my mother. I’m not surprised she’s here since I’m supposed to leave for the palace so soon.
I wipe off my hands and reluctantly join them in the sitting room.
Missus Kingstone is plump, with a plain, but kind, face and frizzy gray hair tucked under a white cap. She wears simple clothing of high quality. The stitching is immaculate. Her skirt falls almost to the floor, neither too long nor too short, swishing perfectly as she walks, and her sleeves gather into small stiff ruffles at the wrist without any drooping. If anyone needed proof of her skill or her exacting standards, it’s evident in her own clothing.
“Hello, Shadow! How are you, my sweet? Let’s get to it, shall we?” she says to me, clapping her hands together. “We don’t have a moment to waste!” She puts her large basket on the floor and begins taking various instruments out of it, including a small square of wood.
“Missus Kingstone is going to make your new gowns,” Aunt Moriah tells me. “For the palace.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Stand on this, would you?” the seamstress orders, pointing to the wood block. I step onto it, feeling somewhat ridiculous, as I do every time I am called for a fitting.
But time passes quickly. Missus Kingstone is swift and efficient. Maybe a bit too efficient. She pushes and tugs at me like I’m a doll. Measurements are taken for every single part of my body, even my fingers, to make new gowns and precisely fitted elbow-length gloves.
Every piece of clothing she puts on me—samples that she pins and re-pins endlessly—starts to feel like another layer of confinement, piling on top of me to weigh me down and keep me from being able to flee. She stuffs me into a mock-up corset as well.
“A satin one, lined in whalebone, was ordered for you,” she says.
“I hope it’s not like this one. It’s laced far too tight,” I tell her as I attempt to pull it away from my body in order to breathe. She looks at me as if I’ve spoken utter nonsense and doesn’t reply or loosen it.
Fabric swatches are brought in too. They’re pinned onto parchment pages in a heavy massive book: red like a shiny apple, a matte mauve taffeta, deep blues, and light pinks.
“Which colors do you prefer, dear?” Missus Kingstone asks me, holding up the book. From her friendly tone, I know she assumes I must be thrilled about the silks and laces, but I can barely muster an opinion. Mostly I give her a tight smile, point at one or the other. She pats my leg. “Nervous, are you, dearie? Don’t be, you’ll be perfect,” she says, more to my aunts than to me.
My aunts match the woman’s cheer and fuss over the beautiful material, but I can tell it’s forced. Their exclamations are high-pitched and overdone; a show. “Oh!” they coo. “Would you look at this one, Shadow? Absolutely exquisite!” They never speak that way. It’s as if they’re lying to my face. I’d rather they say, “Shadow, we know this isn’t what you wanted, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s out of our hands. So just pick the fabrics and get this over and done.”
When the seamstress finally packs up her cart and heads back into town to begin making my fancy, unwanted finery, I help my aunts clear the table. Aunt Moriah tries to initiate conversation. “I adore that blue on the tea gown. It was a good choice. Reminds me of winter nights, when the moon is full—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. From the corner of my eye, I see her exchange a knowing look with Aunt Mesha, who opens her mouth to speak but shuts it when Aunt Moriah shakes her head slightly.
“I’m going outside,” I tell them. Neither responds.
I stomp down the pebble path away from the cottage. I sense a hare chewing on bark before he sees me coming. They’re always out here trying to get into the vegetable garden. Usually, I slow down so as not to scare them, but at the moment I don’t care. He freezes, then hops off toward the field.
I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my skin. I’m going to miss all this. The gardens, the beehives, even selling honey at the marketplace and bickering with my aunts.
But my future is no longer mine to decide. Resignation washes over me in a wave, so I start back toward the cottage. Everything— from the cozy house itself, with its patchy roof and the peeling picket fence around it, to the lanterns lit in the kitchen, and all the grounds surrounding it—seems shrouded in my sadness. I’m reminded of something I overheard my mother say to my aunts when I was younger: A dramatic little thing, isn’t she. I remember it exactly that way: a statement, not a question. Over what, I don’t recall, though I believe it was about a meal I didn’t want to eat. Something so simple, so common that children do, and my mother’s response was, “A dramatic little thing, isn’t she.”
The memory fuels my indignation for the next minute or so as I walk up the cobblestone path to the house. I’m snapped out of my self-pity when Aunt Moriah’s voice drifts out of the kitchen: “If the boy can’t do it, then what?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” Aunt Mesha says. “I wish I could say otherwise.” And then something muffled.
“ . . . not what Cordyn wanted. Not at all,” Aunt Moriah is saying. They’re talking about Caledon’s father, the former Queen’s Assassin. I hear cupboards opening, closing. Dishes being put away.
“It would come down to Montrice, wouldn’t it?” Aunt Mesha says. “But who?”
More muffled talking. But clearly, no blocking spell. Maybe they didn’t want to take the time. Or forgot. Ever since they announced my departure, my aunts have seemed more and more distracted. I stop walking and listen more carefully.
“ . . . another Montrician spy has been discovered . . . sent up to Deersia this week . . .” Tidbits of their hushed conversation float on the air and I can feel my heart start to race.
Another prisoner is being sent to Deersia. That means another prison transport will be traveling up there very soon.
“It's all much too dangerous,” Aunt Mesha agrees. “And we’re supposed to send her anyway, as if none of this is happening? We could be dealing with anything. Anything! There’s no knowing what evil the Aphrasians are capable of unleashing. Shapeshifters, demons even.”
I can’t see inside the house, but I can picture Aunt Moriah’s frustrated hands emphasizing her words, and then smoothing back her blond hair when she’s finished speaking. I’m certain she is closing her eyes and shaking her head at that very moment. “Oh, Mesha. This again? The king is dead and has been for centuries!” says Moriah. “Those are just fairy tales meant to scare children.”
“We can agree to disagree,” Mesha says. “Until I’m proven right, of course.”
“Well, for our sakes, I hope not,” Moriah says, putting an end to the conversation. “Shadow should be back any minute anyhow.”
After that all I hear is the sound of pots being put away and water from the kitchen pump filling the sink. I’ve never heard them speak this way before—I always thought such creatures were old wives’ tales—myths born from whispers and shadows in the forest. I wait, hoping they say more about monsters, or about the prisoner. My mind races. There will be another prison cart headed to Deersia . . . where they are keeping Caledon. Suddenly, a plan begins to form in my mind . . .
I stay outside long enough to keep them from knowing I eavesdropped, and then walk up the porch steps loudly and open the back door.
“Feeling any better?” Aunt Mesha asks me.
I just shrug. I don’t want the energy buzzing through my veins to be mistaken for newfound willingness.
“Maybe we all need a good night’s sleep,” Aunt Moriah says. She sets a cup of chamomile and cream in front of me. “What do you say we all turn in early and start fresh again in the morning?”
I just nod and sip the tea.
I TOSS AND TURN well into the early hours of morning, thinking about what I overheard. At some point I must fall asleep, though, because the next thing I know, my mother is standing over me at the side of my bed. Her back is to the open window so that the moon glows in a vibrant yellow ring around her. She is dressed in Guild black, her face obscured in the darkness of her hooded cloak. Before I can react, I feel her gaze lock on me. I can’t see her eyes, but their intensity sears my soul. When she finally speaks, her words settle into me like the warmth of a hearth. “Follow your path and fulfill your destiny, Shadow.”
After that it’s morning. My eyes flutter open; the sun is shining through the window. And I decide that this time I will follow my mother’s command.