5

I passed Lang’s closed cabin door a dozen times in the next two days. I stomped resolutely past it, refusing to see if it would open beneath my touch, as Lang had said it would.

I was angry. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t want his guilt offering, whatever it meant, so I stayed away. But as we drew nearer the court at Shvartsval’d, Perrault was unavoidable.

“Have you reviewed the contents of your third suitor’s profile?” he demanded one day during dinner.

“Yes.” I set down the pot of soup I’d been carrying.

Perrault smiled with relief; then, seeming to notice my flat expression, tried a different tack. “They haven’t given us much to go on regarding the fürst’s personality or interests,” he said, almost conspiratorially, dogging me back to the kitchen. “I’ll have to develop ideas for the two of you once we’ve arrived at Katz Castle and I’ve had an opportunity to assess the court. We’ll see if inspiration strikes.”

It was the height of foolishness to talk this way. Torden was behind me. And surely, so was the part of my trip where we pretended among ourselves that I cared whom I courted.

“Whatever you think is best, Perrault,” I said wearily, and turned back to the sink.

“Selah.” His tone was abruptly sober. “Stop. Sit. We are nearly at Katz Castle’s door, and I need to speak with you.”

His voice and the worried lines on his face gave me pause. I swallowed and wiped my hands on my apron. “All right.”

The crew quieted a little as I took a seat at the table across from Perrault. It had been days—weeks—since I’d sat with them. My gaze snagged on Skop’s, but only for a moment before I looked away.

Perrault’s rosebud mouth and dark eyes were serious. He knitted his hands together. “We’re sailing into the Imperiya, Selah. You need to be prepared.”

I nearly fired back a retort—Oh, I thought I’d just try being myself! I wanted to spit at him.

I’ve been spending too much time with Cobie, I thought.

But it wasn’t Cobie’s influence that had sharpened my tongue. My anger was my own, a gift from the ones who’d lied to my face and worked behind my back. But Cobie wasn’t guilty of that deception, and neither, I realized for the first time, was Perrault.

Many as his sins were, he’d always been forthright about what he wanted from me.

I sighed. “Tell me,” I said, soft and serious as I’d ever been for the nuns who taught me growing up. “Tell me what I need to know.”

The crew seemed to retreat to the edges of the galley, outside the halo of lamplight that surrounded Perrault and me, as he spoke.

“You must understand,” Perrault said as he began, “that Imperiya law impedes the open flow of information. The happenings in one corner of the tsarytsya’s land are as mysterious to the rest of it as they are to us outside; there are no writers or newspapers documenting what happens inside her borders. This,” he said, fingers tightening around one another, “is the best information I have.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Perrault leaned slightly forward. “The first rule you already know: no books. Though the tsarytsya circulates her own propaganda, there are—as I’ve said—no independent publishers operating openly inside the Imperiya. Not even in Shvartsval’d, at its borders, where I suspect the rules may be more relaxed. Promise me you will leave your storybook behind,” Perrault said.

“I promise,” I said without hesitating.

It stung, the idea of abandoning the book. But if I’d learned anything from fairy-tale heroines, it was to trust wisdom when I heard it.

“The second rule follows from the first: no unapproved art,” Perrault said. “The tsarytsya commissions art for the glory of the Imperiya, but art that subverts her worldview is prohibited—and what constitutes subversion is not always clear,” he said carefully, pale forehead creasing in thought. “I would suggest you avoid creating or discussing art altogether. No painting, no sketching, no singing, no playing instruments. The tsarytsya’s followers even dress all in gray in support of her leadership. Again, standards may be more relaxed at the border, but I cannot say how much.”

“I’m not an artist,” I said, faltering a little. “I can’t sing or draw or play anything.”

“I never thought I’d find lack of accomplishment such a relief,” Perrault said with a touch of his former pomposity. He rubbed his temples. “The third rule prohibits any and all religious practice.” He paused. “I doubt it would be effective for me to ask you to cease to practice entirely, and indeed I suppose there’s no need for you to. But I ask you to restrict it to the privacy of your thoughts, for your own safety and that of those traveling with you.”

Again, I didn’t hesitate. “I will.”

Perrault must have heard the sincerity in my voice, because his pallor lessened a little, and his fingers unclenched just a bit. “The final rule,” he said, “is linguistic unity. The tsarytsya seeks a unified culture, and to her mind, the exclusive use of Yotne is essential to that goal. You know that when she conquers countries, she breaks them up on unnatural fault lines, intentionally disregarding historic and cultural boundary lines. She renames these, her terytoriy, toward the end of reshaping their identity. The court will speak Yotne, in accordance with this thinking, and you will do your best, speaking English, with me as your translator.”

I nodded. “So I’m not to refer to Deutschland as Deutschland,” I said lightly, staring at my hands.

“No.” Perrault spoke so forcefully I drew back. “It is Shvartsval’d for the purposes of our trip, which are limited, in my opinion, to keeping you safe.” When I looked up, his eyes were dark with worry, concern etched again into his brow. “Please, Seneschal-elect. Have a care.”

Where, I wondered, was the supercilious friend of my stepmother I’d met in Potomac the night before we left? Where was the protocol officer appalled by my table manners, who’d cornered me and criticized me in Winchester when he thought I’d upend his plans for a quick engagement?

I wondered if he’d come to care for me by accident.

I wondered if he’d come to regret it.

“Be unremarkable,” he finally said, “and perhaps this visit will go unremarked. Abide by the rules for two weeks, gracefully receive any proposal Fritz may issue, and my counterpart in Shvartsval’d—whatever low-ranked hanger-on issued this invitation on the duke’s behalf—may forget you as soon as you pass from his sight.”

I bit my lip. “And you think if I play my cards carefully, the tsarytsya may never even know we were there?”

“Gambling metaphors are unsuitable for ladies,” Perrault said automatically, then shook himself. “But yes. Her Imperiya is wide and the hertsoh is a minor nobleman. I don’t believe she’ll notice you if you do not draw her eye.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promised.

I suddenly wished for a cup of tea or something to do with my hands—anything to distract me from the truth I was keeping from Perrault. That I would flout all his warnings and break my promise if our mission required I do so. It almost made me feel guilty.

The crew began to shift to life slowly after that—the fold of paper in Andersen’s hands, the wash of water over a pot as Will tended to what I’d left back in the kitchen, a yawn escaping J.J. as he slumped on his bench.

“Thank you, Perrault.” I rose quickly and made for the door. “I’ll keep all this in mind.”

But I knew better. I would not keep the knowledge. The dread of what lay in wait would keep me.

Perrault had tried to soothe me. But I could not help imagining the tsarytsya’s eyes on me as we neared the edge of her world.

I sensed her watching as I listened out for Godmother Althea at night on my radio; it was enough to still me when Perrault took me aside during the day because he’d remembered a Yotne phrase he wanted to teach me, or a minor point of etiquette I might find helpful.

I wondered what color the tsarytsya’s eyes were. Would they be amber, the color of a wolf’s? Gray, the color of her Imperiya?

They were every color, I knew, of as many shades as she had spies. A fearful spectrum of blue to black, watching from riverbanks and castle corners.

The fear of them kept sleep from me the night before we reached Shvartsval’d. Anya rested beside me, her expression serene in the moonlight, but I couldn’t follow her.

Something about the calm of her mouth and her breathing gnawed at me. Anya’s peace aggravated the itch beneath my skin.

Careful not to wake her, I rolled out of our bed and slunk upstairs to the deck, barefoot and bare-armed in defiance of the night’s chill. It was black as pitch out on deck. Even with the thumbnail of moon overhead, nights like tonight made me understand the word Shvartsval’d—Black Forest.

The trees here stood tall; the tsarytsya’s woodcutters had not ventured this far into the terytoriya. I wondered what they’d been afraid of.

I’d expected to find Homer or Yasumaro on deck. But it was him. I froze, hand on the stair rail, toes digging into the rough wood grain.

Lang was at the helm.

I backed down the forecastle stairs on tiptoe, silent as the night, and went back the way I came.

I should sleep. I would go back to my room and crawl into bed next to Anya and stare at the ceiling for six hours if I had to.

But I stopped at Lang’s door.

I had never been in his room before. And I’d had no intention of accepting his guilty-conscience offer to repay his offense by invading his privacy whenever I liked.

Captain’s quarters, he’d said that first day, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe it, either.

I tried the knob, and found it unlocked.

I crossed the threshold.

Slowly, I took in Lang’s bedroom. The bedclothes were drawn up but not tucked in tidily; on impulse, I yanked them down, exposing the fitted sheet over the mattress. Then I crossed to his wardrobe door and flung it open.

Shirts and trousers were hung inside—the plain things he wore on deck and the richer clothes he’d worn at court. My fingers traced a finely woven shirt and a rough-spun pair of pants and the jacket he’d worn to every ball we’d attended in England and at Asgard.

They all smelled of him—salt. Sweat. The ocean.

I took them off the rack, one by one, and flung them on the bed.

Opposite the closet was a beat-up wooden desk with a hutch above. The desktop was clear, so I reached for the clasp on the hutch’s cabinet doors.

I wasn’t looking for anything. I was merely determined to sack the room, to lay it bare, to leave him feeling as stripped and raw as he’d left me.

I ignored the voice that said Lang’s taking the radio wasn’t what had left me feeling so exposed, that retribution wasn’t what had finally drawn me over his threshold.

The release of the catch sent a flood of papers spilling out of the cabinet, onto the floor. I jumped back, startled, then crouched to collect them.

But I stopped short when I saw myself.

I’d come searching for Lang’s secrets. Instead, I saw myself mapped in paper and ink and charcoal on his floor; myself in profile, my face up close, my figure from afar. My nose and mouth and freckles and lashes as I bent over the sink in the kitchen; my hair tangled down my back and the muscles gathered in my arms as I gardened; the elegant slip of my shoulder into the gown I’d worn to the first tournament ball in England.

My fingers left dirt smudges on the papers. I stared at them, unmoving, for how long I didn’t know.

When I looked up, Lang stood at the threshold. I had not heard the change at the helm; I had not heard anything but my own racing thoughts.

His chest rose and fell, rapid and vulnerable, as he took in the upended room and me on the floor. I gripped the papers artlessly in my fingers, held them up, a helpless gesture.

“What—?” I began.

“Don’t.” Lang’s eyes were desperate. “Don’t ask me what they are.”

I swallowed, thinking of Anya and all the rest of the crew in bed. Of the weapons in the hold, of Asgard behind us and Katz Castle ahead and my father at home, of the radio that had spoken little but silence since I left Torden behind. Of his ring on my left hand, heavy as a hammer.

With Lang’s eyes on me, I felt the weight of the night in my very bones.

Lang’s throat bobbed. He rubbed at his eyes and two fine, dark lashes fell onto his cheek.

That night we’d stood talking late in Asgard’s darkened halls, I’d taken his fallen lashes and made a wish on them.

Here, in the dark, having breached the Imperiya’s gray shadow, wishing for Torden felt foolish. Like the childish daydream of a girl who had read too many fairy tales.

Either way, I didn’t dare draw close enough to touch Lang’s face. Not here, with the two of us feeling as if we were standing at the edge of the world.

The darkest, loneliest part of my heart was certain Torden was lost to me forever.

Was it wrong to find myself in someone else’s room? Or was it wise to accept that what was behind me was past, and take what comfort came my way?

I stared down at the sketches of me on the floor and in my grip, at the longing in every line, and wondered how I would draw Lang, if the pen were in my hands, if I had his talent. I took in his rumpled dark hair, the fine bones of his cheeks and jaw and hands, the elegant bow of his lips and the upturned tip of his nose.

I would sketch him like midnight, alluring and unknown. He was every question I was afraid to ask, every curiosity that had been forbidden to me from the outset of my journey.

My heart was a field planted with so many wants it was difficult to know what needed uprooting and what I should allow to remain.

Nothing was clear. Not my desires. Not the future. Not the difference between wish and hope and expectation.

Lang wet his lips and took a step nearer, then knelt a foot or two away, the sketches a puddle of paper as wide as an ocean between us.

Trembling, I drew back. When my spine collided with his bed, I rose just high enough to sit on the mattress I’d exposed.

Lang’s ink-smudged fingers traced the drawings’ edges, touching each page as gently as if he were skimming his hands over my skin.

When he looked up at me, his eyes were pleading.

They told me he didn’t want to hide anymore.

I bit my lip as he shifted toward me, moving on his knees, kneeling before me where I sat on the bed.

“Selah,” he breathed.

I couldn’t look at him. Fear and anger and endless wanting clenched in my stomach.

“I’m angry at you,” I whispered. “I’m supposed to be angry at you.”

But when I avoided his gaze, there I was, seen through his eyes in his drawings—beautiful, the object of such longing.

I was everywhere in this room. And everywhere I was, there was Lang.

My chest rose and fell as Lang crawled nearer, heedless of the drawings on the floor. I bit my lip.

Slowly, Lang wrapped his arms around my waist, and dropped his head into my lap.

“I’m mad at you,” I said again, my voice breaking, even as my hands fisted themselves in the shoulders of his shirt, even as the fabric caught on the stones of Torden’s ring. “I’m furious. You’ve done everything wrong.”

“I’ll take it,” Lang said. “I’ll take all your anger. All your burning. All your fire.” He looked up at me.

I swallowed, guilt and fear and hunger and dread fighting for control.

“Maybe I’ll be smart, and when I burn myself, I’ll learn to stay away,” Lang said, swallowing, and shook his head. “Or maybe you’ll be all I want to keep me warm.”