Thud. Thunk. The scrape of metal on wood. The whine of opening doors.
Octavia was slow to wake. Her arms ached, her shoulders were stiff, her body permanently cold. She curled her hand toward her face so she could read her pocket watch. Morning. The second morning. Two days in a crate. Now what? Something was happening. No point in yelling, not without other voices nearby. She had yelled herself hoarse before the airship left Tamarania, just in case anyone else entered the cargo hold.
On the Argus, I was glad no one went to the hold. I was able to hide Leaf there. Now I only wish someone else would meddle about below decks.
“Lady, is this almost over?” she asked, her voice a raw creak. “Where am I?” She stuffed her watch into her satchel and looped the strap over her head and shoulder. The black overdress and green surcoat, as her pillow and blanket, remained balled up on the floor.
Oh, Alonzo. How was he? She could only imagine his fury at his sister. Tatiana might try to play it off like Octavia had left of her own volition, but Alonzo would know differently. He knows me. He’ll try to find me. Wherever I am.
More noises, more thudding. Something crunched on either side of the crate. The box lifted up, swinging. Octavia rolled and smacked into the far side. Sparkles circled her head like a babe’s mobile. The babe. Mathilda. They were both well when they awoke, but I should be there to check on them, to make sure.
Another sway. She rolled again, the back of her head cracking against the wood. Total darkness claimed her.
She stirred at the sound of voices, feminine. The buzzes of their songs. Young, healthy, one’s breasts heavy with milk. Light stabbed daggers into her stunned eyes as the lid cracked open.
“What is it! Can you see inside?” Someone squealed. Two blurry heads partially blocked out the light. Adrenaline. Pounding hearts. Screams. Fleeing footsteps.
Octavia knew she needed to get herself in a circle, but when she tried to rise, the vertigo spun her around like a lunatic’s dance partner. She had treated many concussions at the front, but had never had one herself. An illuminating experience.
More voices. The light was blocked again. Deep baritones, arguing.
“Let me see.” A feminine voice rang with authority. A figure leaned over the opening. “Do not let the poor girl wallow in there. Get her out, gently. ’Tis a medician.”
Their grips on her forearms made her cry out, the world going all wobbly again. Strong arms cradled her. Not Alonzo. Not his song. She clenched her body around her satchel, but no one tried to pull it away. A hallway blurred by and then she was in a soft and cushy chair, her sore sit bones finally achieving respite. She sighed in relief. Water flowed past her lips. Oh Lady, water!
After a few minutes of drinking with assistance, she had the strength to hold the cup on her own, her wits returning. She had done her utmost to ration her water, but it had been exhausted nevertheless. Tatiana was woefully inexperienced when it came to packing people in crates—she had no comprehension how much food and water a person required each day.
Octavia realized that she was sitting in an elegant room painted in fine cream with wainscoted lower walls. A small crowd stood in wait—serving girls, their hair capped; men in trim black suits; a woman in powder-blue velvet with white down the bodice, a hard knot of cancer throbbing within her breast. Octavia could not simply hear it in the wail of the woman’s song; she could almost see it, like the harshness of light through the crate’s air hole.
All of their skins were paler, too, like her own. “Where am I?” she whispered. She managed to lift the satchel strap over her head, the bag wedged to one side of her thighs.
“Mercia,” answered the woman in ill health. “You have had a terrible injustice done to you.” She sat in a chair, hands folded on her lap. She moved with deliberation. Pain. Fatigue. Her eyes were glints of blue ice, beautiful and cold at once. “Your name is Octavia Leander?”
Octavia nodded, taking in the formal Mercian accent, the eyes. “You’re Alonzo’s mother.”
“You must be very familiar with my son to call him by his first name.”
“How do you know my name, Mrs. Garret?”
“My daughter included a letter in the shipping manifest.” Her lips were a thin line.
Oh, Alonzo. Please be alive and well. You and Chi both. Octavia closed her eyes briefly to compose herself. “Can we speak in private?” At Mrs. Garret’s nod, the servants exited, the door closing behind them. “I’m aware of the employment you helped Alonzo acquire.” She worded things delicately, knowing that many ears likely pressed against the door.
Mrs. Garret’s eyebrows rose. “Are you, now?” The shrewd expression reminded Octavia greatly of Alonzo.
“His supervisors . . . they did not respect him. Alonzo in turned risked a great deal to go against orders and keep me alive.”
“You’re a Percival-trained medician.”
“Yes. It’s all terribly complicated, but needless to say, circumstances required that we go to the southern nations. We took refuge with Tatiana. She did not . . . take kindly to me, the danger I brought upon her brother.”
“In Tatiana’s eyes, Alonzo hung the moon and stars in the sky.” Mrs. Garret sighed. The conversation was exhausting her, even as her carriage remained straight and noble. Alonzo said before that his mother had an intimidating presence. She still does. Most people would be bed-bound and whimpering in her condition. This woman’s will is made of iron. “My daughter is spoiled. Her staff is indulgent. I suppose you think me a terrible mother.”
Octavia bit her lip. She had thought that very thing in Tamarania.
“My health has been worse in recent years. I have tried to hide it from Tatiana, with her in Tamarania as much as possible, but she is a smart girl. I have been on a waiting list to see a medician here in Mercia, but with the war and so many in need and the lack of herbs . . .” She shrugged, palms upturned.
Octavia nodded as everything became clear. Tatiana wasn’t simply getting rid of me. “She sent me here to heal you. Alonzo doesn’t know about your condition, does he?” She took another long guzzle of water.
“I have not seen my son since he was fitted for his new leg. We have only spoken by letter and telegram.” She sighed. “Oh, Miss Leander. I am sorry you came to be here like this. Tatiana is precocious. I have encouraged her to be an adult at too young an age, because in my heart, I was readying her to carry on when I am gone.”
“Have you had any messages from Alonzo in the past two days?”
“No.” Mrs. Garret had a curious spark in her eyes; she obviously wondered at this first-name relationship Octavia had with her son. “Was a threat that imminent?”
“If anything terrible had happened, I’m sure Tatiana would have sent word.” Lady forgive her for the vagueness, but she didn’t want to vex Mrs. Garret with news of the Arena; the woman had quite enough to concern her. The terrible mass had already sprouted polyps in her neck and lungs. “The most potent danger right now is to you, Mrs. Garret. This cancer that started in your breast will kill you within a span of weeks if it’s left untreated. If you can grant me a few hours to recover, I’ll gladly tend to it for you.”
Mrs. Garret pressed a hand to her chest. Instead of gratitude, her eyes flared with suspicion. “How did you . . . ?”
“I’m an unusual medician.” The words didn’t make her flinch anymore.
Mrs. Garret stood, her spine straight and dignified. “You are leaving much unsaid, though likely with good reason. I wish I could ask my son about you.”
“I wish I could talk to him, too,” Octavia said softly.
Mrs. Garret’s expression mellowed. “You have suffered and need your rest. I will have dinner brought to you shortly. If you need anything else, simply ask.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Garret,” Octavia murmured. The woman needs to leave or she’ll collapse. She would never show weakness in front of a stranger, not even a medician.
Octavia stared at the closed door for a few minutes, gathering her strength and her bearings. She pushed herself from the chair to stand erect for the first time in two days. Water sloshed in her belly. I was parched like a tree after a drought. With baby steps, she walked to the window.
Mercia. Two weeks before, Alonzo had intended to bring her to the capital to keep her safe against the Wasters, unaware that the greatest threat had come from his own Dagger peers. She had resisted coming here. Everything she had ever heard of Mercia spoke of its endless sprawl, of skies choked with constant pollution, of toxic factories, of thousands of wretched refugees.
Everything was true.
She looked upon a steel-gray sky stabbed by thousands of dark pipes that puffed out even more gray. Soot caked buildings in black. From her second-story vantage point, she watched four lanes of traffic teem with cabriolets, cycles, and lorries. On the sidewalk, women bowed beneath shawls and pushed prams hooded by oilcloth. Men wore black hats, shoulders bowed by unseen burdens. A peculiarly large number of soldiers passed by in Caskentian regimental green. No trees. No birds. No signs of life beyond pedestrians who shuffled with the vigor of automatons.
Oh Lady. Octavia clutched the curtain to stay upright. Mercia. She had been terrified to come here with Alonzo, and now she was here alone. Panicked, she touched the top of her head and then recalled that she had stuffed her headband in her satchel.
How was she to brave those streets, even with her headband? Wasters spied here—they had already followed Mrs. Stout. If Clockwork Daggers knew she was in the city . . .
Children ran along waving white flags fringed with gold—Evandia’s colors. She frowned. Such banners had been popular during the recent wars, but she hadn’t seen such a flag waved since armistice was signed several months ago.
A light knock echoed through the door. “Come in,” she called.
One of the servant girls carried in a silver tray. She cast Octavia a shy smile as she set it on a table. “M’lady said medicians need extra meat, so Cook included an extra portion.”
“Thank you kindly, and thank the cook as well. I’m hungry enough to eat the tray itself.” She nodded toward the street. “Why are flags out?”
“Oh, the white flags? That’s right, you couldn’t have heard, sealed away like that. Armistice broke.”
“We’re at war with the Waste again?” Octavia stilled. Everyone knew the armistice was a mere pause in the conflict, but she wondered how Caskentia stood a chance. The army had largely disbanded since soldiers and civilians in its employ had been left unpaid.
The servant rested her hands on her hips. “It’s a peculiar thing. Well, maybe not so peculiar to you, since you’re a medician. That Lady’s Tree from the old stories? It’s been sighted, just plain popped into existence overnight. Airship brought word two days ago, and yesterday we went back to war. We certainly can’t let anything like that be in filthy Waster hands.” She shuddered.
“The Lady’s Tree. Visible?”
“Yes. You worship her, don’t you? As a medician?”
Octavia nodded numbly. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Maybe once our boys have it, you can do a pilgrimage there.” The girl’s smile was bright. “It’s supposed to cure most anything, they say. Might make your job easier! Oh, dear. I’d best get back to the kitchen.”
“Yes. Thank you.” The door shut behind her.
Octavia collapsed into the chair, wrapping herself in a hug. Miss Percival’s training flared in her mind. Breathe. Exhale your troubles to the Lady.
“What if the Lady is the source of your troubles? What then?” The whisper made her cringe, blasphemous as it was. She swallowed, mouth parched already, but she didn’t move toward the pitcher.
Why had the Tree become fully visible at last? What had changed? Well, now she and Alonzo didn’t have to fuss about finding it. They could simply follow the trail of blood and carnage.
She tugged off the fancy gloves she had worn to the arena. Her fingers fumbled at her cuffs, though she could already see a brown crackle pattern stretch all the way to her knuckles. I’ll need to wear gloves constantly. Like she could hide this for much longer as it continued to spread. She peeled back the cloth. Both forearms had darkened. Her skin ached as if she were recovering from a sunburn.
The old gremlin had said she smelled like a tree, that she was a chimera. Octavia shivered and buttoned her sleeves again.
The Tree was changing. Octavia was changing, too, and quickly. She needed answers before she lost her humanity entirely.
She needed to get inside the royal vault.